Read Online Back To The Viper by Antara Mann - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Antara Mann
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I say it, some moments escape me; I’ve had a hard week and…”
“Jesus, buddy, are you developing Alzheimer’s or something? Isn’t it too early for that?” Baumann patted him firmly on the shoulder, and Chad groaned slightly. Reaching the end of the corridor, Baumann opened a door and they found themselves in a spacious studio. Chad gaped with amazement – he had worked at many and various photography studios, but this one was several classes up from all of them. He was surprised, considering how run-down the building looked from outside. He took a step forward hesitantly. On one of the chairs, there was a T-shirt with UNICEF’s logo on it.
“Can we start?” the photographer asked and came closer to them.
“Yes, I can’t wait!” Chad’s eyes lit up – there was Dirk Bryant standing in front of him. He knew his work and was a fan. He couldn’t believe he was going to be photographed by Dirk Bryant himself.
“All right, take off your shirt and put on the UNICEF T-shirt,” Dirk instructed. “Tell me when you’re ready.” His hands were already adjusting the camera lens.
After a while, Chad raised a thumb in a sign of confirmation.
Meanwhile, one of the paparazzi was peeking in from behind a door that had been left ajar. He couldn’t believe his luck – he could take some exclusive photos even before the charity campaign started. He wondered how much the newspaper publishing house would pay for his photographs – 500 dollars, a thousand? Could he ask for a bigger payment?
“I’m afraid that’s all, pal.” Baumann, who had been sitting by the door, closed it right under the paparazzo’s nose. The latter cursed his luck – he had just missed a hot story.
Chapter 13
Craig wasn’t able to fall asleep until late that night at the hotel. He wondered what Monique and his daughter were doing. He tried calling his wife, but she didn’t answer. On the following day, he started early to California. Arriving at his Beverley Hills villa, its beauty left him speechless. There was a big and spacious palm garden. He climbed the long winding stairs and had the feeling he was in a fairytale. His wife also seemed changed somehow. When he had gone home before, she always kissed him and asked how his day had been. Now, she only greeted him apathetically and then went out. She said she was going to play poker with some girlfriends.
Monique had never mentioned to him that she played poker. He didn’t object and accepted her announcement and spent the evening alone with his daughter. When Monique finally got home, Craig was still awake in bed, but she didn’t come to him. Apparently, she didn’t want to wake him up and so she had decided to sleep in the living room.
The next morning, he got up for work as usual at seven thirty. He expected his wife to be preparing breakfast, but instead found some woman cleaning in the kitchen.
“Excuse me, who are you?” he asked hesitantly.
The woman laughed.
“What kind of a question is that? The maid, Mr. Bloomingdale! Don’t you remember?”
“I guess not,” he muttered. Craig began to busy himself around the house. For the first time in many years, he didn’t know what to do. He checked his laptop and smartphone for any messages by Cisco Systems but, as Harry had told him, he’d never worked for them. He did find, however, some reports and contracts with Evernote, Twitter, and all the other companies in which he was an angel investor. He read through the whole correspondence and didn’t realize it was already ten o’clock. Suddenly his computer played a triumphant melody, and he saw a message appear on the screen: “11 o’clock – golf with Michael.” Craig turned it off and exclaimed, “God, what kind of music is that?”
“Hey, what was that?” Monique asked, still sleepy. She had just gotten up.
“Oh, you’ve woken up.” He went and hugged her. “What’s the matter? Why did you sleep so much?”
“Why don’t you tell
“Jesus, buddy, are you developing Alzheimer’s or something? Isn’t it too early for that?” Baumann patted him firmly on the shoulder, and Chad groaned slightly. Reaching the end of the corridor, Baumann opened a door and they found themselves in a spacious studio. Chad gaped with amazement – he had worked at many and various photography studios, but this one was several classes up from all of them. He was surprised, considering how run-down the building looked from outside. He took a step forward hesitantly. On one of the chairs, there was a T-shirt with UNICEF’s logo on it.
“Can we start?” the photographer asked and came closer to them.
“Yes, I can’t wait!” Chad’s eyes lit up – there was Dirk Bryant standing in front of him. He knew his work and was a fan. He couldn’t believe he was going to be photographed by Dirk Bryant himself.
“All right, take off your shirt and put on the UNICEF T-shirt,” Dirk instructed. “Tell me when you’re ready.” His hands were already adjusting the camera lens.
After a while, Chad raised a thumb in a sign of confirmation.
Meanwhile, one of the paparazzi was peeking in from behind a door that had been left ajar. He couldn’t believe his luck – he could take some exclusive photos even before the charity campaign started. He wondered how much the newspaper publishing house would pay for his photographs – 500 dollars, a thousand? Could he ask for a bigger payment?
“I’m afraid that’s all, pal.” Baumann, who had been sitting by the door, closed it right under the paparazzo’s nose. The latter cursed his luck – he had just missed a hot story.
Chapter 13
Craig wasn’t able to fall asleep until late that night at the hotel. He wondered what Monique and his daughter were doing. He tried calling his wife, but she didn’t answer. On the following day, he started early to California. Arriving at his Beverley Hills villa, its beauty left him speechless. There was a big and spacious palm garden. He climbed the long winding stairs and had the feeling he was in a fairytale. His wife also seemed changed somehow. When he had gone home before, she always kissed him and asked how his day had been. Now, she only greeted him apathetically and then went out. She said she was going to play poker with some girlfriends.
Monique had never mentioned to him that she played poker. He didn’t object and accepted her announcement and spent the evening alone with his daughter. When Monique finally got home, Craig was still awake in bed, but she didn’t come to him. Apparently, she didn’t want to wake him up and so she had decided to sleep in the living room.
The next morning, he got up for work as usual at seven thirty. He expected his wife to be preparing breakfast, but instead found some woman cleaning in the kitchen.
“Excuse me, who are you?” he asked hesitantly.
The woman laughed.
“What kind of a question is that? The maid, Mr. Bloomingdale! Don’t you remember?”
“I guess not,” he muttered. Craig began to busy himself around the house. For the first time in many years, he didn’t know what to do. He checked his laptop and smartphone for any messages by Cisco Systems but, as Harry had told him, he’d never worked for them. He did find, however, some reports and contracts with Evernote, Twitter, and all the other companies in which he was an angel investor. He read through the whole correspondence and didn’t realize it was already ten o’clock. Suddenly his computer played a triumphant melody, and he saw a message appear on the screen: “11 o’clock – golf with Michael.” Craig turned it off and exclaimed, “God, what kind of music is that?”
“Hey, what was that?” Monique asked, still sleepy. She had just gotten up.
“Oh, you’ve woken up.” He went and hugged her. “What’s the matter? Why did you sleep so much?”
“Why don’t you tell
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