Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 59939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
6
Ben
I stride down East 45th Street with a cup of coffee in my hand, breathing in the early morning air. I grimace when I inhale a gust of car exhaust. I fucking hate New York. Too damn crowded, and it stinks here. Literally.
As I pause in front of a jewelry store to take a sip of my coffee, I can’t help but glance at my reflection in the large window.
What I see is an unshaved jaw, circles under my eyes and a bloodshot expression, all of which confirm what I already knew—I look like shit.
It was another sleepless night for me, only this time it had nothing to do with photographers lurking outside my house and everything to do with the redheaded tornado who swirled into my room.
The more I replayed her stuttering explanation in my head, the less I believed my midnight visitor was one of the vultures. I believed it even less when I grabbed the morning paper at the kiosk across the street from the Lester and didn’t see my picture on any of the tabloids on the rack.
If Red was a reporter, the story of her seduction would’ve at least made the Tattler, a rag known for keeping page space open for last-minute “scoops.”
Since it hadn’t, I suspected she’d been telling the truth, that she’d ended up in the wrong room, in bed with the wrong guy.
And just like Cinderella, Red left her prince a sweet little parting gift: a pair of pink lace panties.
And an offer of a free drink.
Under normal circumstances, I would’ve tossed the panties and passed on the booze, but last night had been anything but normal.
Sure, the make-out session had been hot, but what turned me on most about her was that she genuinely didn’t seem to know who I was.
Everything I do is highly publicized, from my appearances at the Oscars and the Golden Globes to my hookups with a fair share of models and actresses. Whether I want them to or not, women know who I am. They gawk at me when I pass them on the street. They send me thousands of tweets, dirty DMs, and unsolicited nudes. I’ve been called a heartthrob and a hunk, a devil and an angel, and the last time I appeared on Jimmy Fallon I got mobbed outside the studio.
So how in fiery hell didn’t she know about me?
I’ve spent enough years working in the film industry to know when somebody is bullshitting me, and I honestly don’t think I was lied to last night. Red had been oblivious to my celebrity status, and considering she hadn’t salivated at the mere sight of me, I suspect she’d be unimpressed about it anyway.
Damn but that’s a huge turn-on.
I quicken my pace, my gaze darting around in search of the lot where I parked my car. I remember it was near that theater where I performed in Hamlet last year, and there might’ve been a Starbucks around too, and a—
Strip club.
I stop so abruptly I nearly fall over backwards. Oh man, oh man. All I wanted was to get the paparazzi off my back. In retrospect, I really should’ve studied my surroundings before ditching my car. I parked in front of a fucking strip club.
So much for avoiding scandals.
I’m startled when I notice a crowd beginning to gather at the curb. I move closer, growing more and more uneasy as I spot an army of police officers and yards of yellow crime-scene tape.
Surrounding my shiny silver Beemer.
What the fuck?
Taking a step back, I try to blend into the crowd. The BMW, I notice when I peek over a woman’s head, is stripped completely. The doors are gone. The engine too, from the looks of it. It’s like a pack of hyenas pounced on it sometime during the night and picked its carcass clean. That doesn’t surprise me. What does is the presence of New York City’s finest.
Why do the cops care about my car?
I find out soon enough, as the woman in front of me leans over and whispers something to her friend.
“It’s Ben Barrett’s car,” she hisses.
Her friend, a chubby brunette, lets out a gasp. “The actor?”
“Yep. I heard one of the officers mention it.” The woman lowers her voice to a breathy whisper. “They think he’s been abducted.”
What?
It takes every ounce of willpower to keep my jaw off the dirty sidewalk.
Head spinning, I edge away from the murmuring crowd and walk as casually as my legs will allow. I glance around, notice the coffee shop at the corner, and make a beeline for it.
I need to call my agent and clear up this whole ridiculous mess, a plan that becomes vital the second I enter the café and hear my name blaring from the television screen over the counter.
“Bad-boy action star Ben Barrett is believed to have been abducted,” a nasal-voiced reporter is saying into her microphone. “His car was found stripped and abandoned in front of a local New York City club, and police fear the worst.”