Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 158848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
I cast another longing glance at the ticket counter. Someday. Right now, I need to focus my energy on bettering myself. I’ll leave town on my terms—when I go to college in the fall.
CHAPTER FOUR
Griff
“Griff, whaddya want me to do, here, son?” Jerry asks.
“Huh?” Remy must’ve handed the phone back to Jerry when I wasn’t paying attention. “Is Remy still there?”
“No, he got some sort of alert and said he had to go. Took off like a bat outta hell.”
I hope that means he knows where Molly is and she’s okay.
“I can’t put Sheriff Davenport off any longer,” Jerry says in a low voice. “He’s doin’ me a favor lettin’ me and Remy talk to ya first. You gotta talk to him.”
“Yeah, I’m ready.”
“All right. Here’s Sheriff Davenport.”
I don’t recognize the name but that doesn’t mean I haven’t had a run-in with him at some point. He asks a bunch of questions. Doesn’t seem too impressed I’m filming a reality show—can’t blame him.
Finally, our conversation comes down to one thing.
“It seems to me everyone knows who damaged your car, Mr. Royal, including you.” He pauses, probably waiting to see if I’ll fill the silence. “If you want to file an insurance claim, you’re going to need to press charges.”
“Sir, I’m not planning to bother the insurance company with this. And I’m not pressing charges against anyone.” I don’t bother correcting him—that the car’s actually Molly’s. She doesn’t need the hassle. “I’m sorry your time was wasted with this today.”
“It’s my job.” There’s a slapping noise on his end. “No damage to the garage or anything else. Seems like the vandals exercised a lot of restraint. Someone got a grudge against you, Mr. Royal?”
“Probably. But like I said, I’m on a locked set, four hours from home, so there isn’t much I can do about it right now.”
“Uh-huh. When will you be home?”
“I don’t know, yet.”
He releases an annoyed sound and I add, “I’m not trying to be evasive. I really don’t know. I could get sent home tomorrow or be here until the end of the summer.”
“Fine,” he grunts in surrender. “If you change your mind, you have my number.”
“Thanks.”
There’s a rustling and a few seconds later, Jerry returns on the line.
“Look, Griff, don’t worry about anything. I got your car stored here. It’s safe. Your buddy said he’d take care of the other one. It’s all good. Keep your head in the game, all right?” He hesitates. “Don’t get suckered by any distractions.”
Great, Jerry must think I slept with Kiki too. Fan-fucking-tastic. “Thanks, Jerry. I’m sorry for all the extra trouble.”
“Not a problem.” He coughs. “Be smart, kid.”
“I’m tryin’.”
We hang up and I sit staring at the phone.
Rage, slow but hot, builds in my veins. A cloud of anger pushes all rational thoughts out of my mind.
Dread tightens my stomach into a knot.
What the fuck am I going to do?
Irrational rage wins.
I launch myself out of the chair and storm out of the office, not bothering to make sure the door closes behind me. Fuck it. I hope everyone in the house discovers the secret room and calls home. Then they can all find out how we’re being fucked over.
The show’s already airing. How is that even possible? Is that why I haven’t seen Diane since the first week? Is she out there somewhere trolling for new suckers to embarrass and destroy their lives?
If Kiki really hooked up with someone, wouldn’t we have heard about it? Deadass, Naptime, Pirate, none of them would be able to keep their damn mouths shut.
So who was in the video?
It wasn’t me. That’s all that matters.
Snorting like a bull, I storm through the maze of hallways and pound down the stairs in search of the editing room Jordan mentioned earlier.
I spot him in the hallway outside the gym.
My feet thunder over the tile floor as I charge him.
“We need to talk.” I grab his sleeve, spin him around, and throw him against the nearest wall. He jerks away and I pin him with a hand to his chest.
“Help!” Jordan shouts. “Help!”
Imagine working on a show with a bunch of street fighters and being afraid of your own shadow.
“Quit whining.” I jerk him forward by his shirt collar, slam him into the wall again, then release him. I lean close. “How can you look me in the eye after the bullshit lies you’ve been broadcasting?” I whisper in his ear. “And don’t you dare try to deny it.”
His eyes widen.
That’s right motherfucker—I know.
“You can’t tell the others,” he warns.
A sneer turns the corners of my mouth, but the wide-eyed look of fear on Jordan’s face stops me from saying anything else.
Control. Get control of yourself. Breathe. You’re smarter than this.
I don’t know what I’m dealing with. There were a lot of contracts and documents I signed for the show. Hope, the lawyer I spoke to, tried to warn me most—if not all—of the contracts wouldn’t be in my favor. Who am I kidding—everyone in my life tried to warn me that coming here was a bad idea. I went ahead and signed my life away anyway.