Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 46223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
She flops onto her back and blinks up at me, blanket pooled at her waist, hair feral, mouth soft. My composure takes a hit it doesn’t show. “Bossy,” she says, smiling like last night lives under her skin too.
“Protective,” I correct, because giving the hunger a name won’t help either of us, and I need my hands doing something besides remembering her.
We move fast after that. She vanishes into the bathroom with garment bags; I check the route to the ballroom, confirm our back-of-house corridor and the side stair to catering. The hotel sends a floor plan; I redraw it with exits and blind corners, send Rae’s local contact a note about a main door that doesn’t shut true. By the time Vanessa comes out in a slate silk blouse and black pants made to ruin a man’s concentration, I’ve got a livable plan and a quiet pulse.
“You look like a problem,” I say before I can filter it.
“Good kind or bad?” She hooks a necklace, watching me over the mirror edge.
“Both,” I say. Her mouth curves like she expected that.
We take the service hall down. Brice paces near the ballroom doors when we arrive, headset askew, stress sweat making his importance hair droop.
“Thank God,” he says, which is a phrase I hear a lot and believe rarely. “We’re behind. The brand wants a ‘spontaneous’ confessional reel and the sponsor insisted on a neon arch that won’t fit through the service door.”
“Lose the arch,” I say. “Use the wall.”
He sputters. Vanessa touches his arm. “We can cheat the angle,” she says in her soothing-a-skittish-client voice. “Trust me.”
I sweep the ballroom while they tussle with aesthetics. It’s chaos—cables like snakes, ring lights, folding chairs, a pop-up “kitchen” being wired in a corner. Sight lines first, people second. I put one of the hotel guards at the catering hallway and another at the fire doors. I walk the perimeter, tuck wedges where I want doors to stay shut, pocket one of the brand’s gaffer tapes for later because my hands like useful.
Rae’s in my ear. “You’ve got three private networks in range. Venue Wi-Fi is Swiss cheese; I’m patching with our box. Sponsor’s router name is ‘Caleb-iPhone-Hotspot.’ I’m mirroring it to see who loves him.”
“Copy.” I scan staff badges as they whirl by. “StreamLite replaced?”
“New crew. Backgrounds clean. I still don’t like the venue coordinator. She forwards floor plans to her personal email because ‘it’s easier.’”
“Note it.” I spot a catering cart unattended, lift the lid. Sandwiches and a knife that doesn’t belong there. I move the knife to my kit and flag the catering lead. “Chain of custody,” I remind her. She blushes and nods, grateful to be told without being shamed.
The morning is breaking a hurricane with good manners. Vanessa turns on under lights—two cameras, three setups, four hundred micro-adjustments to make it look effortless. Brice rattles “deliverables” into a schedule no one is reading; the PA writes on her hand and forgets and writes again on the other. Between takes, Vanessa drinks water when I nudge it into her hand and eats bites of protein she claims to hate and then finishes. I move her through the room like a current—behind the lights, not in front of doors, always with my body between her and the places people appear from.
“Riggs.” Her voice when she’s off camera is the one I prefer. “Am I doing okay?”
“You’re doing your job,” I say. “I’ll do mine.” I keep my eyes on the corner where a sponsor rep hovers two inches farther in the room than he belongs. Jaxson sends me his face on my phone with a red outline. Caleb. My favorite suspect.
Rae again, low. “Ghost user pinged the ballroom router and died. Two seconds. Pulled a camera feed of the green room door.”
“Which one?”
“Stage right hall. Your 2 o’clock.” I turn without turning my shoulders. The cam’s angle is off just a hair like last night. I walk past, casual, and set it back with a bland smile to a grip who’s about to argue until I stand too close and he remembers he has another thing to do.
“Lunch in ten,” Brice calls. “Then surprise confessional—Vanessa alone, handheld, fifteen minutes.”
“Not alone,” I say.
“Alone on camera,” he corrects, brittle. “Riggs, you can lurk. Just…lurk flatter.”
“I don’t lurk,” I say. “I stand.” He throws his hands and gives up.
We run the confessional in a tight corner of the ballroom under a softbox. Vanessa sits on a stool, camera on a tripod two feet away, and talks to the lens like she’s chatting with a friend. No location tells, no reflections. She’s good, but I knew that already. I like the way her hands move when she searches for truth and finds a phrase that feels like her.
The afternoon blurs. Sponsor B-roll. A “spontaneous” dance shot on the empty floor that looks nice and gives me heartburn. I keep the crowd outside—fans whose excitement bleeds under the ballroom doors like pressure under a threshold. The hotel adds ropes we don’t need and security we don’t trust. I give them jobs they can’t screw up and keep our corridor clean.