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)
Oh, God.
Cillian really was going to hurl.
He twisted the cap off the water bottle so quickly he scraped his palm on the ridged plastic until it burned, then pressed the bottle to his lips and tossed his head back. He took several heavy swallows that bulged and hurt inside his throat, searing the cold into him from the inside. He couldn’t taste it. Not even that nothing-taste of water tinged with whatever trace minerals made it flirt with something airy on the tastebuds; nothing.
All he could taste was that sickness in his throat, the words what if caught up in a little rotted ball and seeping their poison onto the back of his tongue.
He drank until he couldn’t breathe, drank until the bottle was empty and crinkling and sucking inward in his grip, but still the water couldn’t wash the taste away. Tearing the bottle away from his lips, Cillian curled inward, clutching the crumpled plastic between his knees and closing his eyes and counting. Counting to ten, twenty, whatever it took to make this stop.
One, two.
We could make each other very comfortable.
Three, four.
I thought you were ready to work in the big leagues, little boy.
Five, six.
I hope we’re not interrupting anything of…importance.
Seven—
“Fuck,” he gasped out, pressing his forehead to his knees. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“Hey,” the other man said. “You going to be okay?”
“No.” Cillian rocked a little, then pushed himself up, breathing in deep and tilting his head back. “Yes. He didn’t actually touch me, I just—that felt a little too close for my comfort.” He opened his eyes, looking at the shorter man; he couldn’t stand to look at Lau, couldn’t stand— “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being such a bollocky mess, but thank .you, Mr.…?”
“Anderson. Drake Anderson Chen.” Mr. Anderson offered his hand with an easy smile.
“Cillian. Tell. Cillian Tell, but I guess…it…seems like you already know that.”
Cillian took the man’s hand briefly, shook it, then let go, tucking his arms against himself and hugging close with the water bottle clutched against his stomach in both hands. Mr. Anderson watched him with discerning eyes, then tossed his head toward Brendan.
“I’m his agent. I assume he needs no introduction.”
“None.” Shaking his head, Cillian blew a few loose wisps of hair out of his face. “Not exactly how I wanted to meet you the first time, Mr. Lau.” He risked actually looking at Brendan, even if he still couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact, instead focusing on the subtle cleft of a chin so sharply defined it bordered on trapezoidal geometry. “You’re, er…much taller in person.”
Hard to make out his expression in Cillian’s peripheral vision, but he thought Brendan narrowed his eyes, tightened his lips.
Then turned his head aside, presenting the sloping, graceful, almost dreamlike lines of his profile as he stared flatly at…Cillian didn’t even know, something on the far wall, but most certainly not looking at him.
Cillian’s fingers tightened involuntarily against the empty, drop-dewed water bottle, raising an embarrassingly loud plastic crinkling. Cringing, he leaned closer to Mr. Anderson, dropping his voice.
“Did I offend him?”
“No. He’s just like that.” Exasperation darked Mr. Anderson’s voice; he turned his head and pointedly pitched his next words toward Brendan. “Either he’s a mouthy bastard who won’t shut up, or you can’t pry two words out of him with a crowbar.”
“I will end you,” Brendan said—so cold, so haughty, as if he was already in character for his role. “That was four words.”
Unfazed, Mr. Anderson just wrinkled his nose in Brendan’s direction. “He’s also violent. But only to me. Everyone else gets Mr. Suave, but I’m special.” Curling his knuckles and propping them against his hips, Mr. Anderson swung his gaze back to Cillian. “Listen, kid—can I call you Cillian?”
“…sure.”
“Then can you tell us what happened, Cillian?”
That sick rotting taste in the back of Cillian’s mouth turned into something worse, bloody and acidic. He tried to swallow it back, leaving a persistent itching tickle clotted right in that unreachable place in the back of his throat.
“I…” He stared down at his hands; at the wreckage of the water bottle. “I’d come in early just to get the feel of things. I’ve never worked on a set this big before, and I’ve never had my own dressing room. I just wanted a little time to prowl around on my own. And I…I didn’t even realize he was here, but I guess he saw me in the halls and followed me back here. I was kind of flattered that he stopped by to check in on me, but then…” He closed his eyes, fighting the knot of revulsion in his throat. Nothing happened. Nothing happened. “He backed me against the sofa and tried to kiss me. Tried to touch me. I knocked his hand away before he could do anything, and he…threatened me…and then you came.” Exhaling breaths that felt like lungs full of thin water, he opened his eyes, looking up at Mr. Anderson and Brendan Lau. “Does…that kind of thing happen often?”