Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 149982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 750(@200wpm)___ 600(@250wpm)___ 500(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 750(@200wpm)___ 600(@250wpm)___ 500(@300wpm)
Charlie scoots to the edge of the couch. Elbows to his knees. “Deep down,” he says. “I don’t give a shit if people love me. Or hate me. Or think I’m an entitled, spoiled brat. I’d have to care enough about them to care about their opinions—and I don’t give a shit. You want honesty, I have reasons I want my life filmed, but I’m not going to tell them to you. And if you think I’m going to care about exposing myself to the world—I won’t. I don’t.”
I believe that.
Jack looks him up and down, still gauging. “I won’t air anything you don’t want aired. You can trust me on that, but you’re going to get more shit than you’ve ever received from the public. You’ll be the first of the famous kids to step out with their own show. It’s like announcing to the world you’re going solo.”
Charlie lets out a genuine, heartfelt laugh. “Better, even.” He rises to his feet.
Jack follows him to a stance. “Everyone knows Cobalts run on loyalty,” he reminds him. “To a lot of people, they’re going to think this move is a betrayal to your family. I just want you to be prepared for that kind of heat.”
“If people think that I’m betraying my family, they’re dumber than I thought,” he says. “Which is saying something because I think the human race has a chronic case of idiocy.”
Jack takes a breath. “We’re doing this then?”
“How fast can you get the contract to me?” Charlie asks. “I’d like to start as soon as possible.”
Jack nods. “I can have it for you to sign in about five hours.”
It’s in this moment that it hits me…
I’m about to be around Jack Highland a hell of a lot more. There’s no avoiding him. No ignoring him. In fact, I have to schedule a meeting with him. A one-on-one.
I cross my arms over my chest, tensed beyond belief. “Highland,” I say. “Whatever time you’re thinking of stopping by. Arrive an hour early.”
“Sounds like a plan,” he says, but his voice is suddenly stilted and lacks the natural warmth it usually carries.
Awkward.
This whole fucking thing.
Charlie’s phone rings. A quick glance at the screen elicits an eye roll. Has to be one of his brothers. He silences the call and slides his cell in his back pocket. “See you tomorrow,” he tells Jack.
And just like that, we’re out of Jack’s apartment.
“Where to?” I ask my client as we take the stairs.
There’s a long moment of silence before he sighs heavily, almost in defeat. “Home.”
4
JACK HIGHLAND
Here’s one thing I can always count on: structure. Every great film, every cinematic plot has structure. Even with the docuseries that I work on—which isn’t scripted—there is a story structure. We take our footage and make sure the narrative is in order.
A beginning, middle, and an end.
My life has always had structure. I’ve known how it’d start, where I’d go, and where I’d end up. That is, until Oscar…
My life has never been more jumbled. Confusing. Messy.
God, I spent three hours in the shower after Oscar and Charlie left my apartment. I just stood there! The hot water ran cold, and I stared at the tile walls in a daze. And I confess, I was thinking about Oscar Oliveira.
I kept replaying how he came into my apartment like a frozen wind. He basically coldshouldered me. Treated me like a co-worker and not a friend.
Were we friends?
I thought we were friendly…maybe too friendly. I don’t know. But usually when I fuck-up a conversation, I can work my magic and rewind the reel, like nothing ever happened.
Oscar is different. No amount of charm is getting me out of what happened at the wedding reception. I can’t flash a smile and expect him to go back to how we were.
I’m terrified of our dynamic changing into something uncomfortable, or worse—something cold and empty. Especially now. When it’s looking like we’re about to be around each other a hundred times more.
I try to take a breath.
Relax, dude.
I’d say I’m rarely uptight. I grew up surfing. Patiently waiting for that perfect wave. Breathing in and out, but fuck if I know anything right now about oxygen and patience—because I’ve never felt more asphyxiated and unbalanced.
I’m in my Mazda. By the time I got out of the shower, I threw on dark jeans, a white crew-neck, and left my apartment, then jumped in my car. No sleep tonight, I’m driving to New York for the early-morning meeting with Oscar.
My cell is docked on the dashboard, traffic a nightmare and the sun isn’t even out yet. So I’m even more caught off-guard when my phone rings for FaceTime and the caller is from California.
Long Beach is three hours behind East Coast time. It’s basically the middle of the night there.
I answer fast.