Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 61897 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61897 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
I turned and walked into the bathroom, shutting the door and locking it.
I heard something thump against it. “Asshole!” she yelled.
Just another normal morning in my fucked up whirlwind of a life.
“You’re late.”
I frowned at my watch. “Two minutes.”
“Still late.”
“What’d you sleep on, a fucking rock?”
“You know I like to be punctual, Nash.”
I grinned at her. “Yeah, I know that, Livy.”
She sighed and looked down at her phone’s calendar. Livy Green was my publicist and handler, and basically the bane of my fucking existence. If something was fun and felt good, Livy wanted to destroy it with fucking fire. The woman was a professional at keeping me on schedule and keeping me bored out of my fucking mind.
“Look,” she said, “we need to talk.”
“Can we talk on the way?”
She nodded and stalked off. I followed her, my skull pounding. I wasn’t looking forward to another lecture about my “conduct” and my “professionalism,” but it would be over soon enough.
Thing was, I didn’t exactly disagree with her. Yeah, I was partying too much, drinking too much, fucking too much. Yeah, I was enjoying the fucking fruits of my labor. Could anyone blame me? I had a thousand female fans that all wanted a piece of my cock and a thousand dollars in the bank begging to get blown on the next bullshit attraction.
I had just spent the better part of my life in the fucking desert, my balls owned by Uncle Sam. Didn’t the world owe me a tiny bit of fun?
This damn book. Truth was, I didn’t even write the thing. The stories were all more or less accurate, though some of them were fucked up a bit because of security reasons. I’d had a ghostwriter who actually did all the hard work, though. I told him what happened to me, the shit I did out there, and he made me look like some kind of fucking hero.
Which I wasn’t. I was just some asshole with a lot of particular skills that did his job. I wasn’t a hero, never asked to be one.
Didn’t matter anymore, though. Wasn’t like I could somehow go back in time and change things. The book was out, the world was fucking crazy for me, and I was stuck dealing with all the shit. Orders were fucking orders, even if they were some weird fucking orders.
I followed Livy outside. The guy working for the hotel out front wanted to take my bags, but I shrugged him off. I hated being treated like a celebrity. I could carry my own fucking luggage.
Soon we were in the back of a private car and speeding out toward Midway, one of Chicago’s airports.
“I spoke with Chuck this morning,” Livy said.
“Who?” I grunted.
“Chuck Davis. Your publisher.”
“Oh. Okay.” I stared out the window, barely listening.
“He’s the man that owns you now, Nash.”
That got my attention. I looked back at her. “What did you say?”
“Nash, I’ve been warning you for weeks now. I’ve been warning you that your behavior has been deplorable, that you couldn’t keep acting like a drunken idiot all the time.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “What are you getting at?”
“You’re supposed to be the face of this war, Nash. You’re an all-American boy.”
“I never asked for any of that.”
“Too bad,” she said, sighing. “You’re supposed to be a moral, upstanding person.”
“And yet I’m the depraved asshole we both know and love.”
She smiled slightly. Livy wasn’t so bad looking. She was in her mid-thirties, incredibly tightly wound, with dark hair always kept in a bun, thin red lips, and a thin, tall body.
“Yes, exactly,” she said. She paused and sighed again, her smile disappearing. “You’re not going to like this.”
“Just say it, damn it,” I said. “Quit playing around.”
“Do you know what a morality clause is?”
“Not really.”
“It’s a clause in your contract. It basically means you have to be a moral, good person, the kind of hero the American people want and need. Otherwise, you’re in breach.”
“How the fuck can a contract control my actions?” I said, annoyed.
“It can’t. But if Chuck and the board decide that you’re antics are getting out of hand, they can invoke the morality clause and take everything away from you.”
I stared at her for a second as that sank in. “You’re fucking threatening me,” I said slowly.
“I’m not threatening,” she said. “This isn’t coming from me.”
“I know what a threat sounds like.”
She shook her head. “Listen to me, Nash. Threat or no threat, you have to get your shit together. Otherwise, Chuck is going to cut you out of any future deals regarding your book.”
“He can’t do that,” I said. “I’m the damn face of this whole fucking thing.”
“He can and he will.” She paused, looking at her phone again. “They’re optioning the book into a movie, you know. Lots of money you won’t get if you don’t get yourself together.”