Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 111443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Hal snorted derisively and barked orders to a nearby assistant before turning to me. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. How’s our schedule looking?”
Hal did that tight-jaw thing where his chin jutted forward and his nostrils flared. I could practically hear his teeth grinding, a sure indication that he was annoyed as hell with everything and everyone…including me. Maybe especially me.
“Same as I told you last week. We’re finishing up here and heading to Toronto to wrap up on Friday. If I manage not to kill Pierce and hire stuntmen who can handle the fight scenes, we’ll be on track.”
He contorted his craggy features in an intimidating scowl that made me smile. Which, of course, only made him crankier.
Things to know about Hal Brandini:
He was an award-winning film and TV veteran with a gruff exterior who favored pleated khakis and oversized button-down shirts that looked vaguely sloppy yet somehow didn’t diminish his no-BS vibe. He used his famous deadpan stare to cajole his crew into cooperating, but he was good about offsetting his irascible side with an occasional dose of grandfatherly kindness.
Hal had dealt with all kinds of Hollywood prima donnas and tight-fisted producers during his thirty-plus-year career. And he had a stellar reputation for getting things done…and done well. Which was why I’d hired him.
Yep, I was the big boss here. The executive producer, sole proprietor, and chief executive officer of Rourke Studios. Everyone here worked for me…including Hal.
But unlike my director, I didn’t use strong-arm tactics to get my way.
I smiled. A lot.
That saying about getting more flies with honey than vinegar was true—be nice, play nice…then strike like a viper when the time was right.
Watch the master at work…
“Excellent. Five days in Toronto?”
“Ten days.”
“Hmm. Well, I’ve been thinking about London,” I continued conversationally.
“I know you have. I heard you got the permits to film by the Thames, but we don’t need those shots, and we don’t have the time anyway.”
“How much more time would you need?”
Hal rubbed his longish gray beard thoughtfully. “Another week.”
“For six hours’ worth of filming? Nah, we can do it in less,” I countered with a grin. “We don’t need Pierce for what I’m talking about. Just his double and a skeleton crew.”
Hal clicked his jaw, a sure sign he was losing patience. Of course, that made me smile a little wider.
Another thing to know about me…I’m kind of an asshole.
“There’s no such thing as a skeleton crew in this franchise, Seb. Every fucking scene requires a fucking circus. This is the scene where the bad dudes set Baxter up to meet his demise in an abandoned paper factory. That’s two actors and two stuntmen to film a two-minute fight. Christ, look at all these people.” Hal flung his pudgy arms wide, nearly taking out a cameraman.
“I know how it works,” I singsonged.
“And you still like to push the envelope and ask for the impossible.”
My smile brightened. “Nothing is impossible, Hal.”
He sighed in exasperation. “We can replicate the sites we need in LA, save time, money, and a big fuckin’ headache. And best of all, avoid a long fucking flight and avoid fucking with the schedule.”
“I’m loving your enthusiasm and that ‘can do’ attitude!”
That earned me a super scowl. When I waggled my brows, Hal shook his head in defeat and turned to hide a ghost of a grin. “You’re a piece of work, Rourke.”
“Thank you.”
“Hmph. What’s your sudden hard-on for London anyway?”
“I was hoping you’d ask!” I rubbed my hands gleefully and strode toward the stage where an assistant was still talking with the newly fired stunt double. “I just read the script for the next installment, and check this out—we’re going all James Bond on this one. Slick Aston Martins, stately homes in the country, Burberry wellies, and a dog named Pippa, or something like that. There’s murder on the Tube, missing jewels, and a downtown car chase around that big building shaped like a giant dildo with—”
“That’s not possible, mate,” the stuntman intercepted, rubbing his neck.
I frowned at the interruption, but I was a sucker for a sexy British accent. I didn’t remember hearing one when he first spoke. Maybe he’d been playing in character. I squinted as if that might help me see him more clearly when he lowered his head to rub his neck. His features were hidden, but he had a strong, foreboding profile. Perfect choice for the villain’s double. Or he would’ve been if he hadn’t blown his shot.
“Gotta have a car chase…mate,” I replied, pulling my buzzing cell from my pocket.
“Not around the Gherkin. Traffic is bananas. All day. You can sit behind a double-decker bus blastin’ your bloody horn, gettin’ nowhere fast.” Mr. Stuntman shrugged off his black leather jacket and draped it over his arm before meeting my gaze with a cocky grin. “I’m sure your writers know that, though.”