in its usual spot, the night guard inclines
his head, giving me a polite and goddamn knowing smile.
“Have a wonderful evening, Mr. Wolfe.”
Yeah, real wonderful.
***
I’ve always been a fan of early mornings—the
workout and long shower and writing—so I’m wide awake, playing my
guitar, when my assistant shuffles into my music room a few minutes
after eight the next day. She slams a few plastic bags down on the
carpeted floor, cursing and barely missing a signed guitar that
cost more than her yearly salary. My eyebrow shoots up, but I don’t
stop strumming.
“I’ve got a punching bag downstairs,” I
suggest. “I’d rather you beat the shit out of it before you wreck
my house.”
She gives me a dark look before she begins to
dig through the bags, looking for something. “Go screw yourself,
Lucas.”
“Not very sisterly.” Sitting the Les Paul to
the side, I lean back in my leather chair—so far that the front
legs come off the floor—and glance across the room at my younger
sister. Red faced, with black and blue hair, Kylie looks like shit.
When I tell her this, she shoots snorts.
“Thanks for the compliment.” She finally
finds what she’s been searching for and comes over, plunks a
rectangular pink cardboard box on the music bench a few feet away
from me and gestures to it grandly, blowing strands of hair out of
her eyes. “I brought you breakfast. Enjoy.”
“Donuts,” I reply sarcastically. “Yum.”
She sits on the bench, throwing open the box
and digging in. “You don’t have to be a dick all the time. Or such
a picky eater.”
Now I snort. “Says the picky girl who won’t
even touch cheese.”
Kylie ignores me, focusing instead on the
schedule for today. “You’ve got the shoot at”—she rolls her dark
eyes, drags out her iPhone, and punches the screen a few
times—“10:30. Three or four days . . . as long as everyone
cooperates.”
Meaning Sinjin’s not messed up out of his
mind and Wyatt’s not fucking everything on set with a pussy. I nod,
suddenly aware that this shoot’ll probably take a good week or two
just because my band can’t get their shit together long enough to
make a decent video.
I clench my fist for a moment, before
shutting the notebook I’d been working in before my sister showed
up. Sensing my irritation, Kylie gives me a forced smile and pats
my hand. Hers are sticky with donut icing, and my mouth drags into
a frown.
“I’m sure it won’t be too bad.” But even as
she tries to cheer me up, it’s easy to see that she’s still
agitated. I wipe the back of my hand on the inside of my shirt and
cast her the most pleasant look I can muster.
“You remember the last shoot, right?”
Kylie cringes but recovers fast. “I’ve heard
they got a pretty actress for you to pretend sleep with.” Her voice
takes on that high-pitched tone people use to lure their kids to
the dentist.
“I’m jumping for fucking joy.”
“God, you suck. Too bad they can’t get a body
double for you,” she says, reaching out to wipe her own hands down
the front of my shirt. A low growl releases from the back of my
throat and she looks up into my eyes, laughing—a genuine one. Then,
Kylie stands, digging in her giant bag as she walks to the door.
“Going to drop your laundry off at the cleaner and pick up your
lame-ass groceries.”
“Could you possibly sound any more miserable
about that?” I ask.
She spins and grins widely, a cigarette
dangling from the corner of her lips. Oh yeah, she’s pissed—she
hasn’t touched one in months. “Give me a raise and I’ll sound as
cheerful as you want.”
I don’t remind her that she makes twenty
bucks an hour because all she’ll do is give me shit and a million
reasons why she deserves more.
When she comes back with bags of groceries
and a dry cleaning receipt an hour later, I’m dressed. She looks
less irritated than she did this morning, so I don’t bring it up as
she drives me to the set where day one of
his head, giving me a polite and goddamn knowing smile.
“Have a wonderful evening, Mr. Wolfe.”
Yeah, real wonderful.
***
I’ve always been a fan of early mornings—the
workout and long shower and writing—so I’m wide awake, playing my
guitar, when my assistant shuffles into my music room a few minutes
after eight the next day. She slams a few plastic bags down on the
carpeted floor, cursing and barely missing a signed guitar that
cost more than her yearly salary. My eyebrow shoots up, but I don’t
stop strumming.
“I’ve got a punching bag downstairs,” I
suggest. “I’d rather you beat the shit out of it before you wreck
my house.”
She gives me a dark look before she begins to
dig through the bags, looking for something. “Go screw yourself,
Lucas.”
“Not very sisterly.” Sitting the Les Paul to
the side, I lean back in my leather chair—so far that the front
legs come off the floor—and glance across the room at my younger
sister. Red faced, with black and blue hair, Kylie looks like shit.
When I tell her this, she shoots snorts.
“Thanks for the compliment.” She finally
finds what she’s been searching for and comes over, plunks a
rectangular pink cardboard box on the music bench a few feet away
from me and gestures to it grandly, blowing strands of hair out of
her eyes. “I brought you breakfast. Enjoy.”
“Donuts,” I reply sarcastically. “Yum.”
She sits on the bench, throwing open the box
and digging in. “You don’t have to be a dick all the time. Or such
a picky eater.”
Now I snort. “Says the picky girl who won’t
even touch cheese.”
Kylie ignores me, focusing instead on the
schedule for today. “You’ve got the shoot at”—she rolls her dark
eyes, drags out her iPhone, and punches the screen a few
times—“10:30. Three or four days . . . as long as everyone
cooperates.”
Meaning Sinjin’s not messed up out of his
mind and Wyatt’s not fucking everything on set with a pussy. I nod,
suddenly aware that this shoot’ll probably take a good week or two
just because my band can’t get their shit together long enough to
make a decent video.
I clench my fist for a moment, before
shutting the notebook I’d been working in before my sister showed
up. Sensing my irritation, Kylie gives me a forced smile and pats
my hand. Hers are sticky with donut icing, and my mouth drags into
a frown.
“I’m sure it won’t be too bad.” But even as
she tries to cheer me up, it’s easy to see that she’s still
agitated. I wipe the back of my hand on the inside of my shirt and
cast her the most pleasant look I can muster.
“You remember the last shoot, right?”
Kylie cringes but recovers fast. “I’ve heard
they got a pretty actress for you to pretend sleep with.” Her voice
takes on that high-pitched tone people use to lure their kids to
the dentist.
“I’m jumping for fucking joy.”
“God, you suck. Too bad they can’t get a body
double for you,” she says, reaching out to wipe her own hands down
the front of my shirt. A low growl releases from the back of my
throat and she looks up into my eyes, laughing—a genuine one. Then,
Kylie stands, digging in her giant bag as she walks to the door.
“Going to drop your laundry off at the cleaner and pick up your
lame-ass groceries.”
“Could you possibly sound any more miserable
about that?” I ask.
She spins and grins widely, a cigarette
dangling from the corner of her lips. Oh yeah, she’s pissed—she
hasn’t touched one in months. “Give me a raise and I’ll sound as
cheerful as you want.”
I don’t remind her that she makes twenty
bucks an hour because all she’ll do is give me shit and a million
reasons why she deserves more.
When she comes back with bags of groceries
and a dry cleaning receipt an hour later, I’m dressed. She looks
less irritated than she did this morning, so I don’t bring it up as
she drives me to the set where day one of
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