Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 104919 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 525(@200wpm)___ 420(@250wpm)___ 350(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104919 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 525(@200wpm)___ 420(@250wpm)___ 350(@300wpm)
Because I was practiced at this game, I didn’t give any inclination that the mere mention of that name forced bile up my throat. I kept that placid, superior smile firmly in place and regarded this woman a little more closely.
Not mousy at all.
Someone was looking to make their career. Make a reputation for herself. She’d certainly done her research. All of the barbed comments snuck through my barriers and drew blood.
I smiled at her, more genuine now. Impressed. Women had a unique talent to injure other women by poking at wounds men had created.
“Revenge?” I repeated with a chuckle. “No, I do not waste time or energy on revenge.” I paused, not moving my eyes. “On men, at least. It’s in their nature to betray. Not that I accept that, but at least it’s not to be expected. Women who betray women on the other hand, I would consider worthy of revenge. Even in the town where half the female population have scars from the heels of their sisters using them as footstools to further themselves.” I purposefully crossed my legs, showing off the sharp point of my Louboutin’s. “I’d be sure to remember that, if I were you.”
She blinked at me. Once. Twice. The feline disappeared. The mouse returned. Once again, I’d made an enemy. One I’d hopefully scared enough to put off trying to cross me. Because I did not do idle threats.
I did not get my cheese or my multiple martinis that night.
No.
I did get to witness a murder though, and that caused me to forget about everything but the way the blood spattered from the man’s head when the back of it was blown off.
I’d been casually dating him, which I guessed made witnessing his murder that much worse.
Salvador Esposito. He was a rich Italian who was as shady as they came but he was nice-looking and gave great head. He also didn’t give a fuck about who I was or how rich I was. He didn’t really give a fuck about me at all, which was great because the feeling was mutual.
Since the broken engagement and heartbreak fiasco, I’d made a vow not to become that cliché woman again. You know, the heartbroken, pathetic woman that latched on to the boring, safe accountant just so she’d have someone to sleep next to.
No, I hated sleeping in the same bed with anyone. I chose to have sex like a man. No connections, no sleepovers, no cuddling. I’d been doing extremely well at this, and Salvador had seemed to revel in the fact he’d found a woman he didn’t have to woo. We’d only been screwing for a couple months, and I could honestly say I knew nothing about the man that did not pertain to the size of his dick or the way he used it.
Still, I didn’t want to see him get his head blown off.
I’d played in a lot of scenes where someone was murdered.
Died in plenty more at the beginning of my career when I was the hot girl destined to be murdered in the first ten minutes.
None of that was like the real thing.
Obviously.
Death had a smell, a feeling, a silence.
It was ugly, rancid and terrifying.
Terrifying, because I witnessed it and the man holding the gun doing the murdering was vaguely familiar. I’d seen his photo in many newspaper headlines—I still bought the dying medium—and he was well known in Hollywood. Shit, I think I’d been introduced to him at a save the animals, or save the oceans charity benefit.
His name escaped me, which I didn’t think would be the social faux pas it normally would considering he’d likely murder me too if he saw I was there. Tucked behind a bookshelf that was sparse thanks to some asshole interior designer obsessed with minimalism. If he looked up and to his right, he’d see me and I’d be dead. Everything inside me that wasn’t urging me to throw up—luckily my stomach was empty—was screaming at me to run.
But if I moved, if I breathed too loud, it would call attention to me. He was in front of me, in front of my only means to escape. So I had to somehow leave it up to fate if he would see me and kill me.
It wasn’t fate that got me here, it was my anger. That little bitch reporter had gotten far deeper under my skin than she should’ve. It was common knowledge in Hollywood that mentioning Kieran in an interview was a sure-fire way to get fired. Our relationship had been public, all-encompassing and for a time, we’d been the darlings of Hollywood and the world. People had been obsessed with our fairy-tale romance. Our careers skyrocketed. There wasn’t a day that went by that we weren’t headlines. But it was not the reason for our engagement—not for me at least.