Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
My shirt catches on something sharp.
I’m stopped, unable to move. I try to twist around, then am devastated to hear my shirt rip. Fuck, this is my favorite polo! Though I’m on the verge of outgrowing it—a total gym-gains-showoff situation whenever I wear it—I wasn’t willing to give it up. Guess I have a theme in my life of not letting things go when I ought to.
When I try to twist the other way, it rips even worse. I push open the door to try and get free, but the back of my shirt is still caught somehow. Is there a huge splinter in the doorframe? A loose nail? Shard of glass I can’t see?
I pull away with more force, growing desperate.
The shirt rips in half and peels straight off my left arm.
“You kidding me??” I blurt out.
Even half-torn off, the shirt keeps me attached to the wall with no chance of breaking free. Trapped as I am in the remaining half of this tight shirt, I still can’t identify what’s got a hold of it, unable to turn around fully. I try to turn one way, the fabric grows even tighter. Turn the other, I hear threads snapping and popping despite themselves.
Heavy footsteps shake the floorboards.
I look, alarmed.
Standing in the archway, a handsome naked man with a sea-green towel around his waist, water dripping down his chest, eyebrows lifted as he stares at me in surprise.
Definitely not DiCaprio.
Chapter 3 - River
Well, that’s one way to do it.
Honestly, my very first guess upon seeing this college-gymnast-built cutie whose shirt is already half-ripped off is that apparently my only pal on this island, Welcome Basket Brooke as I call her, just sent over a gigolo to entertain me.
Talk about five-star service.
Definitely not mentioned in the comments section.
Then I remember I expressly stated I wanted minimal contact. None, in fact. Total and complete solitude.
So who the hot fuck is this guy?
Upon seeing me, he abruptly stands up straight like a bee just stung his ass. His shirt tears more. “Uh, hello.” He lifts a hand to wave, then puts it right back down. “Sorry for the—”
His foot slips.
As he falls to the floor, the rest of the shirt tears clean off of his body, leaving him exposed as he lands hard with a comical squeak from his throat.
This isn’t a gigolo.
Gigolos don’t apologize.
And aren’t this fucking clumsy.
He’s a psycho fan, reporter, or streamer who followed me here. He’s shooting a viral video. Spinning an article. Wanting to be the one who caught the runaway actor. And he had the gall to let himself in like he owns the place.
Or wait. Did I forget to lock the back door?
He looks up from the floor, face flushed. “Sorry again. I …” He slowly rises to a kneeling position, then inspects his hands. “Well, this is embarrassing …”
I should’ve known better. My agent always insists I go nowhere without a bodyguard. Or at the very least a dutiful assistant to be a second pair of eyes. But I flew solo. Went rogue. Left myself vulnerable to the weirdos of the world.
And what do I do now? Embrace it? Fight it? Laugh until tears are pouring down my face? I can do that, by the way. On cue. I had to back when I used to actually audition for things. Landed me countless roles.
But tears will land me nothing in this moment.
So I decide to play the role of a man you don’t fuck with. “Who the hell are you?”
He meets my eyes, startled by my tone. “Finn. I’m—”
“With what news outlet?” I press on, taking a step into the kitchen. “Which publication? What site? You realize I could have the cops here in twenty seconds.”
His eyebrows twist up. “Huh?”
Lying my ass off. I would never call the cops. Then the whole world will know where I am, and what was the point of all of this? “My bodyguard is armed,” I go on. “He’s just outside the door, you must’ve barely missed him. I pay him very well, too, well enough to shoot you in the … the butt.” I’d never do that either. This is my worst performance. I’m such a hack. “And what were you hoping to accomplish, breaking in like this? Snap a shot of me fresh out of the shower? Are you some kinda sicko perv?”
So many different, contrasting emotions flutter over his clueless face—this Finn guy’s face. “No! I’m not—”
“Well, I hope you got your story. Here I am. Found the hole-in-the-wall I’m hiding in.”
Now his face twists. “Hole in the wall?”
“Wanna snap a shot? Entice your followers? Get your fifteen minutes?” I come up to the door and yank it open all the way, then gesture out of it. “Get out of here before I sic my bodyguard on you. Famous people are still real people, y’know. Actual human beings who deserve privacy.”