“The rawness of the filming is the beauty of the series,”his producer had said.“And no one does it better than you.”
Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the mug with nothing but a Sony a7S II and some other half-arsed equipment in his bag.
Ollie abandoned his bunk and took a tour of the bus. It was flashy in all the right places, but beyond the shiny chrome and coloured lights, it was pretty basic. A kitchen, a tiny bathroom, the bunks, and a lounge with a couch that ran around the entire back of the bus. Ollie walked up and down the aisle and wondered which bunk was Shay Maloney’s. Was it the one covered in balled-up socks and crisp packets? Or the one with the photo of a beautiful blonde on the pillow?
Or maybe it was the bed that looked as though it hadn’t been slept in. Neat as a pin, the only signs of life were a weathered leather-bound notebook, a pencil, and a small black wash bag.
The nosy bastard in Ollie itched to pick up the notebook and leaf through the pages, to intrude on the private thoughts of whoever it belonged to, but he sensed a presence behind him before the little boy who knew to mind his own business won out, and he spun around.
Shay Maloney stood behind him, somehow filling the narrow aisle with his slender frame, his gorgeous features resting in the kind of bored expression Ollie expected from overindulged rock stars. “Are you the bloke from Sky?”
Ollie resisted the urge to repeat his freelancer status and stuck out his hand with a brisk nod, trying to ignore the voice in his head screaming that Shay Maloney was even more beautiful in person than he had been on a distant stage. “Yup. I’m Ollie. I’m going to be with your tour, off and on, until we get to the end.”
“The end?”
“Yes… of your tour or the filming. Whichever happens first.”
Shay finally took Ollie’s hand. He closed his elegant fingers around Ollie’s with a brief, intense squeeze that made Ollie’s tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. “You don’t know how long it will take?”
Ollie swallowed. “Not exactly. I only took the assignment a month ago. I haven’t finished your story yet.”
Shay let his hand drop, a frown creasing his smooth forehead. He pushed his hair back, tucking it behind his ears, and slumped against the bathroom door with a sigh. “I figured you’d have it all today, that we could read through it and do whatever big reveal you had in mind. Get it over with.”
“I take it you didn’t watch the first series when it aired last year, then?”
“Dude, I don’t even know what the series is called. My manager made me sign shit when I was distracted.”
Great. Ollie had taken this project at the last minute, and he had spent many sleepless nights unravelling the mess of leads the original researcher had left behind, but despite all that, he hadn’t accounted for Shay’s apathy. “You don’t want to do it?”
Shay shrugged. “Does it matter?”
Ollie didn’t have an answer for that. “Whatever. How long have you got before soundcheck?”
“An hour.”
“That’ll do. Take a seat, and I’ll show you what I have in mind.”
Chapter Three
Shay tappedhis fingers on the desk. It was the second occasion that day he’d found himself trapped in the office with a pile of paperwork, but this time, his hostage taker was having a far more profound effect on him than Corina ever had.
Ollie pointed at his laptop screen. They were watching an old episode from the genealogy series Shay had unwittingly agreed to take part in. “I didn’t film this one, but it was produced on the road, like I’m planning to do with you, so it gives you a good idea of what to expect.”
“Uh-huh.” Shay tried to focus on the screen, but there was something about the dude across the table that wouldn’t let him. With his dark stubble and flinty eyes, ripped jeans and leather jacket, Ollie Pietruska looked more like a rock star than anyone on the tour, and yet there was something so unassuming about him that the contradiction had Shay totally fucking fascinated.
’Course it didn’t help that the bloke was bloody gorgeous. Inky hair,that stubble, beautiful hands. And God, his voice. He had a London accent, fused with something Shay couldn’t quite put his finger on. “Where’s your accent from?”
Ollie muted the video. “Sorry, what?”
“Your accent,” Shay repeated. “It’s not English.”
Ollie’s gaze darted somewhere beyond Shay and back again so fast Shay was almost sure he’d imagined it. “It’s Polish, like my name. I lived in Warsaw for about ten years when I was a kid and then in Waltham, West London, after that, so I’m a bit of a mix.”
“I like it.”
Ollie’s left eyebrow twitched. “Um, thanks, I guess? We’re not really here to talk about me.”
Shame. Shay had been trapped in the studio recording back-to-back albums for most of the year and had then hit the road for a mad summer of festivals and underground gigs. Another two months in the studio, and now he was living on a bus. Many faces had come and gone, but none had turned his head like Ollie. In fact, Shay couldn’t remember ever being so immediately and entirely entranced by someone… particularly someone who didn’t seem to want to look at him.
