I try not to smile. “I know, I tried to ice it, but—” I just shrug and glance at the mirror behind the bottles. I look back at myself, eye swollen and purple, lip slightly plump, like he’d bitten me too hard. I push that thought away. I doubt he’ll ever bite me again, even if my body aches for his hands on my skin and his lips against my throat.
His touch, his kiss, owning me.
“I’m sorry.” He nods his head toward the stool next to him. “If you want to sit, go ahead. I’m not staying long.”
I pull it out and sit. “You okay? Where are you going?”
“I’m fine. Just doing some thinking.” He sips his whiskey and stares at the liquid as he sloshes it around the glass. “Before you ask, no, I’m not drunk. Not yet. This is my first. And I don’t know where I’m going. Somewhere that isn’t here.”
My stomach twists with confusion and a bone-deep exhaustion. “I wasn’t going to ask.”
He shrugs as if he doesn’t care either way. The bartender comes over and asks if I want anything and I tell him just a soda water with lime. He brings it and I sip as Baptist studies me.
“I spoke with Cowan yesterday,” he says finally, breaking the silence I’m too weak to break myself. I should blurt the truth out before I lose my nerve but I can’t seem to make it happen.
“I guess he’s not dead since you’re not in jail.”
“Unfortunately, no, he’s still among the living. But he told me why he’s been doing all this. You know, the thinly veiled psychological torture.”
I perk up slightly, eyebrows raised. “Really? And what happened?”
“I’m not sure I believe him, if I’m honest.” He hesitates and shakes his head. “He says it was all revenge. That he got into some petty bullshit dispute with my father years and years ago back when he was first starting out, and now he’s taking it out on me. Or I guess he took it out, since it seems like we’re finished with the guy.”
I take a deep breath and—stop myself.
“Wait, he told youwhat?”
He sips his whiskey. “I know, it’s implausible, right? I mean, how did Cowan and my father even know each other? And why didn’t my father ever mention that he once knew an incredibly famous and successful director? You never met my dad, but that wasexactlythe sort of thing he’d talk about all the time—he’d bring out the story about how he ripped off Tony Cowan at parties any chance he could.”
“No, hold on,” I say quickly and he frowns at me curiously. “I mean, I talked to Cowan after you left the hotel, when everything happened.”
He grimaces. “I’m sure you did. That wasn’t my best moment.”
“Wait, listen. He told me something totally different.”
His eyebrows slowly raise and he takes another long drink. “What did the fucker say?”
“He told me that everything he did was because he’s been filming us like we’re in a reality TV show or whatever. That the movie was never about the script or Rodrick or whatever, but it was always about me and you. Like we were his stars, but we didn’t know it.”
He lets that sink in for a long moment before he bursts out laughing. I smile awkwardly, not sure how to react, but I can completely understand why he’d think this is funny—or at least why he’d be so fucking flustered and confused that he’d laugh. Slowly, he gets himself under control, shaking his head.
“Of course he told us two completely different stories, and now we get to try to figure out which one is true. And you know what? They’re probably both wrong. Or maybe they’re both right. I’m sick of playing his game and I don’t care anymore. I’m finished with worrying about what Cowan thinks or wants.”
I chew on my lip and run my finger down the side of my glass. It’s wet and cold and bubbles rush to the top. “I don’t know. The story he told you seems beneath even him, and he’s pretty damn petty. But can’t you see him doing something like secretly recording us as he throws us into insane and uncomfortable situations?” I don’t mention that he implied setting up the entire thing, start to finish. The ramifications of that are a little too uncomfortable to consider.
“It does sound like film student bullshit, and Cowan does love him some art house nonsense, but come on. If any of that’s true, don’t you think we would’ve seen cameras at some point? He’s clever but he’s not omniscient. He couldn’t have predicted how we’d react to everything, much less fake some of that stuff. Like this alleged aunt and her shotgun, those bullets were real. You felt it.”
“You’re right, it felt real, but still. It’s possible if he was careful and he had a really good team around him that we don’t know about. Heck, he could be filming us right now.”
His eyebrows raise as he holds up his glass. “Well then, here’s to Tony Cowan, the most brilliant piece of shit in the world.” He drinks and watches me, face slowly falling. “It doesn’t really matter which story is true though, does it?”
I return his gaze. “No, it doesn’t.”
“We’re done with him.”
“Yes, we are.”
He pauses for a long beat before he lets out a slow sigh. “Which means we’re done with the production company. It’s over, Webb.”