Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 59939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
“You should’ve kept eavesdropping. I told him waitress training is extensive and that I had to go through four years of schooling.”
As Trisha giggles, I swipe the guy’s credit card through the register and wait for the printer to spit out the receipt. I tuck the bill, a pen, and some mints inside a sleeve of plastic and then check my watch.
Ten-thirty. God, when is this night going to end? Normally I don’t mind my shifts at the Olive. The job pays my bills, the tips are great, and I can’t say I don’t have fun. The staff is like a big happy family, the customers our interesting—and often completely insane—surrogate children.
But it’s Tony night, and no matter how entertaining the crowd is, sex is the only entertainment I’m looking for tonight.
2
Ben
If I see one more motherfucking photographer lurking in the bushes, I’m going to lose my shit. Or worse, slam my fist into someone’s jaw.
Actually, that sounds so appealing, my palms tingle at the thought. But I’m not stupid. I know exactly how pointless it would be to pick a fight. The paparazzi would jump all over the story: Violent Movie Star Assaults Innocent Photographer! And then my reputation will take yet another hit, my agent and publicist will freak out, and I’ll be forced to make dozens of morning-talk-show appearances to explain to my fans why I knocked someone’s lights out.
That’s how it always goes. You decide to be an actor and you say goodbye to your privacy. Doesn’t matter that half the stories the tabloids run are total bullshit. If you leave the house with a runny nose, that means you snort coke. If you have lunch with a male friend, you’re gay. If you shove a photographer out of your face, you have anger problems.
I’ve dealt with this shit for ten years, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. And I’m pissed as fuck that the vultures followed me to Manhattan. I wish I’d found a place in Colorado or Montana for this unwanted sabbatical. Somewhere up in the mountains, so that if the press wants to harass me they’ll have to work for it. Hiking up a cliff would certainly deter at least half of those nosy bastards.
But my agent insisted I go to New York. “If you want to leave Hollywood, fine,” Stu had said. “But stay in sight.”
In sight is the last place I want to be, but arguing with Stu is about as effective as arguing with a toddler. Eventually they’ll annoy you into giving up.
“Hey, aren’t you—”
I abruptly pull the rim of my Yankees cap lower so that it shields my face, then bypass the middle-aged woman who stopped in her tracks and is standing there gawking at me. Without a backward glance, I hurry along Broadway and try to disappear in the Friday night theater crowd.
Absolutely fucking ridiculous that I have to skulk around like this, but damn it, I need some peace and quiet. I bought the penthouse on the Upper East Side and moved in last week, but has the press left me alone to settle in? No way in hell. They camp out in front of the building day and night. They pay off the cleaning staff to try to snap photos of me. They bribe the doormen to let them in.
I haven’t slept in seven days. Haven’t been able to leave the apartment without being barraged with questions.
Were you with Gretchen the night she died?
Did Alan know about the affair?
Did he blacklist you and that’s why you left LA?
So many damn questions. I don’t want to deal with them anymore. Or ever.
So I took off. Left the penthouse with a trail of paps behind me, got in my rented BMW, and managed to lose the vultures somewhere in Queens. I ditched the Beemer in the first parking lot I saw, and now I’m on foot, a man on a mission, in search of the first hotel I can find that has a big bed I can finally fall asleep on.
Satisfied that I’m rid of every photographer in a ten-mile radius, I finally come to a stop in front of the Lester Hotel. There are half a dozen luxury hotels only blocks away, but I have no intention of checking in at any of them. The Lester, a ten-story building with a bland gray exterior, is the last place the vultures would think to look.
Stepping through the revolving door, I cross the empty lobby toward the front desk, where I find a skinny guy in an ill-fitting blue blazer manning the counter.
“I need a room,” I mutter, pulling my wallet from the back pocket of my faded jeans.
“Single or double bed?”
“Double.”
“Kitchenette?”
“I couldn’t care less, kid.” I fish out a wad of bills and drop them on the splintered oak counter.