Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
This time, when shame flushed through Cillian, it wasn’t because of his…preferences.
It was because he’d called Brendan a dick, when he really hadn’t understood him at all.
Cillian stood carefully, and touched over his face; the ointment Brendan had smoothed in had numbed it a bit, so he no longer felt like someone’s punching bag.
“Why are you helping me like this?” he asked.
Brendan slotted the first aid kit back into the cabinet. “Because I can.”
Cillian blinked. “You’re weird,” he said.
“I know,” Brendan answered.
And just like that, turned to lead Cillian from the room.
CHAPTER FIVE
EVERY TIME CANDACE MANAGED A miracle, Brendan wondered how she pulled it off.
He leaned against the wall in the chaotic segment of the studio cordoned off for the makeup artists and their supplies. Vanity mirrors everywhere, high-focus lights, carts full of every kind of blush, foundation, toner, bronzer, liner—whatever it took to turn a person’s face into a canvas and the makeup into an artist’s palette. He hadn’t been quite certain she’d be able to work with Cillian’s bruised face, but…
While Brendan watched and Cillian held himself politely still in Candace’s chair, the woman completely reconstructed his face as if she’d rebuilt him from scratch with plastic surgery. Cillian didn’t move even when she leaned over him, her bleached-platinum hair falling down to tickle his nose. One bit at a time she smoothed away the bruises, contoured the swelling until it disappeared into painted-on shadows, glossed over the split in his lip. When she was finished, she spun Cillian toward the mirror at her station, pronouncing, “Viola!” with a melodramatic flourish.
Cillian stared at his reflection, then at Candace, then at Brendan, then back at his reflection. “How did you even…?”
“Oh, honey.” Smirking, Candance folded her arms over the back of Cillian’s chair, leaning over him and resting her chin to the top of his head. “Covering your bang-up’s easier than covering my stubble. One day I’ll stop being lazy and just laser it all off.”
“It…it looks amazing, thank you…” Cillian touched over his face, eyes wide and awed. Candace winked.
“It’s mostly waterproof, but don’t go sweating it all off.” She pursed her lips at Brendan in a mock-kiss. “You owe me one.”
“Call and collect any time,” Brendan said dryly, then tossed his head to Cillian. “C’mon. Everyone else is gathering in the conference room.”
Cillian looked brighter, at least, as he nodded quickly, thanked Candace a few more times, then rocketed himself out of the chair and to Brendan’s side. As they stepped back out from under the diffused, erratic lights of a set waiting to come to life with its cast and crew, Cillian fell into stride with Brendan, nearly vibrating with every step.
“Her,” Cillian said breathlessly. “It’s…it’s her and everyone else, that’s why…I want to go through with this. Because maybe Newcomb hurt me, but I don’t…want to hurt her for it.”
“She’d understand,” Brendan pointed out. “Everyone would understand. You don’t have to make yourself a martyr.” He considered, then added, “…and it’s all right to admit you’re afraid to go public.”
Cillian faltered, the bright enthusiasm in his eyes fizzling as if a cloud had opened up over his head. “I…is it that obvious?”
“It’s not uncommon,” Brendan muttered. “There’s a culture of silence in this industry.”
“I feel like…” Cillian lowered his eyes, his lazy lashes sweeping for an almost affected look. “…I’m being a coward.”
Brendan sighed—then briefly rested his hand to the top of Cillian’s head. Soft hair found its unruly way between his fingers, curling in cool silk kisses. “What you are being is a man who still hasn’t had time to process an attempted assault. It takes time to work through these things and figure out how you feel, and what you want to do. It’s okay to take that time. Until then, though…” He stopped outside the door to the conference room, pulling his hand away and curling it against the knob instead. “Sit next to me. I’ll try to stay between you and him.”
Cillian looked up at him with those pale brown eyes that had made him the favorite of just about every magazine cover in the last season—but instead of that mysterious, devil-may-care James Dean smolder, he was wide-eyed and startled, making him look much younger than his years.
Apparently Brendan wasn’t the only one who didn’t quite match his public persona.
It was like being looked at by an oversized, affection-starved puppy.
Aiyah.
“You ready?” Brendan asked, and Cillian blinked, shaking himself.
“Er. Yes. Are we the last ones here?”
“Probably, since we detoured a little.” Brendan pushed the door open. “C’mon.”
With Cillian in tow, Brendan stepped into the conference room. The entire thing had been set up almost like a banquet: rows of tables lined against the walls with catering, people milling around, many already at the room-length table, clustered together and peering at their copies of the script over their finger sandwiches. Brendan couldn’t help how he immediately honed in on Newcomb, standing at the windows at the head of the room and leaning in close with several members of the crew.