Six and Counting

Chapter 8

                “One more round, Shane?”

                “Nah, Angie, I’m feelin’ the time change. I’ll drop you at your place and head home. I have a phone call to make.” Visualizing a four-story beach house when “home” was mentioned, as well as its occupants, was a bitter pill to swallow. Shane pulled himself to his feet in preparation for leaving the restaurant and returning to his silent penthouse overlooking Central Park.

                “Party pooper,” grumbled his literary agent of five years, Angie Donovan. Red haired, with the boisterous personality to match the color, Angie likewise climbed out of the red leather booth  following her money-maker and friend as he weaved through the restaurant and out to the curb. Shane used his cell to call the driver, even as the doorman hurried to whistle him up.

                The sidewalk rolled before Shane like an escalator; hadn’t he only tossed a few back? Putting a tentative hand against the curbside tree, Shane glanced quickly at Angie, who grinned back, looking surprisingly more lucid than him.

                Frowning, Shane asked carefully, “How much did I drink?”

                “Sweetie, if you have to ask, it was too much!” Angie laughed at her own humor, which only deepened Shane’s frown. She relented.

                “Don’t beat yourself up, Shane. It’s not every day a book becomes a movie.” His agent grinned, unable to contain herself any more than he.

                “That is very true,” Shane returned sagely, pointing a wavering finger at Angie, even as she chuckled again and stepped towards the car as the chauffer came around to open the door.

                “I am going to be one really rich son-of-a-bitch after this,” Shane commented, easing into the car and narrowly missing cracking his head as he did so. Angie sighed, shook her head, and followed.

                Now, alone and sitting on the couch in the darkened living room of the apartment, Shane tossed his cell phone in the air thoughtfully, sobriety inching back by degrees. The New York skyline stretched before him, but held no interest for Shane. Why the hell did he have to do two talk shows and a magazine shoot? Otherwise he’d be back home in California so much sooner.

               No need to question himself as to why he wanted to leave the Big Apple. He had six very good reasons. And he’d better get crackin’ calling those six reasons before they all went to bed. Tucking his cell between shoulder and left ear after dialing, Shane waited to be connected to the beach house phone. Busy tone. Staring at the offending piece of technology in disbelief, Shane redialed. Busy. Redial. Busy.

                “Who the hell is she talking to?” Shane grumbled, rolling to his feet and heading for his bedroom, flicking on a light as he did so. The fact that Emily was occupied while he attempted to contact her irked him. Another dial, another busy tone. Redial. Busy.

                “Screw this.” Shane pitched the phone onto the bed and stalked into the bathroom, stopping short at the mirror to study himself.

                “You’re pathetic, bro,” he admonished his reflection. Eyes wandering to his hair, Shane continued the one-sided conversation. “You need a haircut.  Going on National TV and you look like a bum.” Pause. “A rich bum, but a bum just the same.” Nodding at himself, Shane returned to the bed, and his phone.