Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 138072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
“All done!”
My gaze darts to the doorway as the small cheery voice echoes through the bedroom. I grip the picture tightly, holding it behind my back. She’s dressed in a pair of red pajamas, her hair drenched on the ends, a few bubbles around her ears. Mud still streaks her right cheek.
“All done?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. “Did you even wash your hair?”
“Nope.”
Of course she didn’t. She can’t.
“And what about your face?” I ask. “I’m starting to think you only played in the bubbles.”
“So? I’m gonna get more dirty later!”
“So?” I gasp, acting horrified. “You can’t stay dirty. You have school tomorrow!”
She looks about as thrilled about school as I was as a child. Rolling her eyes, she shrugs, as if to say, ‘why does that matter?’
Before I can say anything else, her attention shifts to the mess scattered along the floor, her eyes widening as she gasps. “Breezeo!”
She dodges forward, snatching up the old comic book encased in a plastic protective sleeve. I freeze. I wouldn’t call it vintage, nor is it worth more than a few bucks, but I couldn’t ever bring myself to part with that comic.
To me, it meant too much.
“Mommy, it’s Breezeo,” she says, her face lit up with excitement. “Look!”
“I see,” I say when she holds it up to show me.
“Can we read it? Please?”
“Uh, sure,” I say, moving one hand from behind my back to take the comic book from her. “But first, back into the bathtub.”
She groans, making a face.
“Go on.” I nod my head toward the doorway. “I’ll be there in a minute to wash your hair.”
Turning, she trudges back to the bathroom. I wait until she’s gone to set the comic book down and pull the picture out from behind my back. I stare at it for a second, letting myself feel those things once again, before crumbling it up into a ball and discarding it on the floor with all of the other memories.
Pulling out my cell phone, I scroll through it, dialing a number as I stroll down the hall, hearing it ring a few times before voicemail clicks on.
‘It’s Andrew. Can’t make it to the phone. Leave a message and I’ll give you a call.’
Beep.
“Hey, Drew. It’s, uh… Kennedy. Look, I’m going to have to take a rain check on tomorrow night. Something came up, and well, you know how it is.”
Chapter 2
JONATHAN
The limo slows as it nears Eighth Avenue, the traffic thick at seven o’clock in the morning, just south of sunrise as the world heads to work. Friday. I’m sure the detours don’t help people get where they’re going, but it’s New York—they ought to be used to it. Never a day goes by that something isn’t going on here. They’re some of the most adaptable people on the planet—New Yorkers—but they’re also some of the most no-nonsense. They don’t have time for bullshit.
And this morning, it feels like we’re all knee-deep in it.
People line the streets as we near the metal barricades. Out-of-towners, I’m assuming, because locals aren’t usually the type to give a shit when filming happens in their territory. We’re more of a nuisance than anything, blocking off streets and shutting down neighborhoods, disrupting lives. I have nothing to do with any of that—I don’t pick the place, I just show up when they tell me to—but more than once I’ve had the blame thrown my way. Smug bastard, who does he think he is, shutting down part of Midtown during rush hour?
“Word must’ve leaked,” the flippant voice says from the seat in front of me, unfazed as usual. Clifford Caldwell, powerhouse talent manager. Nothing ever seems to bother him. Believe me, I’ve tested his limits, so I know. No PR is bad PR. He’s typing away on his beloved Blackberry, attention glued to the screen, but I know he’s talking about the crowd packing the streets.
“You think?” I mutter, glancing out the window as we crawl past at a snail's pace. Despite the fact that the tinting is pitch black, making it impossible for anyone to see inside, I keep my head lowered, an old black ball cap pulled down low, the battered brim shielding my eyes.
Production is running under a fake name to keep people away, so prying eyes won’t spoil things they might see on the set, but somebody must’ve already leaked that information for so many people to show up here this morning.
“I’ll talk to them about tightening security around you,” Cliff says. “See if we can work with the location department to shake up your schedule.”
“Don’t bother,” I say. “They’ll always be a few steps ahead.”
Cliff laughs under his breath. “Your optimism is astounding.”
“Tell me about it,” a lithe voice chimes in from the seat beside me. “Something about this movie turns him into a moody prick.”