Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
The girl grins from ear-to-ear. Taking no offense to his curtness. And she slips into Beckett’s winding line.
I click my mic before he rubs in the success. “You mean the guy who has a reputation of being elusive can blow off his fans and none of them bat an eye? If others copied him, we’d have Celebrity Crush calling them rude bitches and assholes.”
Oscar laughs. “Look who became a publicist.”
“Sucking Maximoff’s dick must give superpowers,” Donnelly says without thinking.
“Cut it out,” Thatcher snaps.
I’m not easily offended, and Thatcher’s all up-in-arms because Donnelly is speaking about a client’s dick. Not necessarily because that’s my boyfriend’s dick. But I’m of the mindset that if you dish it, you better be able to take it, and I dish a fucking ton.
Not listening to the bane of my career and my sanity, I speak into my mic. “And no one knows what sucking Donnelly’s dick does because no one wants near it.”
Donnelly lets his laughter filter through the comms.
“Farrow,” Thatcher warns.
I roll my eyes. I let go of my mic. Still observing Maximoff and the overzealous fans. I have faith in our entrance security, so I’m not paranoid about concealed weapons.
Maximoff accepts a basket of cookies from a girl, and he’s about to pass the present to an assistant. But I tell her that I’ll get it.
Maximoff hands me the basket, and I ask, “How are you doing?”
“Good.” He nods and flashes a smile at his line. The fans erupt in cheers, and then he turns to me and whispers, “How are Sulli and Beckett doing?”
“Sulli’s just mismanaging time, and Beckett is getting asked to lift girls for pics.”
“Like ballet lifts?”
“Yeah.”
“His arms are going to be sore.” Maximoff scrutinizes his cousins in a quick sweep.
“That’s what Donnelly keeps telling him, but he’s having trouble telling the girls no since they paid to be here.”
Maximoff nods and asks me, “How much longer do you think?” He cranes his neck, searching.
“Four hours—”
“You’ve got to be shitting me.” He zeroes in on Charlie’s empty space. True to Charlie Cobalt form, he’s left the building. Oscar is gone too.
“You’re glaring,” I warn Maximoff.
Before the line coordinator ushers someone forward, Maximoff says to the crew member, “Give me a second.”
He grabs his water off the floor and then fully faces me. Back turned to the fans. His caustic glare could drill holes into the wall.
Charlie touches a raw place inside of Maximoff that I’ve never seen anyone else reach. Not even a heckler. It’s another level of hurt and frustration and spite.
“He’d better be in the bathroom,” Maximoff says.
I want to wrap my arm around his shoulders. But I pull against that natural impulse. I may as well yank against a taut bungee cord. It just makes me want to snap forward that much more.
I chew my gum and do what I can to help. Clicking my mic, I ask Oscar where he’s at. I share the answer with Maximoff. “They’ll be at the other hotel until the Q&A starts.”
“He said he’d stay and help Sulli if he finished early.”
I frown. “You two talked? To each other?”
“Texted.” He hands me his phone, and I skim their short back-and-forth that goes something like this:
If you’re done early with pics, can you stick around and distract some of the fans in Sulli’s line? It’ll make her less stressed. – Maximoff
Okay. – Charlie
I look up at Maximoff.
His eyes flash hot. “Tell me he got sick. Food poisoning or some flesh-eating bacteria? Maybe an emergency phone call? Or no, wait, Charlie doesn’t ever have an excuse. He’s just bored, and he bolted, right?”
I sense something deeper and more painful. He told me in more detail about the yacht fight with Charlie. And how Charlie bailed on him a week before his freshman year at Harvard.
With no explanation why.
I put a hand on his broad shoulder—and a six-foot-seven devil nearly blows out my eardrum. Fucking hell. I let go, my nose flaring.
Maximoff rubs his face. Trying to shelter his anger from the fans.
“Take a five-minute break,” I say.
“No. No, I’m fine.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “I’m fine.” He puts his fist to his mouth, and the toughened look he wears also begs, closer.
I can’t. My muscles burn. We’re both pulling against a force that wants us to draw near.
Do your motherfucking job, Farrow.
I need to step back, but I say, “You look like you want to punch someone.”
“I do,” he says. “I want to punch my cousin.”
“How about you take that down to an I-want-to-have-a-civil-talk-with-my-cousin?”
“Never heard of that one,” he says, sarcastic.
“Clearly.”
Maximoff almost smiles. He nods to himself, taking a deeper breath. This is where we’d hug or kiss or do something other than what I’m about to do.
Avert my eyes.
Step back.
Let air fill the gap between my body and his.
Doing my motherfucking job.