Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Cillian sank back hard against the couch, blinking. “Me?”
“I’m teasing, Cillian. It’d take a hell of a lot more than some new kid to teach that obstinate jackass a little self-awareness, and it shouldn’t have to be your problem.” Grin fading, Mr. Anderson gave him another one of those sympathetic looks that made Cillian want to crawl away and hide, when it made him feel too much like a victim to something that hadn’t happened. “But it can’t hurt to remember that as general advice. It’s okay to say no. To anyone, and for any reason.”
“…right.” Cillian stared down at his hands, twining them together, and mustered up a smile from somewhere. “I really do appreciate your help, Mr. Anderson. And I’m grateful you won’t say anything until I’m ready.”
“You say the word, we pull the trigger. But watch out for yourself, okay?”
“Of course. Of course I will.”
“Take care, then. Go home, Cillian. Rest.”
Then Mr. Anderson, too, was gone—the door sliding shut in his wake with a soft snick and the room now somehow contracting down smaller again, this strange warping pocket dimension that shrank and grew as Cillian’s rampant feelings fluctuated all over the place. He didn’t even know what was going through his head right now, where his brain was, where his heart was—too shaken, too stunned, too confused, too lost, but he thought…
He thought he just might be angry.
Really, really fucking angry.
If Brendan and Mr. Anderson hadn’t stepped in, Cillian might well have ended his entire career in one fell swoop by laying Oliver Newcomb out flat on his back with a solid shiner. His agent would probably be relieved he hadn’t, when he told her what happened. He still wanted to bloody well wallop someone but good, but there was no one around who actually deserved it. Even if now that he was free of the spell of Brendan Lau’s presence, Cillian thought maybe, just maybe, that arrogant know-it-all jackass might well need a proper thwap, too. Stalking around here giving Cillian orders, glowering and brooding at him, and just…just…
Cillian sprawled back against the sofa, closing his eyes and draping his arm across his face, groaning.
Fucking hell.
What a way to start his big screen debut.
Yet underneath his anger, a jolt of something thinner, smaller shot through him as he heard the doorknob twist again, the latch clicking—and for a moment his whirling mind conjured images of Oliver Newcomb coming back to finish what he’d started, lying in wait until Brendan and Mr. Anderson left, here to make Cillian regret his silence; regret not calling the damned police right now and reporting an attempted sexual assault. As if the police would even help him, when he was here on a temporary foreign worker visa arranged by his agent and sponsored by the studio.
He should’ve done…something.
But Brendan Lau had told him it was all right to be selfish. That he wasn’t being selfish at all.
So why didn’t he feel good about any of it?
Warily, he peered out from under his arm—only to let out another groan and close his eyes again as a familiar wrinkled face peered in at him, a worried frown dragging down the corners of the thick graying moustache that had had Cillian pegging Maxwell Albright as Mr. Walrus when he’d been too young to know quite how rude and inappropriate such a thing was, especially for someone of his station.
“Your Highness?” Maxwell said, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him, his polished shoes clicking on the floor tiles. “Is something the matter?”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Maxwell,” Cillian mumbled into his arm. “And please, for the love of God, stop calling me that when we’re in the States.”
CHAPTER THREE
BRENDAN BARELY MADE IT TEN feet down the studio hallway before Drake caught up with him.
When Drake grasped his arm, only Brendan’s self-control stopped him from shaking it violently away. Instead he stopped in his tracks, breathed in deep and slow, then made himself look down at his agent. He waited without speaking. He couldn’t find the words.
And if he tried…
He didn’t trust what might come out of his mouth.
“What was that about in there?” Drake demanded, black eyes flashing. “That kid almost got assaulted, and you’re going to act like this kind of dick? How the fuck do you think that made him feel?”
Brendan ground his teeth. “Leave me alone, Drake.”
“What the fuck are you so mad about?”
“I—”
He stopped.
What the fuck was he so mad about?
For half a second he drew a blank.
Before the answer came roaring up out of him like flame from a bellows.
Brendan pivoted on his heel, ripping his arm from Drake’s grasp, staring at him flatly. “It is taking every ounce of restraint I have not to hunt Oliver Newcomb down and leave him floating face down in the Pacific. Do you understand me?” He forced his words out evenly, doing his best to empty them of all emotion, but they burned. It shouldn’t be this hard. He shouldn’t be this angry over a kid he didn’t even know, and yet… “The only thing holding my leash is that boy. Because he asked. Because he’s afraid of the blowback. Because it’s what he wants. Because if we talk, he’s the one who’ll take the fallout for it,” he bit off. “Excuse me if I’m not feeling fucking sunshine and roses right now, Drake.”