Falling Star Read Free

from red to purple.
    Another thirty seconds ticked off. Natalie
glanced again at the monitor. Kelly was on a tight shot, still
chattering. It's my own damn fault , she thought, irritated. I'm the one who taught her it's all about airtime.
    That was the name of the game, no question.
The more airtime a talent got, the more recognizable she became.
The higher her star rose. The more money she made. All of which in
turn translated into still more airtime, and the happy continuation
of the cycle.
    Another half minute. Kelly's brow was
furrowed with concern, her chocolate-brown hair blowing lightly
back from her forehead. Who was it who said Kelly had the best
TV-news hair? Miles.
    Miles. Natalie hadn't let herself think about
him, but now his image resurfaced in her brain like a life
preserver on water. I wonder if he's watching .
    She snapped to attention. If he is, he's
seeing Kelly . Knowing the director could see her from the
control booth she stared meaningfully into the lens and motioned
for her audio to be brought up.
    Nothing.
    She frowned and motioned again. But it wasn't
the hum of her own mike she heard next, but the director's voice.
"Tony wants to stay with Kelly."
    Natalie shook her head vigorously, mouthing
the word no. They should be going to Cal Tech! This was ridiculous!
Why should viewers be held hostage to a report from a site with no
damage?
    Half a minute later she detected a slight hum
and knew that finally her mike was hot. "Thank you, Kelly," she
interjected in a commanding tone, not bothering to wait for a pause
in the blather. She noted with satisfaction the uplift of Kelly's
perfectly arched brows as, surprised, she stopped speaking
midsentence. A moment later Natalie could see in the monitor that
she'd replaced Kelly full screen.
    Good . She did a quick recap, ready to
toss to seismologists standing by at Cal Tech.
    "Wrap," the director ordered in her ear.
"Tony wants you off. All the latest at ten, blah blah—you know the
drill."
    What? Natalie struggled not to lose
her train of thought.
    "Now," the director snapped. "Ten
seconds."
    She felt a surge of frustration. But there
was no way to fight the edict, so she shifted gears into good-bye
mode. "Please join Ken Oro and me tonight at ten on The KXLA
Primetime News "—Julio had five fingers up— "with all the latest
on the quake and the other news." Three fingers. "Thank you for
joining us."
    She stared into the lens until the director's
voice, now returned to some semblance of calm, filled her ear.
"Stellar as always, Natalie. But get back ASAP. Tony wants you in
his office."
    Julio grinned. He'd heard the same directive
via headset. "He probably wants to be first in line to offer
congrats."
    Natalie pulled out her earpiece. Right.
    *
    Kelly Devlin stared at her gray-haired
cameraman, her lower lip curling with distaste. Why did the Desk
always send her out with a geriatric shooter? This one was so
ancient it was a wonder she got even one decent frame of video out
of him.
    "For the last time, Harry," she spat the
name, "we are going to use the dashboard in the next live shot."
She pointed at the Honda Civic still wrapped around a light pole,
its driver just spirited away by ambulance. "It's a goddamn coup
that I found this. It's the only thing in Santa Monica that's got
any blood on it. What are you afraid of?" she taunted. "You'd
rather stay at the grocery store and shoot broken bottles?"
    Harry just stared at the ground and shook his
head. He looked fed up. Well, so was she.
    Kelly abandoned her cameraman and stalked
across Pico Boulevard toward the ENG truck, its mast high in the
air. Forget Harry , she ordered herself. Worry about
something important. Like checking your makeup before the next live
shot.
    She had to look perfect. What everybody said
about TV news was true: If it bleeds, it leads. And she would lead The KXLA Primetime News tonight! She was damn smart to have
found an idiot who'd slammed into a light pole when the