“I’ve got to work now and you’re late for class.”

  “College, I really fucking hope,” I mumble but they ignore me.

  “Call me later?”

  “I absolutely will.”

  He won’t call her.

  I wait awkwardly in his expensively furnished living room until the college girl is gone. He returns dressed in sleek joggers and a tight t-shirt cut to emphasize his chest and arms. He grins at me as he leans against the wall and I glare death at him.

  “You do know that we have a meeting with Cowan in an hour, right?”

  “I do know that, yes.”

  “And you still brought a girl home last night? What is that, the third girl this week?”

  “Second. And don’t sound jealous, Webb. It’s not very attractive.”

  I grind my teeth. “I’m not trying to be attractive for you, you self-centered, fucking—”

  “I needed to blow off some steam,” he says as I curse him out. “That girl, she was absolutely perfect for that. Very willing to blow. Eager, almost.”

  “You’re a pig.”

  “I am what I am.” He sighs and leans his head back. “We’re still on with Cowan?”

  I nod once sharply and rub my eyes. I feel a headache coming on. I drown it with a sip from my coffee. “One hour at his place. I’m driving. Get over to Heart and get what you need.”

  “My liquid crack. How’s Zoe today?”

  “Don’t you fucking dare hit on her.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He grins at me and walks to the door. “She’s not my type, anyway.”

  “She’s not too young and too dumb, you mean?”

  He shrugs like I’m not wrong. “Coming?”

  “I need to use your bathroom.”

  “Enjoy.” He shoves his feet into shoes and disappears, leaving me alone in his apartment.

  I sit and there trembling for a moment. I stare out the window, trying to get myself together. Why am I having this reaction? Jealousy courses through my veins and all I want to do is scream.

  Was that girl prettier than me? Does he want to fuck her more than he wants to fuck me? Because he wants to still—at least I think he does—but ever since the wedding, we haven’t mentioned it, not even once. Not even in passing.

  We still tease. We still joke. But he carefully, so carefully, avoids any mention of physical contact.

  And he sleeps with half the goddamn city.

  I storm into the bathroom, pissed as hell, and slam the door. I lock it and wipe steam from the mirror.

  I look tired. I look stressed.

  I take a pregnancy test from my purse and stare at the plastic wrapped stick.

  What the hell am I doing?

  Before I let myself overanalyze, I sit down, rip it open, and do my thing. Once it’s finished, I set it on the counter and stare.

  What the fuck am I doing?

  This is not an ideal situation. Far from freaking ideal. But the fact of my circumstances vis-a-vis being entirely knocked up only occurred to me last night, and I need to know if I’m pregnant or not before I can keep going about my life. I’m sure I’m not, and my period is just abnormally late, and I’m getting mild cramping and I’m bloated and I feel fucking hot all the time for no reason.

  It’s definitely not Baptist’s child implanting itself in my uterine wall and demolishing my hormones.

  This is dumb. This is so dumb.

  And yet the fact of my situation stares me in the face.

  I’m standing in Baptist’s bathroom probably twenty minutes after he fucked some random girl taking a pregnancy test that, if it’s positive, will absolutely ruin my life and probably ruin his too.

  Goodbye, Thompkins Webb Productions. Goodbye, my dream of working with Tony Cowan.

  Hello, new baby.

  I close my eyes and count the seconds until I open them again.

  And scream.

  Literally scream.

  Because the test is positive.

  “No, no, you’re fucking kidding me. Absolutely not.”

  I take another one. Positive. I’d take a dozen more, but I only bought a two-pack. I stare at the twin tests and feel my life ending. I feel it in my fingers and toes, a buzzing, tingling, existential horror.

  I’m pregnant with Baptist’s baby.

  “He can’t know.” I look up and stare at myself in the mirror. “He can’t know,” I repeat.

  Worthless asshole playboy Baptist. Selfish, angry, pride-filled Baptist.

  If he knows I’m pregnant, he’s going to fire me and run away as fast as he can.

  That man is allergic to commitment. The only thing he cares about is this production company, and even then, I’m not so sure. He seems more interested in chasing after UPenn coeds than he is getting Cowan in a room and signing all the necessary documents.

  I splash water on my face and close my eyes.

  Cowan is real. I spoke to his assistant on the phone a few days ago. I watched Baptist FaceTime with the director a week before that. The movie is real and Cowan truly wants to get it done, and Baptist has the money.

  I should know. I set up all our business accounts and got the company registered. I know exactly how much we have—and it’s enough.

  This is happening.

  My dream is actually happening.

  But I’m pregnant.

  I touch my stomach and take deep, shuddering breaths.

  I’m not going to cry. Not right now, not when I’m so close to meeting Cowan for the first time and really getting into this industry for real.

  No more bullshit. No more working for someone else. As much as we joke, I’m an equal partner with Baptist—he even put my name in the title.

  I can deal with the baby later. I have nine months to figure out what the hell I’m going to do. I let out a long breath, adjust my makeup because of course I screwed it up, then head out, the tests shoved back in my purse and all evidence safely hidden away.

  “You’re late,” Baptist says as he stands leaning against my car. “Zoe said she put your coffee on my tab.” He holds out a hand. “Three-fifty, please.”

  “You can put it on my tab then, dick.” I shove him away from the door and he laughs as he goes around and gets in the passenger side.

  I can tell he wants to discuss his new redhead girl toy some more but I keep him on task. We go over what we’re going to say to Cowan, how we’re going to make sure he’s serious about getting this movie done, and all the little logistical details we need to hammer out with the director.

  “Relax, Webb,” he says as I roll down the long, gated driveway and stop outside of a Victorian mansion on the western edges of Philadelphia in the heart of the Main Line. It’s straight out of a gothic horror story with peaked roofs, a real stone facade, storybook landscaping, and a red slate roof.

  “Please don’t tell me to relax right now.”

  “I’m just saying, Cowan’s on board. All we have to do—”

  “Baptist.” I turn toward him, heart racing. I’m pregnant with your baby. “Cowan hasn’t finished a movie in almost ten years. Do you really think this is going to be easy?”

  His easy smile slowly fades and he glances at the house. “No, I don’t.”

  “Then don’t treat me like an idiot. Come on, let’s get in there.”

  He laughs softly and follows me up the front steps. I knock on the massive oak doors and nearly scream when a blast so loud it makes my ears ring explodes somewhere from behind the structure.

  “That was a gun,” Baptist says, stepping in front of me and shoving me toward the side. “Something’s wrong. That was—”

  Another loud blast, and another. Followed by yelling.

  “Stay here.” Baptist yanks the doors open and plunges inside.

  “Baptist!” I stare around me, freaking out. Why are there gunshots right now, in the middle of the morning, in this gorgeously nice neighborhood? The house is set back from the road and all alone in a ring of trees, with no other houses in sight, which means nobody else knows what’s happening. If Baptist is in danger—

  “Ah, shit,” I say quietly and hurry into the home.

  The walls are all wood paneled and oil paintings are spaces around haphazardly. The carpets are threadbare, the floors creak, and while it looks like this place should be magnificent, it clearly hasn’t been taken care of. It’s dark, dusty, spider-web speckled, and smells like cat.

  Another explosion, this one close, and Baptist’s voice. “Almost got it!”

  I come around a corner and stop dead at the doorway.

  The sitting room is packed with books. There are books piled taller than me all over the place, and the room is filled with dust and little specks of torn paper. Baptist is standing nearby, grinning wildly, and an older white man with gray hair and a stubbly gray beard is next to him, aiming a shotgun at something.

  “I’ve got the bastard now!” the old man growls and fires.

  I scream and cover my ears, and both men turn around.

  “Easy,” Baptist says, grabbing the shotgun barrel and yanking it upwards. The old man grumbles, but he relinquishes the gun without protest. I stare at them in disbelief until understanding hits me.

  The old man is Tony Cowan.

  “Blair Webb, this is Tony.” Baptist gestures at the old director. “He was trying to kill a raccoon that got in through the back.”

  “There are dozens of them living in this ramshackle nightmare of a place I call my home,” Cowan says, grinning at me manically. “I apologize for scaring you, young lady.” He walks over and shakes my hand, bowing obscenely.

  I stand and gape, not sure what to say.

  On the one hand, yes, this is my cinematic hero. On the other, the fucking psychopath is trying to shoot a raccoon with a shotgun in his own house.

  “Nice to meet you too,” I finally say, and the father of my baby laughs.

  Chapter 3

  Baptist

  I laugh because if I don’t, I’m pretty sure Blair is going to collapse here and now.

  She’s pale, trembling slightly, and looking at Cowan like he’s both her hero and the nightmare bizarro-version of her hero.

  “Come, you two,” Cowan says, striding away toward the back of the room. “Let’s escape this animal-ridden wasteland. Too many damn books in here. It masks the mice, and the raccoons hunt the mice, and it’s a vicious cycle because I won’t get rid of a single volume.”

  “Do raccoons hunt mice?” I ask Blair quietly.

  She shakes her head, looking dumbfounded. “You still have the gun.”

  I look at the shotgun in my hands and sigh. “Better me than him.”

  She smiles slightly at that.

  I ditch the gun as Cowan leads us onto a back solarium. It’s filled with plants and Victorian fainting couches, but at least there aren’t any actual animals. Cowan putters around, watering the flowers, and Blair takes a seat.

  I remain standing, doing my best not to stare at my partner.

  It’s hard not to stare at her.

  She glows. It’s strange and cliché—but it’s the truth. It’s like she’s always there in the corner of my eye, glowing, drawing my attention, and when she’s around, it’s like the sun’s staring at me in the face. I can’t stop thinking about her, not ever since the wedding when I let myself lose control.

  Which was a mistake I won’t ever make again.

  “You two want to make my movie,” Cowan says finally.

  “We do, yes,” Blair answers. “Baptist says the script is amazing.”

  “Script?” Cowan frowns at me then waves a hand. “Yes, that script, no, we aren’t making that film. Fuck that film. That film was trash. No, I have a much better idea, the sort of transgressive idea that will either make or break us. Are you two cowards?”

  I glance at Blair. This is very bad. “No, we aren’t,” I say and she shakes her head, not looking very sure.

  “Good,” Cowan barks and points a finger at me. “I am working with you—” He points his finger at Blair. “—And you because I am sick of big studios. Fuck big studios. They are pathetic, weaselly little cowards that only care about profit.”

  I clench my jaw. I want to say, I care about profits, you old dickbag, but manage to keep it under control. Meanwhile, Blair looks like she’s going to melt through the floor, and I can’t tell if it’s because her hero is ranting at her right now or if she’s beginning to realize just how hard this is really going to be.

  She loves Cowan. She loves him more than I do—and I love him a lot—but to her, he’s like the greatest auteur ever to make a film. I’d put him in the top ten, maybe top five depending on my mood. She worships him, practically obsesses over him, and her raw excitement keeps me going even though I’m beginning to see the painful contours of the hell we have ahead of us.

  Cowan is totally unhinged.

  The guy was shooting raccoons in his sitting room.

  “What’s your idea, Tony?” Blairs asks him.

  He squints at her. “My idea is too big to explain in words. Trying to tell you the plot to this film is like explaining a piece of jazz by dancing. It’s worthless and I won’t attempt it. If you want to work with me, you will have to trust me.”

  “You mean, you want us to write you a fat check and not ask questions,” Blair says slowly and Cowan stares at her.

  I stare at her too.

  Holy crap, that was a ballsy thing to say.

  But Cowan barks a laugh and nods. “Yes, exactly. You’re the suit, aren’t you?”

  “Excuse me?” she asks.

  “There’s always a suit.” He turns to me. “You’re the vision. She’s the suit. Am I wrong?”

  “You’re wrong,” I say with a shrug. “We’re both suits. How much do you want?”

  “Everything.” He grins massively and gestures wildly with his watering can, spilling water everywhere. “This is going to change cinema forever.”

  “Right,” Blair says and stands, brushing her pants. “But is there a story? Or are you going to take our very big check and make an art film that changes everything, but nobody wants to watch?”

  I stare at her, mouth open.

  What the hell has gotten into her? My heart starts to race and a smirk spread across my lips.

  Whatever it is, I like it.

  And Cowan does too. He barks another laugh and nods slowly. “Yes, there’s a story. And yes, people will want to watch. They will be compelled to watch, unable to look away, like a car crash. A bloody, violent car crash. I am going to make a horror film, and you two are going to help me change the world.”

  Nobody speaks. Cowan grins at us, the mad old bastard. Blair turns to me and tilts her head quizzically. I take a deep breath and let it out.

  “Well, all right then. Let’s do it.”

  Cowan claps his hands together. “Good. My assistant will be in touch and you will write the check. This has been a good meeting. Now please, get out, I have raccoons to kill.” Cowan strides past me and back toward the living room.

  I decide to take the back way. I grab Blair’s arm and steer her to the exit. We step out into a perfectly manicured backyard that looks like Versailles.

  “What was that in there?” she asks me, glaring over her shoulder. “Is he insane?”

  “Yes, probably.”

  “Was he really shooting at a raccoon?”

  “I didn’t see one.”

  “You said he almost got it.”

  “I was humoring him.”

  “Baptist. What the fuck—”

  I squeeze her arm harder as we exit through a side gate. I stop, turning to her, and pinning her back up against the wooden face in the shadow of the house. She sucks in a surprised breath and stares at me, mouth hanging open.

  That fucking perfect mouth. The mouth I’ve dreamed about ever since the wedding.

  “You nearly ruined it in there.” I speak quietly so that she’s forced to move slightly closer to hear me. “Why?”

  “I was testing him. I need to know he’s serious.”

  “It’s Tony Cowan. You roll the dice with a man like him.”

  “That’s what everyone thinks, but we’re going to be different. We’re making this movie happen. Or are you too busy fucking your little coeds to put in the work?”

  I tighten my jaw. She has no clue why I do what I do. Why I sleep with these girls, and keep on sleeping with them, because it never satisfies me.

  It never fills the hole she left the night of that wedding.

  No, I can’t tell her that, because the best sex of my life officially never happened.

  I can’t think about her looking up into my eyes as she sucked my cock and played with her own pussy. I imagine fucking her tight pussy again and again as she moans in my ear.

  I can’t remember the way she came, and kissed me, and licked my fingers clean.

  “We’re in this together, Webb. Don’t forget.”

  “I won’t. Will you?”

  I shake my head and release her.

  She brushes past me and out to the car. I follow her, waiting for another shotgun blast, but there’s nothing.

  Only an eerie, dead silence from the house, like the old man was never there to begin with.

  A horror movie. Hell, maybe that’s fitting. The old director’s gone absolutely psycho, maybe he’ll be the perfect guy to take the genre to that next level.

  I let Blair walk ahead of me and stare at her ass. Her hips sway and I feel my blood boil in my veins. I have to ball my hands into fists to keep myself under control.

  Because otherwise, I’m going to tear her to shreds.

  She has no clue why I fuck around the way that I do. The girls I sleep with are meaningless, and I didn’t know they bothered her until now. It kills me, knowing she’s goddamn jealous.

  When all I want is to destroy her.

  But that’s exactly why I can’t.

  There’s something inside of me. Something dark and hot and hungry. The monster beneath my flesh is the reason I was so driven to ruin the Crawford family. The monster is the reason I’m so driven to start this company and break out on my own.