TAMING HOLLYWOOD'S BADDEST BO- Max Monroe Page 0,16
my life.
It may not be the obvious choice to stay, but I can’t give up now. I got myself into this mess of a situation, and death be damned, I will find a way to get myself out of it without ruining my future career.
“Okay.” I pull my wallet out of my purse and slide two twenties and a ten-dollar bill across the counter toward Earl. “Looks like I’ll be renting a kayak today.”
Cross my heart and hope not to die.
One-point-two miles feels a whole lot longer when you suck at kayaking.
The water sloshes and shimmies my pathetic plastic form of transportation, and I stop paddling to brace a hand on the side. Impending doom pummels my chest with its tiny fists, and my knuckles turn white from how hard I’m holding on for dear life.
Heaven help me.
Droplets of the bay’s icy water pelt my face, and I shiver.
I swear to God, if I fall out of this thing, my sister will be planning a funeral for more than my career. I thought it was supposed to be spring?
Once the kayak settles, I resume the awkward task of paddling.
Left. Right. Left. Right. I try to maintain a steady rhythm that’s conducive to forward movement and keep it up until even the bones in my arms ache. My clothes are damp and my hair scraggly, but on a positive note, so is all the camping equipment Earl managed to sell me at an inflated price. Ah, well. At least my little internal joke makes me smile.
I don’t have the first clue what I’m going to do with all this extra equipment, but it’s better to play it safe. A girl like me—one who has zero experience in living off any kind of land that’s not adjacent to a Target—can’t go into a situation like this without some kind of emergency backup plan.
That’s why, before I got into this damn kayak, I snagged as much shit from my rental as possible and shoved it inside the big hiking pack. The screenplay, a phone charger, extra clothes, boots—even a few magazines and a bag of M&Ms—you name it and I’m toting it with me.
Not too far off in the distance, lights and a curvy, billowy trail of smoke appear up on a long, sloped ridgeline. I send a prayer to the Big Guy Upstairs that this is where Luca Weaver has been hiding out for the past eight years.
If it’s not, I should probably just retrace my steps and start applying for jobs at Auto Universe.
Thankfully, as I get closer, the rocks and trees clear enough to reveal an actual home. A rustic yet modern-looking cabin sits perched above the rocks that lead to the water. Out in the middle of nowhere yet still blends in with the lush forest behind it, it’s an impressive sight. And, considering it’s the only house, the only anything I’ve seen since I started paddling, I sure as hell hope it’s the right one.
The tip of my kayak bumps into the rocks and jolts me back as I try like hell to maneuver myself close enough to the shore that I can step out without getting my favorite pair of boots completely wet.
On a deep breath, a wish, and a damn prayer, I push myself out of the kayak and onto the ground. Problem is, for as solid as it seems from my “vessel,” it turns out the top layer is just a four-inch film of icy slush.
“Ah!” I shout into the air. “Son of a bitch!”
My boots slish and slosh as I pull the kayak onto a sliver of dry land to the right of the rocks and beside a long path of wooden steps that lead toward the cabin on the rocky hill. Once I’m confident the boat won’t try to sneak into the bay and head back to Earl’s without me, I snag my purse and toss it over my shoulder. The rest of my shit can stay put until I’m ready for it.
Tiny hints of fear clench my chest and creep into my throat as I walk up the stairs, but I swallow them all down.
I am a woman on a mission.
I am here because I promised my boss a man I have to deliver, or else I might as well light all of my filmmaking dreams on fire.
And come hell or high water, no matter what I have to do, I refuse to let even a single stick spark up into a