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I freeze as several sets of eyes turn in our direction. Hunter’s hand is steady, casually sliding up beneath my skirt. My face floods with heat, goosebumps trailing down the back of my neck and the length of my arms.
“I think you’re both right,” Hunter says evenly like he isn’t feeling me up a few feet away from his esteemed colleagues. “I don’t want the audience to be bored, but I don’t want them to be confused, either. This is a nuanced script, and that requires nuanced structure. We’ll start with Charlie’s proposed action opening, but we’ll intercut flashbacks in appropriate places to provide viewers the context they need.”
“But what about pacing?” Bob asks, though he doesn’t seem entirely turned off by the idea. “Won’t constant flashbacks make the story feel too slow?”
“We’ll make it work.” His hand inches closer and closer toward my pussy, his fingers diligently brushing aside the soaked fabric of my panties. “I’ll go home tonight and review the script again. I’ll have a pink revision back to you by the end of the week. Write a reminder in my calendar for me, Eden.”
I jolt, every nerve in my body a live wire. “Um, y-yes. Yes, of course, Mr. Stride.”
Charlie chuckles from across the table. “What’s got you so jumpy? Is ol’ Hunty that much of a hardass boss?”
Hunter frowns. “Never call me that again.”
“Why, Hunty? I think it’s cute.”
“You’re fired.”
Charlie laughs it right off. “Okay, big guy. Whatever you say.”
The meeting looks like it’s just about ready to wrap up when there’s a commotion somewhere near the bar area. It starts as a couple of concerned murmurs, some pointed stares, but things quickly escalate.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I think you’ve had enough. You’re cut off.”
“Don’t you fuggin’ tell me when I’ve had enough,” a man slurs.
Dread rips through me. I recognize his voice. “Dad?” I rasp.
I get up from the table and hurry over to investigate. There’s no way it can be him. He promised me he’d lay off the sauce. He told me that his health scare scared him straight.
The maître-d is trying to escort my father out of the restaurant, but he smacks his hands away.
“Don’t touch me!” Dad snaps.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, hating how small I sound.
He blinks at me. Hiccups. His intoxicated rage seems to melt away into something far more subdued and humiliated. “Eden, honey… What areyoudoing here?”
I put my hands on my hips. “I asked you first. I’ve been calling and calling you. I thought you said you were in San Francisco financing your film.”
“Hit a snag,” he grumbles, unable to look me in the eye. “Let’s talk about it later, okay?”
“I want answers now.”
Behind us, nearby tables whisper amongst themselves.
“Isn’t that Thomas Halloway?”
“Oh, shit, you’re right!”
“Man, life’s been rough for him sinceTarantula.”
“He’s a washed-up has-been.”
“Who’s the chick?”
I ignore all of them, keeping my focus on Dad. He looks worse for wear. His cheeks are hollow, there are dark circles beneath his eyes, and his lips are chapped and cracking. His breath reeks of alcohol. To say that I’m embarrassed is an understatement.
I’m mortified, but I’m also worried.
