Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 125248 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125248 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
“Their plane landed an hour ago,” Wes muttered while quickly swiping across his screen. “They’ll be here first thing in the morning.”
Law leaned against the table. “Relax, HOS. These guys will be worth the wait and the money.”
Cassidy narrowed his eyes.
They better fuckin’ be.
By the time Cassidy got home, it was after two in the morning.
At least tomorrow would be lighter.
Xander would be home, heavily guarded, and the studio lot would mostly be crew personnel instead of swarming fans, media, and publicity leeches.
All he had to focus on was meeting Wes and Law’s East Coast cowboys.
His house sat tucked high in the Hollywood Hills behind gates and heavy trees, modern but understated compared to the grotesque mansions most executives and actors wasted money on.
He preferred modesty and privacy over spectacle.
The interior was quiet and still with the lights already dimmed, just the way he liked it.
He shrugged off his jacket as he headed into the kitchen, where a covered plate waited inside the refrigerator with a sticky note attached in neat handwriting.
You know what Hercules did between battles? He ate. – Love, Ms. Ramona
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
He’d been blessed with Ms. Ramona almost eight years now. He paid her well enough that she worked exclusively for him, mostly during the hours he wasn’t home.
She cleaned, kept his home office as organized as possible, ran his errands, took care of his ridiculously spoiled cat, and made sure he ate like an adult.
Tonight’s meal was seafood paella, one of his favorites. The loaded rice dish was a little heavy for two in the morning, but his body stopped caring about normal meal times years ago.
Cassidy heated it up, fed a few shrimp to the fat calico weaving aggressively around his legs, before he carried the plate outside to the second-floor balcony.
“Scout, get down,” he muttered as the cat tried climbing his pants leg despite being the size of a throw pillow stuffed with lead.
The city stretched below him in rivers of white and red lights while the television mounted outside replayed the evening news.
It wasn’t long before Xander’s face appeared on screen.
“Beloved actor Xander Vale made his first public appearance tonight since the shocking attack earlier this week—”
He muted the show, eliminating the newscaster’s grating voice, and homed in on Xander’s face, blinking at the turmoil simmering beneath his barely composed facade.
To the outsider, he probably appeared happy, excited to be back at work and amongst fans, but Cassidy had seen the truth.
When the story ended, he pulled Scout onto his lap and picked up his phone to text the shift lead stationed outside Xander’s property.
Status?
The response came less than ten seconds later.
All clear. Followed by a stupid thumbs up emoji.
Goddamn millennials.
Cassidy thought of asking them what Xander was doing—was he resting, pacing…
He stared at the screen for too long, before deciding against it, pocketing his phone and retreating to his bedroom.
He let the shower run long enough to steam the entire second floor before he stepped inside.
The scalding water beat against the back of his tense neck and shoulders while he braced one hand against the tile and closed his eyes.
He tried not to picture pretty blue eyes staring up at him through long lashes. Or trembling hands clutching his card for dear life. Or the sweetly whispered “thank-you” from between peach-colored, delicate-looking lips.
Those were the kind of thoughts that led Cassidy to places he had no business going.
God
God woke at five in the morning out of habit, his eyes opening before the first hint of sunlight crept between the open blackout curtains of the Luxford Beverly suite.
For one disoriented second, he wondered why the hell he felt so rested. Then he remembered he was three hours behind Atlanta. It was eight a.m. back home.
The mattress was soft enough to sink into without swallowing him—easily the nicest bed he’d ever slept on. He was beginning to wonder if he’d been ripped off after dropping a couple of grand on his Tempur-Pedic.
Day was tight against his side with one arm stretched over his stomach, his slow breaths warm against his shoulder.
God stared at the ceiling. His body might’ve rested well, but his mind sure hadn’t.
It moved the way it always did—replaying, reassessing, confirming details over and over until every possible angle had been restructured in his head.
The entire flight yesterday had turned into one long operational breakdown.
After landing in Los Angeles, two chauffeured Escalades were waiting outside the terminal to transport them to their hotel.
Wes and Law weren’t playing around when they said the studio would cover all of their expenses. The SUVs alone cost more per day than some precincts operated on in a week.
The Luxford Beverly towered high above Sunset Boulevard in gleaming tiers of glass and white stone, overlooking the city like some lavish fortress for the rich and overpaid.