Now, I hate myself more than I ever hated him.

  How can I look myself in the mirror and call myself a man if I let Cowan get away with doing this?

  I don’t understand why. I can’t imagine what he has against me, but he must hate me so much to do something like throw that manuscript in my face.

  Blair is right. He wants this reaction. He’s been pushing harder and harder from the beginning, finding my buttons and my dials and turning them. He knows how I feel about Blair, and he keeps shoving her into danger. He knows how I feel about my father, and he keeps throwing that in my face.

  But it doesn’t matter what he wants anymore.

  I’m done worrying about Tony Cowan.

  “I’m sorry,” I say and shove the door open.

  “Baptist! Wait!”

  But I don’t look back.

  Chapter 21

  Blair

  I chase after Baptist as he hurries into the hotel.

  This is bad. This is really bad. I’m freaking out and trying to think my way through this awful situation, but no matter which direction I try to come at everything, I still return to one point: Cowan knows what he’s doing.

  There’s a reason he gave me the script, and not Baptist.

  He didn’t want Baptist to see it right away. He wanted me to read it, form my opinion, and give it over to him later on. That was his whole game—Cowan wanted me to read the script, decide it’s bad, and tell Baptist that right as he’s realizing it’s his own father’s work.

  He wanted me to recreate that moment Baptist had with his father, their last moment together.

  The only thing I don’t understand is why.

  What’s Cowan’s game? Why’s he doing all this and what’s he getting from it? I think back to the lawyers and how easily they rolled over to the contracts. They didn’t seem to care about the terms—but what if that was on purpose? If Cowan’s serious about making a movie, why wouldn’t he want to get the best deal he possibly could from us, instead of accepting whatever we threw his way? He’s been in this business long enough to know how things work.

  You never take the first offer.

  There has to be something more happening here, but I can’t get through to Baptist right now.

  He’s raging. It’s like an entirely different person took him over and now I’m watching him spiral deeper and deeper into a cave and he can’t hear me anymore.

  All that darkness, all that anger, the molten hate and raw emotions bubbling around inside of him are spilling out all over and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Cowan broke something in him, and I’m terrified Baptist is about to murder the old director.

  Not that I’d blame him. I’m not even sure I want to stop him, except to make sure Baptist doesn’t end up in jail for the rest of his life.

  After what he told me about his relationship with his father and the end of his father’s life, I can’t imagine the level of callousness it takes to pull off what Cowan just did. There must be something broken inside of the old director, something irredeemable and shattered, because Baptist is suffering now and I hate it. It physically kills me, knowing how much Baptist is hurting, and I know there’s nothing I can do to help him.

  None of this makes any sense, and I don’t know what to do.

  Except I follow him. That’s all I can think of. Baptist storms past the front desk, looks around the cafe area, before finally taking the stairs. I jog after him, trying to get him to calm down and think for a second, but he’s ignoring me now.

  The red-hot rage is gone, replaced by something worse.

  Determination.

  He’s doing this and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

  “Don’t throw away your life for Cowan,” I plead as we go up the stairs. I’m basically running, and sweat’s rolling down my back. Why couldn’t we have put Rodrick on a lower floor? “Seriously, Baptist. Whatever he did, we can hurt him in other ways. We can release this story and make sure nobody works with him ever again. We can bury him.”

  Baptist doesn’t answer. He goes step by step, heading up and up, staring straight ahead.

  “I don’t want you to end up in jail just because of Cowan. Please, Baptist. You’re not going to change anything by hurting the asshole. You’re just playing into his game.”

  We reach Rodrick’s floor. Baptist stops before he pushes open the door and turns to me. I stand in front of him on the landing, breathing hard, flushed and out of breath, and it reminds me of that first night, that kiss on the stairway as we headed down to the supply closet. I stand back from him, my pulse raging, part of me wanting him to kiss me like he did back then and another part hoping he’ll see reason and stop all this.

  “Why don’t you want me to end up in jail?” he asks softly.

  His question hits me like a punch between my eyes. I shake my head slowly. “I don’t know what you mean. You’re my friend. You’re my business partner.”

  “Liar.” He turns away. “You can’t even fucking say it.”

  “Baptist.”

  He shoves open the door and waits.

  I open my mouth—

  And I want to tell him the truth.

  You’re the father of my baby. I’m starting to care for you in a way I never dreamed I could. I’m falling, and I don’t know how to stop it, so please, please, don’t walk away from me.

  But nothing comes out.

  Finally, in the most important moment of my life, in the peak of all this insanity, I finally see the truth about myself.

  I’m a coward.

  I’m a pathetic, worthless coward.

  Baptist walks into the hall and I realize I have the power to stop this the whole time, but I can’t bring myself to say the words.

  To tell him the truth.

  Because that would mean admitting it to myself, and how can I do that, when I’m so convinced that I’m not worth it?

  I hurry after him, tears in my eyes. I can speak up at any moment and tell him what I’m feeling but once I start, I know he’ll hear everything, the full, ugly truth, and he’ll hate me, but at least it’ll stop this.

  He won’t hate me for falling for him—but for lying to him about the baby. For keeping it from him as we’ve gotten closer and closer over the last few weeks.

  Because I know the truth. I know what he wants me to admit.

  We’re falling for each other and it’s sickeningly beautiful, because it’s something I don’t think we can ever have.

  He’ll hate me when he finds out the truth.

  But what’s worse? Letting him do this, or letting him despise me?

  He reaches Rodrick’s door and bangs on it hard. He pounds and pounds until it finally yanks open, revealing Cowan, looking annoyed. “We were just in the middle of a fucking rehearsal,” he says, storming back inside.

  Baptist follows him. I go after them, trying to come up with something to say. I hold the script up and Cowan catches my eye, and a smile breaks across his face, like he just won the lottery.

  The fucking snake.

  Baptist stands in front of him, trembling with rage, while Rodrick’s sitting on the bed with a rubber band around his arm and the needle still lying on a book, which means we interrupted their morning dose.

  “Tony, come on,” Rodrick says. “Deal with your unhappy producer later. This is more important.”

  “Right you are,” Cowan says, turning back to the drugs, but Baptist grabs his shoulder and yanks him away with a snarl.

  Cowan looks genuinely surprised. I’m not sure what the bastard thought would happen, but he clearly didn’t expect this.

  “How did you get that manuscript?” Baptist’s voice is low and steady.

  Cowan smirks and tilts his head. “What do you mean? I wrote it. Don’t you like it?”

  “How, you piece of herpes-ridden garbage?”

  “The magic of creativity.” Cowan laughs softly and glances at me. “Some would call it the Muse. Isn’t it magical?”

  “Why?” Baptist whispers, his hands balled into fists. “Why, you bastard?”

  “Because I wanted to.” Cowan’s voice is soft and smooth as silk.

  Baptist slams his fist into Cowan’s face. His knuckles connect with the old man’s nose with a sickening crunch and blood spurts down his mouth and stains the front of his shirt in a warm gush. He staggers back, groaning, covering his face with both hands, trying to stem the bleeding. Baptist walks to him as if in a dream and cocks his arm back, ready to hit him again.

  When Rodrick throws himself forward with a scream.

  The two men tangle into each other. I shout at them and try to break them up, but as Baptist jerks his arm back, he bashes his elbow into my eye.

  I gasp and stagger back, groaning as pain flares through my skull. I see black and stars flare at the edges of the sight, curling in toward the center like melting steel. I drop to my knees, holding my face as tears leak out and roll down my cheeks. I don’t mean to cry right now but, my god, it hurts so fucking bad, and I’m so emotional and fucking pregnant and goddamn it, I hate that this is happening. I sob, cradling my face, and the shouting stops as everyone stares at me.

  I look up through the tears and Baptist is standing there, a horrified look on his face. Rodrick is helping Cowan, making sure he’s okay, but Baptist is frozen and can’t seem to move.

  “It’s okay,” I say through the tears. “It’s okay, I’m okay, don’t worry. You didn’t mean to.”

  “I hurt you.” His voice is small. “Blair. I hurt you.”

  “You didn’t mean to.” My first instinct is to make him feel better. I know it was an accident—he’d never hit me on purpose and it only happened because I got in the middle of their fight—but the horror in his eyes is soul-crushingly painful, especially after everything he’s been through already.

  “Blair.” He takes a step toward me, reaching out.

  “Go ahead, touch her,” Cowan calls with a sharp, ugly laugh. “Do to her what you did to your father. Ruin her. Destroy her. Drive her into oblivion. That’s all you’re good for, isn’t it, Baptist? That’s what you do with everyone around you.”

  I groan in shock, and Baptist stands as if he’s been shot in the back. His body is stiff, tense all over, and he’s staring at me with pure agony in his eyes as his face drains of color. I reach out for him but I feel blood drip from my lip down onto the carpet, and that’s enough to push him over the edge.

  He walks past me and leaves, slamming the door shut behind him.

  “Goddamn it, Cowan,” Rodrick says with a long sigh. “Could you have done that after giving me the shot?”

  “Can’t control timing sometimes, my friend,” Cowan says through his obviously broken nose as he looks at me. “What are you still doing here? Shouldn’t you be chasing after him?”

  I slowly get to my feet, head spinning. I have to lean against the bureau to steady myself as the room dips all around me, and I realize I must be hurt worse than I thought.

  “Why, Cowan? What the hell are you doing with all this?”

  Cowan pushes Rodrick aside and faces me, blood still dripping from his nose. It’s slowing, clotting, but he looks like a demon as he grins manically through the gore, his lips and chin ringed and splattered with it.

  “Think about it, suit. You’re a smart girl. Why would I do all this, huh? I want to make a movie, don’t I?”

  “None of it makes any sense.” I press my palm against my forehead. Shit, why can’t I think right now?

  “But you don’t get it. I’ve been making a movie this whole time.” He comes toward me, his smirk getting bigger. “My film isn’t about Rodrick, though he has played his part beautifully.”

  “Thank you, maestro.” Rodrick sits down on the bed and ties his arm off. “Now, if you two will excuse me—” He goes back to preparing his shot.

  “What are you talking about? You haven’t filmed a single scene yet. You just sent us the fucking script.”

  “I’ve been shooting since the moment Baptist approached me in the park. Ever since Ansell Drake’s wedding. I’ve been shooting since that first day you came to my house, since you found me in the attic, since you started seeing that OB.” He laughs and takes a step toward me. “You think I don’t fucking know? I arranged it all, though I’ll admit, Baptist fucking you without a condom and knocking you up was a particularly beautiful master stroke.”

  “This is insane,” I croak, backing away, but I’m still dizzy and I nearly stumble. I lean against the wall as Cowan laughs and laughs. “How the hell? Why the fuck?”

  “I know you’re pregnant and I’m very sure it’s his kid. Are you going to tell him, suit? Are you going to break it to him anytime soon, or do you think you can keep this game going forever? Come on, suit, what’s it gonna be?”

  “Stop it,” I say, shaking my head. “Stop it!”

  “That’s right, run like you always do. Both of you are pathetic. You two deserve each other. Hell, you two will rip each other to pieces. I don’t envy that poor, pathetic kid.”

  I turn and grab the door, flinging it open. Cowan laughs and Rodrick groans and I stagger out into the hallway.

  He knows I’m pregnant. He’s been filming this whole time, everything, from the very beginning.

  This movie isn’t about addicts.

  It’s about Baptist.

  It’s about me.

  I stumble away from the room and keep on running.

  Chapter 22

  Baptist

  I keep seeing her face in my head, over and over again, her one eye swollen, her split lip bleeding down into her mouth, the pain in her expression, the tears in her eyes, and the worst part, even worse than hurting her, was the way she kept trying to make me feel better about it.

  That look broke me.

  I got the fuck out of here before I did even more damage. I was out of control, losing my mind, doing whatever I wanted in the moment without any worry about future repercussions, and Blair paid the price. I never should’ve gone in that hotel room and never should’ve hit Cowan like that, even if the fucker deserved it and much worse.

  Because in the end, I only hurt her.

  Like I always do.

  That’s all I’m good for. This time, it was an accidental elbow to the face, but next time? How much more damage can she take before she shatters completely?

  I won’t let myself ruin her.

  It takes me a day to get my shit back together. I go off the grid, no phone, no email, I don’t even bother returning to my apartment on the off chance she’ll show up there randomly. I don’t trust myself around her right now, not when I’m still hurting and still angry, and I’m not sure what I’m going to do about Cowan or anything else.

  Not that it matters.

  I hurt her. I fucking hurt her.

  And all I know is, I can’t go anywhere near her.

  But slowly, after sitting down in a random hotel bar out in the suburbs and drowning my worries, a plan begins to form. It’s an ugly plan, a desperate plan, but I’m at the bleakest point in my life and I can’t see any other way to escape this cycle of darkness. If I don’t pull myself out, I’ll drown, and I’ll drag Blair down with me.

  That can’t happen.

  I’m up early the next day after making some calls the night before. I drive into the city and keep telling myself I’m doing the right thing. Even if I’m not sure.

  Rittenhouse Park is busy on a Wednesday afternoon. It’s nice out, sunny, mild temperature, slight breeze, and the buskers are gathered in force. Two jugglers, two guys playing guitar, a woman doing caricature drawings, and a young kid beatboxing while breakdancing. I find a good bench along the outer ring near the trees and sit in the shade, watching people walk past, thinking about their lives and my own, and how I found myself here at the bottom of a long, steep slope, wrapped in failure and knowing the only way out for me now is more pain.

  It was a mistake bringing Blair into my world.

  I should’ve known that Cowan was never going to work out. I should’ve seen through his bullshit from the start, but I was so blinded by my own ambition that I was willing to keep going even when it became obvious nothing was going to happen. Cowan never wanted to make a movie, he only wanted to fuck with me, and I still don’t understand why.

  That’s what’s bothering me the most about all this. Why the script, why the nightmare? I knew he was difficult to work with, but there’s no way he’s going around torturing his producers without word getting out.

  No, he reserved that for me specifically.

  I spot him after ten minutes of mentally grilling myself. He’s walking toward me with a brown paper bag cradled in one palm, smiling a bit, a bandage over his nose. Both his eyes are black, ugly and swollen, and I resist the urge to smile. I hope he’s in a lot of pain. The bastard deserves so much worse.

  “Baptist.” Cowan stands a few feet away and tosses a handful of breadcrumbs onto the ground. “Do you plan on hitting me again or am I safe to sit?”

  “Sit,” I grunt at him.

  Pigeons descend as Cowan takes the other end of the bench. He doesn’t look at me, only tosses more bread, and seems content to stare as the birds peck and push at each other, fighting for every little scrap.

  I wonder what he sees in the damn birds. Maybe he looks at them the same way he looks at people like me—disposable entertainment put in this earth to do nothing more than sate his sick desires.

  Being around him right now is the hardest thing I’ve done in a long time. It isn’t just painful—it’s infuriating. I want to throttle him, but I know I can’t, not without making my situation worse.

  “You know, I really didn’t think you’d call,” he says finally, breaking the silence, but still doesn’t look at me. “After what happened, I assumed that was the last I’d see of you.”

  “I still have questions.”

  “And you think I have answers, but you’re wrong. At least, I don’t have the answers you really need.”

  I take a deep breath and shove away my rage at his worthless mind games. If I’m going to get anything from him, I need to keep calm and stick to the script. I know what I want to ask, and I can’t walk away until I get some answers.