The tape snapped down again. Troy swore and reeled it in. This was a shitty measuring method, but it was all he had. So he started over. He wished he had Josh on the job. Unfortunately, Renegades' risk assessment manager of choice, was on his honeymoon. But if Troy couldn't shore up some of the structural issues he was finding in this cave related to the stunt the filmmakers wanted, he might just interrupt the couple's blissful retreat. Because Troy didn't trust the engineer Paramount was using to ass
ist in the stunts as far as Troy could throw him. And Troy preferred safety over regret.
At least in stunts.
Obviously, when it came to Giselle, he just couldn't keep himself from fucking up.
His self-disgust deepened, making his gut ache. He should have listened to Zahara and contacted Giselle like a normal person. But he'd never been normal. Nothing about his life had ever been normal. Which was exactly why he was hanging in a cave trying to measure the diameter of a cavern so he could dive into it headfirst at full speed.
Evidently, some people could overcome their screwed-up beginnings. Giselle and Ryker had both broken out of the self-destructive mold. Giselle had made her deepest dream of becoming a country music star a reality. Ryker had decades of success in the army, and a great relationship with an awesome girl.
Sure, Troy had found success. At twenty-nine, Troy had more money than he'd ever believed he'd see in a lifetime, and more work than he could handle. He'd even extended his stunt work into successful bit acting parts when the need arose. And he had a hell of a lot of fun looking invincible, skilled, talented, sexy, bad-ass, and fearless with his stunts.
But deep down, he was a coward, plain and simple. His personal life was nothing but meaningless hookups, and his close friends included only a handful of people. Because, while he might freely risk life and limb professionally, personally he couldn't face any risk. Not after losing Giselle. The truth was, he was just enough of a coward to find a way to get out of facing Giselle, because he hated what he'd done with her at the club. Loved it and hated it. That depraved behavior was reserved for strangers who sought it out for their own dark purposes-purposes Troy didn't want to know about-not for someone like Giselle. Someone he'd cared about. Someone he would always care about.
He'd tried to soothe his conscience by telling himself he hadn't come anywhere close to demonstrating the debauchery a club like Rendezvous had to offer, but that wasn't helping. Even what little he'd done had been too much. He'd lost control. He'd taken advantage. And he hated himself for it.
The familiar whir of cable sounded overhead, signaling incoming company just as Troy's tape touched the wall.
He glanced at the measurement and doubled the distance since he was positioned at the center of the shaft, then winced.
Whoever had come down came to a slow stop ten feet to his right. “How does it look, boss?”
The eerie, smooth, radio-crackled voice just feet away startled Troy, and he jerked his head that direction. Instead of one of his fellow stunt people, he faced the goddamned stunt dummy they'd collectively named Skip.
“Holy fuck.” Troy's body released the sudden tension, but his heart still hammered beneath his ribs, and the tape measure fumbled in his grip. He tilted his head back and yelled, “You assholes!”
A chorus of cackles, laughter, shouts, and high fives resonated above, where the entire crew lined the lip of the shaft, watching. Troy couldn't help but smile. He shook his head, laughing with relief, then cued his mic. “Laugh while you can. Payback's a bitch on crack.”
Grinning, Troy looked over the stunt dummy. The guys had made Skip themselves from various movie props. He had the head and torso of a CPR dummy, the legs, arms, hands, and feet from a mishmash of soft mannequins from a long-ago zombie movie. Today, they'd dressed him in a Grateful Dead T-shirt, ripped jeans, and, of all things, a cowboy hat.
“Dude,” he told Skip as he reeled in the tape. “You scared me.”
“Sir,” Skip's “voice,” courtesy of Keaton impersonating an English butler, came from the radio duct-taped to one of the dummy's hands. “I must say, we are collectively a tad worried about you. You seem unusually blue this trip. Worse over the past few days. I'm not sure if the others have mentioned it, but I did earn my psychology degree at Yale, sir. If I can be of any assistance, I'd be happy to lend an ear.”
Troy cued his mic. “I don't want to offend you or anything, Skip, but…you don't have ears.”
“Oh dear.” Pause. “Oh my.” Pause. “That's quite beastly, isn't it? All right, then. I'll see what I can do about that. As far as the cave goes, how may I be of assistance, oh great one?”
“You can give me about five more feet of mobility in here.”
“I'm afraid I can't accommodate you there, sir. Seems as you have a nasty little problem on your hands.”
Troy had more than one nasty little problem. “You're incredibly unhelpful today, Skip.”
“Hold on, I may have a jolly good idea, sir.”
“Since you have more brains than my collective coworkers, lay it on me.”
“Indeed. What might you say to allowing me to attempt the stunt prior to your swift and elegant descent into this dirty little shaft, sir? I believe I may be able to save you…well…an intense headache, as it were.”
“Very gracious of you, Skip. But you're too valuable to lose. You and I both know Keaton is our true stunt dummy.”
More laughter echoed above.
“Ed,” Troy said into the radio, “Skip and I are ready to come up.”
“You got it,” Ed said, laughter in his voice. “Coming up.”