SCREAMS FILLED THE AIR, jolting Meagan Tippan, the producer of the new dance reality show Americaâs Stepping Up, from a dead sleep to a startled, heart-pounding sitting position. That was about two seconds before the sprinkler system in the restored Victorian beachfront mansion kicked into gear. Meagan arched her back against the icy fingers of wetness that seeped through her thin T-shirt.
The very real possibility of a fire pierced the momentary shock of Meaganâs abrupt awakening. Quickly, she shoved away her soaked blankets and darted across the room. There were twelve hopeful dancers in the house whoâd come here to chase a dream, not to live a nightmare, and she had to get them, and her crew, to safety.
Flinging open her door, Meagan found Ginger Scott, one of the two choreographers for the show and âHouse Mom,â in the hallway, rushing the six female dancers in the competition down the stairs.
âIs anyone hurt?â Meagan shouted loudly, because the water seemed to be muffling everything but the panicked voices echoing around her.
âJust scared,â Ginger said, shoving a wet mop of blond hair from her face, as Meagan did the same to her light brown hair. âAnd I donât see a fire. DJ says he doesnât see one downstairs, either.â DJ being her twin brother and male counterpart in the house.
âI called 9-1-1,â DJ shouted, rushing up to meet them. âCould be electrical though. Big trouble for a house this old.â
Right, Meagan thought grimly. Wouldnât that be peachy? After ten weeks spent casting across the country, with one mishap after anotherâenough to prompt whispers of a âcurseâ that sheâd hoped to put to restâonly to discover theyâd also managed to move into a place with electrical problems, and have it catch on fire their first night there.
âIs everyone okay?â came the voice of another male dancer at the bottom of the stairs. âDo you need help?â
âNo! Stay where you are,â Meagan yelled, taking in water as she spoke. âWe donât need help up here, and there is no fire.â That they knew about, but she didnât say that. She didnât want to freak anyone out any more than they already were.
âGet everyone on the lawn where we can get a head-count,â Meagan said, shooing Ginger and DJ down the stairs. The sooner they had this situation under control, the better. Control? After thirty-two years, and her own dance career destroyed by a knee injury, she should know control was a facade. Just when you thought you had it, it slipped away.
Eventually, Meagan finally had all her hot-bodied, dripping-wet dancers on the front lawn, looking as if they were posing for a kinky spread in an X-rated magazine. She could only imagine editing this segment. Their stationary cameras had no doubt caught everything and the studio execs would want this mishap included in behind-the-scenes footage. After all, theyâd insisted on broadcasting every other disasterâfrom falling sets and broken-down buses, to a crazed fan whoâd set the hotel lobby on fire.
A thought hit Meagan like a huge brick. Oh, God. It was a very bad thought.
Meagan whirled around to face the house, as if it were possessed, glaring at the monster that was about to ruin everything, even her own career. The chance to pitch the idea for this show had come after years of working as the producer for a top news show in Dallas, Texas. Leaving that job on the long shot that this could survive the ratings war had been a big risk. She knew the chips would be stacked against her. Tonight that stack had gotten bigger. Not only were the cameras getting wet, but the house, where theyâd intended to spend the next twelve weeks, was being destroyed by the water. And she had enough experience with fickle network executives to know that her show, her darn dream-fulfilling show, was turning into a nightmare that might well be called âcancelled.â
And although the top dancer among her contestants was set to win a new car, a studio contract and cash, while the other dancers would earn major industry exposure that could change their lives, she wondered if it would all end tonight.
Meagan tried to comfort herself by recalling the high-powered panel of judges sheâd secured for the live showsâa well-known choreographer, a highly respected casting agent and even a highly acclaimed pop star. Surely, the studio wouldnât want to pay out their contracts and see no real return.
Who was she kidding? Studio executives always leaned toward taking their financial hits and cutting losses. Meagan had to do something to save the house, if she expected to save the show.