Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 109038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
A video clip of me in front of one of the digital billboards in Times Square, smiling and gesturing up at my own gigantic, shirtless photo that’s hanging over the center of the city. The clip was filmed in slow motion, and in front of the giant billboard, I mimic my character Damien, grabbing a football and throwing it.
And then I wink at the screen and say “how about a Season 2?”
I thought I already knew it felt like having a video go viral. All month, I’ve been having them.
But this one was something different.
It got shared about a hundred million times… and then a hundred million more, the next day.
The Bellwood security have now informed me that they called the police the moment the crush of fans started to descend into the back alley, but they’re stuck at the edge of the street now, trying to make their way over.
“Can I get a picture? Logan! Logan!”
A sweet woman is holding out her phone camera in selfie mode. She looks a little bit like my mom, and it tugs at my heart.
“Ah. Um, a quick one,” I tell her, knowing damn well that I shouldn’t linger here. But I can’t say no.
She holds up the phone and snaps a selfie of us as other people try to push past the security, holding out pictures of me to sign.
“Logan!” one of them shouts. “Are you friends with Charlie Maccan in real life?”
“Charlie? Of course,” I say, wondering if anyone can even hear my answer under the screaming. “I get along with all of the Yard Line actors.”
Panic rises in my blood.
Did I say that right?
Was it a bad idea to lump Charlie in with the rest of the actors, and now I’ll be misquoted somehow? Or was it bad to say the rest, as if the other actors in the show don’t even have names?
Could it be misconstrued?
Everything can be misconstrued.
Fuck, fuck.
“Tell us about Season 2!” another woman shouts. “Who is Damien going to fuck next?”
“Ouch,” I hiss as someone steps on the top of my ankle with a stiletto heel, and a camera flash goes off right as I’m wincing. “Sorry—”
“Logan, please!” another girl says as she grips at my arm, trying to yank me backward as I walk toward the hotel.
“Hands off of him, now,” the security guard yells. “Move aside.”
He holds out his arm like a bar and I tuck my head down.
Someone starts playing a song that features on the first episode the Yard Line, blasting it at full volume on a tinny speaker right by my ear.
My chest is tight, and with each step I take further toward the hotel, I know I’m disappointing more and more fans. I’m denying them an opportunity they’ll only get one time, a chance at taking a quick picture with me, or even just making eye contact.
The guilt pulses inside me like a living thing.
I’m not built for this.
How can I make everyone happy if I can’t even look them all in the eye?
How can I ensure that they like me when I’m not even sure if this mob is safe for me or them?
“I’m sorry,” I say, but my words are swallowed by the crowd. “I’m sorry. Sorry, everyone—”
I push forward as the security guard forms a meat shield for me. Finally, mercifully, the door opens, and we’re inside the Bellwood.
My ears are ringing.
My blood feels too hot, and my eyes are burned with the residual light of so many camera flashes.
“We’re going to take care of this, Mr. Stone,” the security guard says. “The staff has already scheduled triple the outdoor security, and we’ll be installing more barricades.”
“It’s fine,” I say quickly, waving my hand through the air. “You did an amazing job. I’m just…”
I don’t have the ability to finish the sentence.
My nerves are completely fried, and already I see a few people across the hotel lobby who are trying to take videos of me, though at least they’re trying to do it in a subtle way.
“Is there anything I can get you, Mr. Stone?”
“I just want to be alone,” I tell him. “I’m sorry you had to handle that.”
“It’s no problem at all.”
He escorts me to the elevator and pushes the button. Once we’re upstairs at my room, he leaves, but something about the gorgeous, spacious hotel suite feels too claustrophobic right now, too.
I just need to be outside, and alone.
I need air. Badly.
I grab my own bottle of Scotch from my room, leave, and walk down the hall, because I’m sick of my suite.
There’s a door over at the end of the main hall.
Yesterday, I found out that this door leads to the rooftop. I saw a maintenance guy walk out through it last night. I ignore the sign that says “no exit,” and the door opens easily with a firm shove.