Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 72945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
I tilt my chin up and look into his eyes.
He looks back, head cocked to the side.
I stand on my toes and brush my lips against his. I shiver and release a soft groan—
And he slams his mouth onto mine, kissing me deep and slow, taking me the way I need him to, and I kiss him back with the same desperate fervor, the same ceaseless desire. I tangle myself into him and bask in his taste, in his touch, groaning as a month’s worth of desire floods me all at once.
This is what I’ve wanted, what I’ve dreamed of. Baptist back in my life, kissing me, holding me.
Telling me that he loves me.
And it feels good. It feels so damn good, but I’m afraid it isn’t real. I’m so scared he’s going to run at the first sign of trouble again, and I’ll be left all alone, but this time so brokenhearted that I won’t ever pick up the pieces.
I’m afraid, so damn afraid.
But in this kiss, with him here in this theater, I can forget that fear.
At least for a little while.
Slowly, we break apart. He rests his forehead on mine and I laugh stupidly as he wipes away my tears again.
“You’re really going to call it the Webb Theater?” I ask.
He grins and shrugs. “Why not?”
“People are going to think it’s for my father.”
“We can call it the Blair instead.”
I hesitate and tap a finger against my lip. “Yeah. The Blair. Okay, I think I’d like that.”
“I’ll make a new sign. I’ll need about a month—”
“You fucking asshole,” I say, shoving him, and he grins at me, shaking his head.
“I’m sorry. Bad joke.”
I wrap my arms around myself and put some space between us. My heart’s juddering fast and I feel dizzy like if I don’t go to him again, I’ll collapse, but it’s too addicting and too scary. I’m not ready to take that tumble. Not yet, at least.
“What do we do now?” I ask quietly. “I mean, is this place ready to open?”
“I’ll hire some people to finish it up. Then I’ll get staff in place, start reaching out to booking agents, get a few shows lined up, and away we go. You don’t have to worry about any of it.”
“What if I want to worry?”
He smiles, but tries to suppress it. “You can be as involved as you want. Your name’s out front, after all.”
“And on the deed.”
He laughs. “Damn right.”
“You’re really not joking? This place is mine?”
“It’s yours, as much as you want of it.”
I turn around slowly, looking at the intricate designs on the walls, at the carpets, at the seats. I try to imagine it filled with people, the electricity of the crowd, the excitement of a good show, the cheers and clapping and laughter. I can almost taste it, the life, the joy.
“Okay then, Baptist. I’ll see where you go with all this.”
“Glad you’re on board, Blair.”
“But I think there’s something you and I need to do first.”
His smile fades. “What’s that?”
“My father told me what Cowan did. About the revenge and the movie he’s filming. He didn’t lie to either of us—he only told us each half the truth. And there are other people he fucked with, other little revenge movies he made.”
Baptist laughs and shakes his head. “You’re fucking kidding me.”
“No, I’m really not.”
“That psychopath can’t just get away with it.”
“No, he can’t.”
“I think we need to have a conversation with your father.” Baptist’s eyes get that gleam in them again as he steps toward me. “I think he’ll help us get a little revenge of our own.”
“Yes, please,” I say, grinning back.
Chapter 28
Baptist
Cowan’s studio is in a lone row home with fields on either side of it in a mostly abandoned block deep in north Philadelphia. It’s a bad neighborhood in a forgotten section of the city, and the only car that isn’t on cinderblocks or burned down to its metal frame is a simple black sedan.
There are bars on the windows. Bars on the door. Everything is locked down tight, and there’s nothing else around it, like the place exists in its own pocket in space and time.
“Cowan really works here?” I ask, squinting at the building. “Kind of hard to imagine, honestly. He always seemed so… uptight.”
Kenny Palmer nods quickly. “I’m absolutely positive. I was inside a few times.” He’s young, mid-twenties, and comes from a long line of film people. He grew up in LA but moved out here to work for Cowan when he was just eighteen. He’s thin, pale, dark hair, dark eyes, and scowls at the building like he wants to blow the place to smithereens.
“Why here?” Blair asks, scowling around her. “Of all the places in the world, why this one?”
“He grew up around here,” Kenny says with a shrug. “That’s what he told me, anyway. Who knows what to believe with that guy. He said a lot of shit when I worked for him.”