Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 149982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 750(@200wpm)___ 600(@250wpm)___ 500(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 750(@200wpm)___ 600(@250wpm)___ 500(@300wpm)
I manage to take Jesse’s camera bag from him so he can brace Charlie. We continue our trek to the parking lot again.
“I’d be better if you overheard someone talking shit about Maximoff tonight,” Charlie replies.
His wise-ass is coming out to play.
He’s lucky Jane isn’t here to snap at him.
“Uh…yeah, I have heard someone railing on him tonight.” Jesse makes a confused face. “Why would you want to hear that? Did you guys get in a fight…I thought you two were cool now?”
Charlie suddenly looks too interested. His eyes laser-focus on Jesse. “What exactly have you heard?” Seriousness crosses my face, especially as he adds, “Have you caught any on film?”
Charlie.
Keating.
Motherfucking.
Cobalt.
Pieces of the overarching big-picture puzzle abruptly line up and connect too perfectly. My head spins. “Charlie…”
No one hears my whisper.
“Yeah, I shoot everything,” Jesse says. “I can show you tonight’s footage.”
Jack exchanges a look with me.
This is it.
This is why Charlie wanted to do the docuseries. Besides set me up with Highland, this is the answer we’ve been waiting for all along.
“Is it an older man?” Charlie asks. “He’d only be at charity events like this one. And he’d have a proclivity for hating my cousin.”
“Yeah,” Jesse nods. “That sounds like him.”
Ernest Mangold, the CEO of H.M.C. Philanthropies. Charlie wanted his head on a spike. That’s my best theory, and I might’ve made dumb mistakes tonight—but I’m still an intelligent motherfucker.
41
JACK HIGHLAND
“Did you hear that Maximoff left the carnival already? He didn’t even take pictures with those boys at the Tunnel of Love ride…yeah…”
Ernest Mangold.
I’m staring at him on my TV. I rolled it out of a closet and projected the camera footage from the carnival onto the big-screen. My brother, Oscar, Charlie, and I watch tensely in my apartment. We’re all standing, even Charlie who leans on his crutches.
“He was showing his son around the whole time. And he thinks he’s good at charity work?” His laughter is ugly.
My face is set in a perpetual cringe and confusion.
Whoever Ernest speaks to is standing out-of-frame. Carnival-goers pass in front of the camera. Obscuring Ernest and his friend. Sound quality is really poor but still audible.
“I didn’t want to push any closer,” Jesse defends the footage. “I have before, and he’ll stop talking and make me shut off my camera.”
I rest a hand on his head. “This is good, Jess. It’s impressive you can hear anything at all with the music.”
His lips begin to rise.
We look back at the TV.
No concussion, the hospital ruled—so I’m clear-headed as we watch Ernest loiter around the Tunnel of Love and run his mouth.
“…he should’ve just left Ripley in the petting zoo. Yeah…yeah someone attach a sign to him that says ‘pet me, I’m a meth-head baby’.” He laughs again.
No one speaks.
Our silence deadens the room.
My muscles tense, sick to my stomach. I shake my head and meet Oscar’s heated eyes. I tell him, “I’ve heard some weird, malicious things said ‘in jest’ behind their backs before, but nothing on that level, nothing from the inner-circle.”
“It’s disturbing,” Oscar says, “and I’m sadly not disturbed by much anymore.” We’ve seen it all.
The footage cuts to black a few seconds after that, and Oscar looks more concerned at me than anyone else.
I’m almost numb. Being hit with too many emotions at once. Fury at the douchebag CEO. Hurt for my friends, the famous families. Frustration at a project that I stuffed way too many hopes inside.
And more, so much more that I’m only starting to process.
We’re standing entrenched in Charlie’s main motive for the show. He was using the docuseries to capture evidence of Ernest’s behavior. Charlie is outnumbered on the H.M.C. Philanthropies board, so this was the way he decided to unseat the CEO.
I wish his motive for the show were something else.
Something like he wanted to be the center of attention for once. A star among the gods. Egocentric. Anything that’d make Born into Fame feel long-term and not a blip that’ll end once Charlie claims his prize.
Jesse looks between Oscar, Charlie, and me. He’s tearing off a piece of funnel cake. My brother brought back tubs of carnival food while Charlie and I were at the hospital getting checked out, and he scored long-lasting points with Oscar when he tossed him a bag of kettle corn.
The scent of cotton candy and fried dough surrounds us as I power off the TV. “So you think he’ll be fired for this?” Jesse asks.
“Unequivocally,” Charlie says, eyes still on the black screen. I’m glad he’ll be sacked. Maximoff never should’ve been kicked off to begin with, but I’m processing.
And processing.
“I have a question,” I say what I always say, but this one contains so much more of my personal emotion. So much hurt. Yeah, I’m fucking hurt. I catch Charlie’s yellow-green eyes. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”