Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 72945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“No, I’ll do it alone.”
My jaw tenses. “Blair. We made a deal.”
“Somewhere public. He likes me, Baptist.”
“Funny. I’m not sure that man likes anyone.”
She shakes her head. “He does. Just let me talk to him.” She goes silent after that and I drive faster, anger rolling down my spine, replacing the excitement with rage.
That fucker nearly got us killed, again, and she thinks she can reason with a madman.
Chapter 8
Blair
Cowan throws a handful of bread out to a group of pigeons. He stares at them intently like he’s trying to learn something important from the way they mill around in a tight group. I remain a few feet away, arms crossed, the mask shards in a bag at my hip. I’m terrified of showing him what happened, but he’s more interested in bread and birds right now, and I’m in no hurry to break the news.
“I find these creatures fascinating,” he says, gesturing at the pigeons. “They are ubiquitous in this city. Disgusting animals, really. They’re flying rats, and yet they’re resilient. They survive in an environment so deeply divorced from the environment they were supposed to live within. A lot like people.”
“Yes, Cowan. People are giant pigeons. Got it. Is that another movie?”
He smiles and shakes his head like I’m an idiot. “No, suit, it’s not another movie. Where’s my mask?”
I hesitate and hold the bag up. “You knew somebody would be there, didn’t you?”
“Yes, of course. Lucille is my aunt.”
“She’s your aunt? She’s got to be at least—”
“Ninety-two, yes. Did she offer you cookies? Lucille is quite the baker.” He gestures impatiently. “Give me the mask.”
“Lucille didn’t offer us cookies.” I stare at him in total exasperation. “She tried to kill us.”
He frowns, head tilted. “That’s strange.”
“Imagine how I feel. She came downstairs with a shotgun—”
“Ah, you met Hank. Named after her late husband. He was a real bastard.”
“—and started shooting. What is wrong with your family? Why do you people love to shoot things indoors?”
“It’s tradition.” He turns to me fully and crosses his arms. “Where’s the mask, suit?”
“It’s broken. I smashed it when your insane aunt was shooting at me with a gun named after her dead husband. Sorry.” I toss him the bag. He catches it, frowning curiously, and looks inside.
“That’s a shame. It really was late republic-era Roman. I suppose it belonged in a museum.” He shrugs, walks to a trash can, and throws the entire bag inside.
I stare, mouth hanging open. “Even broken, it’s still an artifact!”
“Forget the mask, suit. You messed up. You did not do as I asked and now my life is harder because of it. What will you do to fix this?”
“Fix this?” I stare at the bastard. “I’m not fixing anything. I’m actually about to walk away and never speak to you again.”
“That’d be a shame.” He turns to the pigeons again, watching as the animals scurry around and peck at the bread. He seems completely nonplussed about the shattered mask and barely cares that I’m threatening to walk from this film. I’d be willing to bet my threat isn’t the first time a producer told him they were going to run from something he’s involved with, and I doubt it’ll be the last.
“This was a mistake.” I turn to leave, prepared to go crawling back to Drake Entertainment with my tail between my legs, when Cowan calls my name. I hesitate, try to come up with a good reason to keep going, but something makes me turn.
“I’ll sign the papers. We’ll make this movie, no more games. But you need to do something about that mask.”
“I can glue it. That’s about all I have to offer.”
“No, suit. I want you to do something.” He smiles slightly, eyes narrowed and harsh. “I want you to do something you want.”
“I’m sorry, excuse me?”
“You’re scared. I think you might be the most terrified person I’ve ever met. I want you to do something you really want to do, but you’re too afraid to actually go through with it. I don’t care what it is or what it means, all I need is for you to break through your stuffy, pathetic, repressed, bourgeois life, and do something real and brave for once. Put yourself out there. Make a mistake.”
“Almost get killed by a crazy old lady?” I glare at him, trembling with rage. “You don’t know me. You don’t know me at all.”
“You’re scared even now. Admit it, suit, you’re standing there thinking about what you might do and you can barely bring yourself to consider acting. That’s what I want from you. No more thinking or worrying. I want you to act for once.”
I take a deep breath and slowly let it out. He’s right that there are a dozen things I should do, but don’t want to. Things I want but remain completely terrifying. Things I’m afraid might ruin my life.