I come around a corner and stop dead at the doorway.
The sitting room is packed with books. There are books piled taller than me all over the place, and the room is filled with dust and little specks of torn paper. Baptist is standing nearby, grinning wildly, and an older white man with gray hair and a stubbly gray beard is next to him, aiming a shotgun at something.
“I’ve got the bastard now!” the old man growls and fires.
I scream and cover my ears, and both men turn around.
“Easy,” Baptist says, grabbing the shotgun barrel and yanking it upwards. The old man grumbles, but he relinquishes the gun without protest. I stare at them in disbelief until understanding hits me.
The old man is Tony Cowan.
“Blair Webb, this is Tony.” Baptist gestures at the old director. “He was trying to kill a raccoon that got in through the back.”
“There are dozens of them living in this ramshackle nightmare of a place I call my home,” Cowan says, grinning at me manically. “I apologize for scaring you, young lady.” He walks over and shakes my hand, bowing obscenely.
I stand and gape, not sure what to say.
On the one hand, yes, this is my cinematic hero. On the other, the fucking psychopath is trying to shoot a raccoon with a shotgunin his own house.
“Nice to meet you too,” I finally say, and the father of my baby laughs.
Chapter3
Baptist
Ilaugh because if I don’t, I’m pretty sure Blair is going to collapse here and now.
She’s pale, trembling slightly, and looking at Cowan like he’s both her hero and the nightmare bizarro-version of her hero.
“Come, you two,” Cowan says, striding away toward the back of the room. “Let’s escape this animal-ridden wasteland. Too many damn books in here. It masks the mice, and the raccoons hunt the mice, and it’s a vicious cycle because I won’t get rid of a single volume.”
“Do raccoons hunt mice?” I ask Blair quietly.
She shakes her head, looking dumbfounded. “You still have the gun.”
I look at the shotgun in my hands and sigh. “Better me than him.”
She smiles slightly at that.
I ditch the gun as Cowan leads us onto a back solarium. It’s filled with plants and Victorian fainting couches, but at least there aren’t any actual animals. Cowan putters around, watering the flowers, and Blair takes a seat.
I remain standing, doing my best not to stare at my partner.
It’s hard not to stare at her.
She glows. It’s strange and cliché—but it’s the truth. It’s like she’s always there in the corner of my eye, glowing, drawing my attention, and when she’s around, it’s like the sun’s staring at me in the face. I can’t stop thinking about her, not ever since the wedding when I let myself lose control.
Which was a mistake I won’t ever make again.
“You two want to make my movie,” Cowan says finally.
“We do, yes,” Blair answers. “Baptist says the script is amazing.”
“Script?” Cowan frowns at me then waves a hand. “Yes, that script, no, we aren’t making that film. Fuck that film. That film was trash. No, I have a much better idea, the sort of transgressive idea that will either make or break us. Are you two cowards?”
I glance at Blair. This is very bad. “No, we aren’t,” I say and she shakes her head, not looking very sure.
“Good,” Cowan barks and points a finger at me. “I am working with you—” He points his finger at Blair. “—And you because I am sick of big studios.Fuckbig studios. They are pathetic, weaselly little cowards that only care about profit.”