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“You know Bernie stepped back after his heart attack. He’s not involved in the day-to-day anymore.”
“It doesn’t matter. I told you six years ago that I will never work for that studio again and I meant it.”
What happened six years ago still makes me want to hunt Bernie down and beat the shit out of him. Will I ever be over it?
“You’ve never really told me what all went down, but—”
“I’m not discussing it.”
“Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face, James, that’s all I’m saying. It’s a good script. It has a good director attached to it. It’s going to be a successful project.”
I lean closer toward my laptop because maybe Keane is somehow missing how serious I am. “I willneverwork for that bastard again. Don’t bring it up—ever.”
He holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “All right, all right. I got nothing then. I’ll put some more feelers out for the kind of project you’re looking for and let you know if I find anything.”
I nod, unable to speak because my jaw is clenched so tight.
“I’m sorry I brought it up. It’s just… it’s been years and you’ve moved on with Adelaide. I just thought…”
I say nothing to fill the silence.
“Anyway, keep in touch. I’ll let you know when I have something.”
“Great.” I push the laptop closed without saying goodbye.
My mood is shit now thanks to the mention of that asshole, Bernie Butler. I won’t lie, when I heard he’d suffered a heart attack a few months back, I was disappointed the thing hadn’t killed him. His heart is black anyway.
I push a hand through my hair and stomp down the hall toward the living room, but when I get there, I look around, unsure what to do with myself.
Deep down, I’m aware how messed up it is that that night can still rile me up until I can’t think clearly. It’s just a reminder that I have no idea why Lilah did what she did.
I haven’t spoken to her or Bernie since that night. When he approached me atThe Regulator’s premiere, I made it clear that I had nothing to say to him and if he didn't want another round of plastic surgery, he'd better stay the hell away from me.
Pacing doesn’t help me gain control of my emotions, so I head back down the hall.
Best decision I made after Lilah’s abrupt departure from my life was turning the guest room into a gym. I quickly change into shorts and a T-shirt, ready to spend the next hour and half using my anger to fuel my workout, until my muscles ache and my clothes are drenched. If I’m lucky, the image of Lilah and Bernie on that couch will disappear.
* * *
I turnup the temperature on the oven, so it'll stay warm until I’m ready to put in the salmon. I decided on baked salmon for dinner, along with asparagus and quinoa. All wedding-diet-approved items.
Adelaide called to say she’ll be a little late for dinner. Apparently, the wedding coordinator had a lead on the perfect chair covers for the reception.
I grab a beer from the fridge, pop off the cap, and sit on the couch, clicking on the TV to kill time. I flick through the channels to find something interesting, but it’s mostly just news, given that it’s six o’clock. I settle on a national news channel. I should know what’s up in the world anyway.
Probably a glutton for punishment since I’ve been in a crappy mood since this morning. I curse myself for even thinking of Lilah in the first place. She’ll leave my head before I marry Adelaide, won’t she?
Ten minutes into the broadcast and nothing has changed since the last time I watched the news—people in the world are still horrible to each other, our president still has top billing, and politicians continue to abuse their power. Great.
I sit up, my thumb on the power button of the remote, when a story catches my eye. A serial bank robber the FBI had on their most-wanted list for the past few years was apprehended and is in custody. I lean back down, extending my feet onto the coffee table. At least justice will be served. This sounds promising.
The report goes on to say that he was arrested after robbing a Kansas bank when someone stole his getaway car. I guess he’d left the keys inside. Idiot. I remember when I was doing an FBI role two years ago, our source of knowledge on how to act told me all criminals get caught because they’re stupid.
They roll footage of the outside of the bank. People are huddled together. Some crying hysterically. Others silently weeping. Many clinging to one another.
And then time stands still.
My beer slips from my grasp, falls onto me, hits the couch, and lands on the floor. I lean forward to get a better look at the TV.
