Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 111443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
All producers, directors, writers, operational staff, and PAs dealt with Trish in some capacity. Some friends, family members, and exes did too. She was the gatekeeper at Rourke Studios. Nothing and no one met me without going through Trish first.
Most people didn’t mind. She never forgot a name and had an uncanny ability to recall significant dates and minute details. Her homespun mannerisms usually won over the most prickly, self-important assholes. But her number one priority was always me.
Which, I think made me the number one asshole. Hmm.
“Yeah, I’m here, but I’m on my way out again as soon as I check in with Ollie and Char—”
“Charlie was here,” Trish said, tucking her arm through mine. She pulled me closer toward my office door, before continuing. “He left a few minutes ago. He seemed anxious and he said he’s been trying to reach you all—”
“Shit. Is he okay?” My heart rate spiked so fast I felt sick to my stomach.
Parental dread flooded my veins. I could deal with a lot of noise, but not where my kids were concerned. Christ, Charlie wasn’t a child, though. He was twenty-fucking-eight. Nonetheless, I forgot about Gray for a heartbeat, wondering why the worry never went away.
“I’m not sure,” Trish admitted. “He was pacing up a storm in your office. He wouldn’t tell me anything. And that’s not like him at all.”
I gently patted her arm and moved to my door. “Right. I’ll call him. Thanks.”
“Oh, and Seb…” She waited for me to face her. “You have a meeting in an hour with the head of animation.”
“Cancel it.”
I hurried into my office, turning the lock before wandering to the wall of windows, scrolling through at least a dozen missed texts from Charlie, all around the same theme…
Are you okay?
I’m assuming you are, but I need to know.
I worry. Don’t make me worry. It’s bad for my complexion.
Dad, your silence is killing me.
If you don’t respond in ten minutes, I’m coming over. You’ve been warned.
Fine. I’m getting in my car now.
I leaned against the pillar near the window and pressed Call.
Charlie answered on the first ring. “There you are! Oh, my God. I have gray hair. Thank you for prematurely aging me. Where have you been? Why didn’t you answer your cell?”
If I hadn’t mentioned it, Charlie was dramatic. Usually in a strictly fabulous sense, but at the moment, his worry was palpable and probably wasn’t completely unwarranted.
“I was working, Char. I’m leaving the studio as soon as I call Ollie and return a couple of emails.”
“O-kay…well, did you talk to Gray?”
“Yes. And Char…” I paused for emphasis. “I’m fine.”
Silence.
I peered out the window and counted cars on Santa Monica Boulevard below, willing him to fill the void with a quip or something outlandish to help us maneuver the awkward quiet that wasn’t so quiet at all.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive,” I lied.
More silence.
“But you love him,” he said softly. “I know you must be—”
“Char, I’m fine. I promise.”
“You’re lying.”
“A little,” I conceded. “But I’ll get there.”
Charlie sighed theatrically. “I know you will. I’m here if you need anything. I’m very much stuck in the middle, but I love you and I support you.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that, but I repeat…I’m fine.”
“All right. So you won’t flip when I tell you I’m in charge of planning the engagement party?”
Fuck.
Tears welled in my eyes, and that fucking grapefruit in my throat was back. But now it felt like a watermelon.
“Of course not,” I replied in a surprisingly steady voice. “When is that?”
“Hmm, I don’t know the exact date, but I think next month…early May.”
“Great. Um, hey, I have to run. I’ll talk to you later, Char.”
“Okay. Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
I ended the connection and called Oliver, who confirmed he was at his mom’s tonight and requested Chinese takeout for dinner tomorrow at my house. No problem.
Dad duties complete, I headed to my computer. I outlined my latest Baxter ideas, sent a flurry of emails to my production teams, then sailed out of my office and stopped at Trish’s desk.
“Everything okay?” she asked, peering over her tortoiseshell reading glasses.
“Yep. I’m leaving. See you tomorrow. I may be in later than usual. I’ll let you know,” I replied breezily.
“Okay, Boss. Have a good night.”
“You too.” I marched toward the door leading to my private entrance. “Hey, Trish. I just remembered…Baxter’s going to London next month. The usual hotel, etcetera.”
“Sure thing. Do you know when exactly?”
“I’ll finalize the date soon, but I’m thinking early May.”
I was gone before she could ask any probing questions that might give me away or expose me as a heartless prick with the maturity of a hormonal adolescent. I’d out myself eventually.
I always did.
2
TRENT
Where the fuck was my car?
I scoured the area behind the studio office building. I could have sworn I’d parked next to a huge trash bin near the gate for easy ingress and egress. During my abbreviated tenure with the studio, I’d found out week one that the main lot was always congested and that the only way to make my shift at Casa del Sol on time was to come up with an alternate option.