Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 72945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
I slowly lower my phone.
“What?” Baptist asks.
“He’s giving me the script. I think this movie is real.”
He stares at me and I stare back, and we both burst out laughing at the absurdity of it all.
Chapter 19
Blair
I stretch and yawn and wake to the early morning light streaming in through the living room window.
I blink a few times, confused. Lines of dialogue jumble through my brain like two cats fighting. Cowan had shown up the evening before as promised, an hour later than he said he would, but still, and given me the script. It was typed in the proper format, but there were hand-written notes all over the place. “I have one copy, suit, so don’t fuck this up,” he’d said before storming off.
One copy. One script.
There’s a goddamn movie.
It took me an hour to figure out his awful handwriting, and another few hours to go through it a few times. I must’ve fallen asleep mid-read, because I don’t remember consciously choosing to go to bed, and I’m still in my clothes from the day before.
I stink like body odor, sex, and old booze.
This all seems like a dream. For weeks, I’ve been thinking this Cowan thing might be a scam the old director’s pulling to make a quick buck. The crazy errands, the Roman mask, the shotguns, the addict lead actor, all of it screamed of some soap opera trash, but now it’s all beginning to come together.
Because of the script.
There’s a story. An actual story in three acts, with characters, and events, and emotions. I pat around the couch, looking for the script, but don’t find it. I check the floor, and it’s not there.
Panic sets in.
“Oh, fuck,” I say, leaping to my feet.
That’s the only copy. He made that extremely clear, and now it’s gone. How is this happening? I look all over the living room, rip apart the couch, under the coffee table, behind the TV, everywhere. I scour the kitchen, the bathroom, absolutely freaking out, heart racing, barely able to think. If I ruined this all because I lost the fucking script—
Finally, I knock on my bedroom door, and pull it open.
Max is sitting up in bed with the script in his lap, squinting at one of the last pages with a big frown on his lips.
A huge sigh of relief rips itself from my throat.
“Hey,” he says, not looking up. “I found this on the floor next to you. Is this the movie you’re working on?”
I walk over and sit on the end of the bed. “Cowan gave it to me.”
“Tony Cowan wrote this?” He frowns and looks up at me. “Really?”
“Really.” I hesitate, embarrassed and afraid, but I ask anyway. “What do you think?”
He lowers the script and looks me in the eye. “Honestly?”
“Yes. Honestly.”
“Blair, this is a piece of shit.”
I groan and lean forward, putting my face in my hands. “I know.”
“Seriously. It makes no sense. The handwritten notes are a nightmare. The characters are insane. There’s a story but it barely hangs together. Are you sure Tony Cowan wrote it?”
“That’s what he says.” I can’t look at my little brother. I know this is the opinion of a single high school boy, but Max is smart, and plus—he’s totally right.
I read the damn thing, and it’s a piece of hot garbage.
“Wow. Huh. Okay. I mean, maybe it’ll be better as a movie.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “Can I finish it?”
“Don’t bother. They all die.”
He laughs once. “That’s so dumb.”
“I know.” I hold my hand out. “But that’s the only copy.”
He hands it over, a mystified look on his face. “I love Cowan’s movies. How the hell did he write this?”
“I really don’t know.” I tuck the stack of papers under my arm and stand. “But I have to talk to Baptist.”
“Right, yeah, totally. You’d better tell him the script is terrible. Maybe you can get a better writer to fix it?”
“Cowan would rather murder me in the middle of Rittenhouse Park than let someone touch this.”
“You should let him. Might be better than putting that thing out into the world.”
I laughs because there’s nothing else I can do. I’m exhausted, stressed, and now I feel like I’ve been thrown into a pit. This script is the grave dirt showering down on my face, burrowing into my mouth and throat, burying me alive.
I head over to the coffee shop and sit at the usual table. Zoe brings me a coffee with a warm smile. “How’s it going? You guys haven’t been around much.”
“Everything’s fine,” I say and force myself to grin back. “Just been busy with the movie.”
“Yeah? It’s moving along?”
“Hopefully.”
“Well, let me know if you need anything.” She heads back behind the counter and I’m left alone to sulk.
What am I going to tell Baptist? I shoot him a quick text tell him to meet me at the usual spot before slipping through the script again. The more I look at it, the harder it is to believe Cowan wrote the thing. For starters, there’s no cover page and no name on it anywhere, and the paper looks like it’s starting to yellow from age. The notes in the margins are definitely Cowan’s handwriting—I’ve seen enough examples of that on contracts to recognize the ugly scrawl—but the typewritten bits could be anyone.