Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 93583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
“I actually don’t have an assistant. Like I said, it’s just you and me,” he says, and I look over at him. With us outside and him facing the ocean, the sun hits his eyes, making them bluer than they were yesterday. The scruff on his face makes him that much more of a heartthrob.
“What do you mean you don’t have an assistant?” I ask him, confused by this.
“I mean, I don’t have an assistant,” he says, his voice husky as he drinks another sip of coffee.
“But how do you manage?” I ask him. “You are very busy, and there is so much to do.”
He pulls his phone out of his pocket. “This has a calendar, and if you enter your schedule in it, it tells you where you have to be.”
“I know what it does,” I tell him, “but how does it get on your calendar?”
“Jeff gets all the contracts, and his secretary puts it all in there. I don’t know how it happens, but it just tells me where to be and when to be there.” He pulls up his calendar. “See, this afternoon I have a photoshoot here. Then tonight I have a nothing and then tomorrow I have . . .”
I put up my hand to stop him from talking. “I get it. I just figured you would have someone who comes in and makes sure you do all that.”
He puts his phone on the table. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.” I turn and look at him. “I’ve never not shown up for a meeting. I’ve never shown up on set drunk or high. Fuck, I’ve never, ever even been late. I’m professional when I have to be, and then at night, I want to just be me, and if that is what gets splashed across the tabloids, then I can’t really prevent that.”
“So the me you want to be—and the one you want the rest of the world to know—is the one who goes home with a different girl every night?” I ask him, and I don’t know why the question bothers me.
“What difference does it make if I fuck two different girls in the same night? We are all consenting adults. It has nothing to do with how I work or the work that I produce,” he says, and his flippant attitude just makes me sick to my stomach. I knew he got around, but he isn’t even ashamed to flaunt it. “For the next couple of months, I just have to be on the down low. It’s in my contract now, so I have to sprout fucking angel wings, or at least somehow cover up my devil horns, and keep all my dirty little sins out of the tabs,” he sighs. “I’m going to do what I need to do in order to make the film a success, but in no fucking way am I going to change who I am.”
I put my hands on the table. “And who exactly are you?” I ask him, and I know right then the real Carter is gone. The Carter who answered the door with the smile on his face and the softness in his eyes is gone, and now I’m playing with Carter, the actor.
“I’m exactly who the Hollywood bigwigs pay me to be,” he says and then drinks the last of his coffee. “I’m going to grab another cup. Do you want anything?” He pushes away from the table, and I shake my head. When I got here and saw him at the door, I was scared that I was in over my head, but now, with this Carter, I know I’m going to do my job, do it better than I’ve ever done it before, and I know, in the end, that nothing is going to change him.
Chapter Five
Carter
I walk into the house, squeezing the mug so hard. Her question still plays in my head. Who are you? I shake my head, not ready to answer that question. I’m a guy living his best life, and that is what I’m going to give her. I grab another cup of coffee and watch her from the kitchen. I see her open the folder and flip through some papers.
When I walk out and sit next to her, I notice the change in her right away. She isn’t the same girl who asked me that question. I can see it right away with her eyes.
“So let’s talk about your social media presence,” she starts off, moving papers in front of me. “This is your Instagram. These shots are okay, but I want to create that boy-next-door image for you.”
“I’m so far removed from the boy-next-door persona,” I tell her.
“Trust me, I know, but since they are paying you to be that, you need to pretend you’re the boy next door.” She throws my comment back in my face, and I don’t say anything. “Take a picture of you taking a run. Take a picture of you pretending to be anything and everything that you are not. Treat it like a movie role if that’s what it takes.”