Hollywood Touch by Nicole French EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Author: Nicole French
- Language: English
- Formats: PDF / EPUB
- Status: Available for Download
- Series: None
- Price: Free
- File Size: 2 MB
Will
“You did good, Willie. Haven’t lost your touch.”
I held back a smile as I stared beyond the stern of the boat, where
the sun flickered across the Long Island Sound. Somewhere, a gull cried, and
then another while small waves lapped against the hull. I wondered if they
were some of the many that had flown with us when we’d sailed across this
water yesterday.
Dad hadn’t called me Willie in years. Then again, we hadn’t been sailing
like this in years either. Probably not since I was twenty, maybe twenty-one?
The last time I’d fled New York for Stamford, the one place in the world no
one gave a damn that I was Fitz Baker.
I grunted and pushed a hand through the blond hair I needed to cut.
Again. The studio wasn’t going to be happy.
“Be honest,” I said. “You thought I was going to flip her more than once,
didn’t you?”
But Michael Baker wasn’t the type to expand on praise. Instead, he just
climbed onto the dock and grabbed the bridle to tie up the boat, leaving me to
pick up the random debris scattered in the corner after five days on the water.
Damn, the sun. It was hotter today than it had been all week. Unseasonably
warm, even for Connecticut this time of year.
I shoved a few empty bottles into a trash bag and tried to ignore the
perspiration soaking the collar of my T-shirt, then started the process of
flaking the sails. Sweat poured down my forehead. Fuck, it was hot. Too hot.
Or maybe it was just me. I could admit it was a mistake to think I could
go three full days without taking anything. I’d been feening since three that
morning. If I didn’t get a fix soon, I was going to have to throw myself in the
water just to cool the fuck off.
Duffel over my shoulder, I followed my father up the dock and down the
path, winding through a field of grass toward my childhood home. The little
red house had been here since the twenties, according to Dad. I’d grown up
with stories about the generations of family who made a life here. Passed
down, fisherman to fisherman, until I spoiled it all.
Before my face was
discovered at a mall. Before my seven-year-old life was sold to a TV series
and a soda sponsorship. Before the idea of happiness in this house was a joke.
As we reached the back porch, Dad muttered over his shoulder. What, I
don’t know, since at that point I was about to sprint upstairs in search of the
pills calling my name from my old room. One short, rickety flight, and I’d be
all right. I could do this. Mind over matter, you asshole. Mind over fucking
matter.
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