Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Will grumbles something, but it is nearly unintelligible through the shake of my laugh. The funniest part of this whole bit is that I had to study Wilson Phillips to be able to do it. I knew a couple of songs, but I wasn’t anywhere close to their all-time most frequent listener, so it took actual research and memorization to get to where we are now.
I figure that just goes to show, I can achieve anything I put my mind to, no matter how stupid.
“What was that, Will?”
“I said, ‘No wonder TikTok’s mindless bullshit is as popular as it is.’ This is the kind of crap people find entertaining.”
I play dumb to his insults, which I know will annoy him even further. “If you’re trying to say I should put this on TikTok, that’s a great idea. No wonder I pay you fifteen percent.”
“Far be it for me to condone this shitty bit of yours, but it would probably be better than the content that’s on TikTok about you right now.”
I tilt my head to the side in surprise. “They talk about me on TikTok?”
“Uh, yeah. Mostly about you being a recluse and the great possibility that you might just be as much of a ghost as the Shadow Brothers. But yeah, they talk about you.”
I ignore the negatives of his statement and focus on the most important part. “Wouldn’t you have to have a TikTok account to actually know what’s happening on TikTok?” I question. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Will? If I locate your account, will I find my agent dancing to Nicki Minaj or something?”
Will scoffs. “I have a TikTok account because I’m your agent and need to be proactive when it comes to your publicity. Though, I think we both know what I’m going to say next…”
He wants me to start posting on my TikTok account. He’s been on my ass about it for the past year. In my defense, I already post on Facebook and Instagram and Twitter, and I honestly feel like those are enough, even if my content is scarce.
“You know I’m not good socially, Will. I don’t think parading my awkwardness on a global scale is going to help sales.”
He’s silent after I say that. Silent in a way that means something. Silent for a duration of time that’s way too long. Silent in a way that scares me.
“What aren’t you telling me right now?”
“Nothing.”
“Wilson, I swear to Carnie you’d better ‘Hold On’ if you’re lying to me.”
His deep exhale is so loud it echoes inside my ears “It’s Netflix. They want you to do a tour, prior to the premiere of the show.”
“No way,” I whisper.
“Yes, but it’s just eight cities in two weeks. You’ll do quick flights and five-star hotels the whole time. It’ll be easy peasy,” he updates like it’s no big thing.
But it is a big thing. A huge thing.
Flights? Mamma Mia.
I shut my eyes and try to fight off an impending headache with three fingers to the bridge of my nose. “Listen, the last thing I want to do is come across as a drama llama with the good people at Netflix, but if you’ll remember, the last time I was on a plane, 250 people who didn’t want to be in Buffalo made a screaming-fun landing there just in time for the Bills game, and I had to pay twenty thousand freaking dollars to cover my out-of-pocket maximum on my medical insurance.”
The last time I was on a plane, it took a grievous toll on my mental health. As it turns out, being the reason for a plane’s emergency landing is the kind of thing that really sticks with a girl.
“I can’t do the planes, Will. I can’t,” I add, my voice edging on desperation. “Trains, automobiles, buses, sure, but I can’t do the planes.”
“Brooke, come on. You know the tour would take significantly longer with those methods of transportation.”
I huff out a breath. “Not as long as it’ll be if I down a plane before I make it to the first stop. I’m telling you, Will, no planes.”
“Okay, fine,” he acquiesces, though his voice indicates an annoyance. “I’ll talk to Netflix. See what we can work out.”
“Good.” I don’t mention that I’m hoping the thing they work out is that I’m too much trouble for a tour because I know that’ll set Wilson off in the kind of way my song bit never could. But I’m not built for public consumption, you know? I’m an inside, in pajamas, at my desk kind of gal.
“I’ll get back to you when I nail down the details, okay? ‘The Dream is Still Alive.’”
“Did you…” I pause, and my mouth forms a little “O” of its own accord. “Did you just do my own bit to me?”
Wilson lets out a husky laugh. “Bye, Brooke.”