Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 38978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
"Well then, you treat this situation like a band-aid and tear it off fast one time. The longer you put it off, the harder it's going to become. Just get out there and get it out of the way once and for all. And son, please remember you did nothing wrong; you have nothing to be ashamed of. There's no reason for you to hide yourself away like this any longer.
Jane says your next premier is three weeks away; that's plenty of time to come up with a strategy. No more hiding away and licking your wounds; my boy is made of sturdier stuff than that." She ruffled my hair like a toddler, Hitler's little henchman. I wanted to argue with her, but what was the point? She would just end up getting her way in the end anyway. For someone who was so tiny compared to the men in the family, she sure knew how to get her way. In fact, that was pretty much true for all the women; they ruled the roost.
"Okay, mom, I'll talk to her, but I'm not making any promises." What? I could always try right.
"That's all I ask, son." She gave me that I'm so proud of you look that was guaranteed to have me doing exactly what she wanted.
Fuck me six ways from Sunday.
I met with Jane for two hours before she headed back to LA. As things stood, I hadn't agreed to anything major as yet. There had been a bit of a rough moment there in the beginning when I wondered how the fuck she could let me get blindsided like that, but she convinced me that from what her people could gather so far, the whole thing had been pretty much on lockdown until the shit exploded. Go figure, the first time in the history of the Wood, someone was able to keep something under wraps, and it just happened to bring about the destruction of my life. Fuck my life. I guess I couldn't blame her this time but there better not be a next time.
She had printouts from every newspaper and rag on the market; we were the headlines and front page on all of them. The fuck? Weren't people getting slaughtered in Syria? How about that Darfur situation fixed that shit yet? No, but these fucks had all kinds of ideas of how I could fix my shit, suck a dick bitches.
When she showed me the one of that fuck Terry Poole strolling down the street wearing his wedding ring without a care in the world, I lost my shit. Oh no, you don't, motherfucker. You fucked my life, and you get to walk down the street with not a care in the world like cock of the block while I hid away in bumfuck U.S.A? I
don't think so. I'm gonna fuck that old douche up; just saying. James was already making noises about putting something together, but he didn't want to jump the gun until he got all his facts straight, so I would wait. But either way, no matter what he found, I’m going after that fuck.
After she left, I spent the rest of the day in the exercise room, working off some steam. I only thought of Suzette about fifty times on the treadmill. I thought about that sweet little ass of hers that I liked to slap every chance I got, or the way we used to laugh in bed at night, or playing tug of war with Rex, shit like that. The happy times we shared with friends and family.
Was it worth hanging onto? I don't know. Could I live with what she'd done? Fuck no, could I give her up? Not in this lifetime.
Fuck me sideways.
CHAPTER 14
"Rack ‘em, Derrick." the guys and I were shooting pool in the game room. The convo was light, thank fuck. We were all about my nephew and his two-year-old antics, things in the family biz, some money talk. If I wanted, I could walk the fuck away from the Wood and live the life of Riley. I had money before I went there, and I would still have it when I left. Let's face it; they would never be able to pay me my net worth to make a movie. By the time I was eighteen, I was halfway to being a billionaire, and that was before I'd ever worked a day in my life. Last year when I turned twenty-five, let's just say I could buy a few small nations and still be set for life, so Hollywood could go fuck itself.
Except I loved the fuck out of acting, it was as if that shit was in my blood or some shit. I just ate that shit up.
My phone rang in the middle of a shot; after sinking the eight ball, I looked at the display screen and didn't recognize the number. I let it go to voicemail. It would be just my luck to answer to the tabs, fucking chicken shit bastards. I hit the replay button for kicks and was surprised as fuck.