Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
“Ms. Falcon?” A light tap on her door is barely heard over Amy crooning about rehab. This is a prime example of how incompetent her security team is.
“I’m fine,” she screams.
“I’ll meet you downstairs.” Not waiting for her to respond, just walk out of the room. I can feel her angry vibe as I shut the door.
The moron from earlier stands looking confused. He can’t be full time, he must be filling in because no one can be this stupid. He moves as I pass, taking in my surrounding as I pull out my pack of cigarettes and light up before I go down the old wooden staircase.
“Ms. Falcon doesn’t like smoking in the house,” the idiot calls out as I cock my head at him and inhale.
“I’m not staying long.” My eyes narrow, almost daring him to say anything more as I start down the stairs, looking around at her place.
Polar opposite of mine, but I dig it, the old wooden steps creaking as my boots descend. Taking in her art, she seems to favor bright watercolors and charcoals. Her walls are a burnt yellow, and there’s no pictures of her, or the band, anywhere.
Interesting.
Somehow I envisioned neon lights pointing to her platinum albums and life-size photos of herself.
I turn right and make my way into what might be a better kitchen than my own.
She has a black La CornuFé stove, with dark blue Spanish tiles, ornate black cabinets giving it a rather elegant feel.
A large island with a sink and massive counter space makes me almost want to check her refrigerator to see what’s in it. I’m not one to brag, but I’m a killer chef—besides the guitar and sex, it’s one of the best things I can do.
It calms me, centers me, when everything starts to get wild, and the mayhem of being me starts to be too much, I’ll just cook.
I take a deep inhale. I’d love to make us dinner on this stove. It’s gleaming as if it’s never been used.
But me doing something so intimate would send the wrong message.
“If you’re gonna smoke, I’ll join you.” A woman’s voice makes me look over. And again, I’m ready to fire the security. Do they just let anyone in and not inform her?
“Who are you?” Watching her cross her long legs that are adorned in heels. She has black hair cut in a bob with bangs, and absurdly large, fake red lips.
“I’m Rachel.” She pulls out a cigarette and looks at me as if I’m going to be a gentleman and light it.
Mistake one, I’m not, and there’s something about this woman that’s already putting a bad taste in my mouth. Maybe it’s just the entitled air she has about her as she purses her duck lips and dramatically looks for a lighter as I lean against the end of the island.
“Ms. Falcon doesn’t like smoking in her house.” I grin and exhale, repeating what the moron said. Her eyes narrow, as if she’s surprised at me.
“Well, as her publicist, I’m allowed. So, you can stop looking like you want to put a gun to my head.” She laughs.
Yeah, I don’t like her.
“How long have you been here?” I stare at her. She’s got to be in her forties, but with plastic surgeries these days, it’s hard to tell, except that everything on her is smooth and tight, so she might be in her fifties.
“Long enough. I didn’t want to disturb anyone since Courtney sounded like she was enjoying herself…” Her eyes trail up and down my body.
“Well, Rachel, I’m gonna order a pizza, will you be joining us?” Pulling out my phone,
I ignore her.
“Oh, I don’t eat pizza anymore, but I do need to go over everything about you and Courtney. I mean, with you two fucking, the tabloids are going to be frothing at—” My eyes look up.
“Excuse me?”
“Yes?” She inhales so deeply, smoke escapes out through her nose.
“That’s a private matter. I’ll let you know when that concerns you.” I go back to ordering the pizza.
I have no idea what Courtney likes and right now, I don’t care. I’m just ordering what I like, she’ll have to adjust.
“Oh, Ammo, you’re not one of those who actually thinks he can have a private life, are you?” She stands and moves closer to me, her overpowering perfume making me take another drag of my cigarette to drown it out. Another strike against this woman. I mean, I know everyone recognizes me, but it’s a huge pet peeve of mine to talk to me like we know each other, unless we really do.
“Do I know you?”
My voice makes her eyes narrow at me this time, but she smiles and inhales before she says. “Yes. In New York, Dan Evans was having a party.” She finishes by exhaling her smoke in my face.