Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 93575 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93575 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
It was the oddest sensation.
But before I could press her, before I could find out her full name and room number, she was gone. Rushing in her panic to get away, almost tripping over herself to put some distance between us. She hadn’t even noticed that her hair clip fell out, rattling on the cement surrounding the pool. I climbed out and picked it up, intent on handing it into the front desk.
Except I never did.
I inquired if there was a guest with the name Mila but was informed no. For some reason, I slipped the hair clip back into my pocket and thanked the girl behind the counter, who was watching me with an eager expression, hoping I would stick around and talk more.
Instead, I left before she could find a reason for me to stay.
Now, the hair clip sat beside my sketchbook, the only vivid detail in the sketch aside from the wide eyes I drew from memory. I guessed they were dark—everything about her had been dark in the dim light. The glimpses I’d had of her face had been too cloaked in shadow to recreate. I picked up the hair clip, studying it. It was pretty. Pink with white and gold swirled into the base. Heavy and thick, leading me to think her hair must be long. Her voice had been soft, lilting.
Shy.
I wasn’t used to that in this business. Most of the women I dealt with could hold their own. Break my balls without much effort. You had to be strong in this industry.
Something, I was reminded of almost daily, I was not.
I blinked, bringing myself back to the present and the mystery girl. I wondered if she would be at the pool again tonight.
I certainly planned to find out.
There was a firm knock at my door, and I shut my sketchbook and slid it and the hair clip into a drawer before opening the door and greeting my agent as she breezed in.
I followed her to the balcony, watching with amusement as she poured herself a cup of coffee and took a long sip.
“Bad morning?” I asked.
She sighed, overdramatic and loud.
“I had a meeting with the studio and the author’s agent. I got read the riot act again about you, Nicky boy.” She wagged her finger. “A lot is riding on this movie.”
I hated it when she called me that. No matter how often I told her to stop, she still did it. I knew she loved the fact that it made me upset. I refused to let her see that reaction anymore.
“I’m aware.”
“None of your bullshit this time.”
I tamped down my ire. I had no idea how to explain my “bullshit” to her so she understood. How to make them all understand.
I hated all the lies and deception. I got tired of saying it. Living it. Sometimes I was so tired, I wanted to give it all up. That was when the darkness hit the hardest.
“I’ll do my best.”
“Really, Nicky. Someone pushed hard for you for this role. Keep your nose clean, your pants on, and concentrate. Knock it out of the park. I know you can do it. Stay focused. This will lead to something else great. I know it.”
I blinked at her words. My nose clean and my pants on?
“Do you believe your own PR, MJ?” I asked her. “The lies the studio leaks out, the ones you support?”
She stood, a frown pulling at her face. I was worried her skin might tear away from her bones if she frowned any harder. Botox didn’t like to move.
“I know who you are and what you’re capable of if you don’t self-sabotage,” she hissed at me. “I don’t want any of your attitude or meltdowns this time around. I barely contained the damage last time. I have no idea how you got this chance, but you aren’t going to fuck it up for me, you understand?”
“I would hate to fuck up your plans,” I assured her, the sarcasm in my voice evident.
She glared at me, then dropped her head. “I only want what’s best for you, Nicky boy. This role is a chance to redeem yourself.”
“The truth would redeem me.”
“The truth would kill your career faster than you could blink. Hollywood lies when it says it loves tortured souls, my friend. They want actors, not patients.”
I snorted. “They cater to drunks and drug abusers every day. Hell, they create most of the issues. But they can’t deal with me?”
She shook her head. “No, they can’t. And they always win, Nick. Remember that. You love acting. Don’t mess this up.”
Then she switched subjects, not wanting to discuss the one thing I needed to talk about.
“We’ll go on set in the morning. The author arrives day after, and you’ll meet them.” She pulled a folder from her bag. “Speaking of which, you have to sign this.”