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Authors: Katherine Sutcliffe
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minuscule pieces while she watched.
What could she say? Nothing, of course. He had every right to be angry. Every right to rip his images into shreds. And he did a good job of it, much to her great disappointment. Jaw locked, the muscles of his face so tense that its every angle and hollow were exaggerated, Carlyle purposefully tore each and every photo of his face down the middle, right between his exceptional blue eyes, as if he were a psychopath intent on the mutilation of some hated enemy—or a man intent on self-destruction.
When the photos lay in a pile like discarded confetti, he reached for the negatives and lighter in hand, touched the flame to the dark strips one by one, watching as they curled and melted.
Finally, he pocketed the lighter and sat back, pleased with himself. Smug.
Doing her best to relax and to keep her focus, Alyson sipped her coffee, decided it needed more sugar, and reached for the dispenser. "You know, your attempt to camouflage your identity by becoming Mick Warner from Dark Night in Jericho is ridiculous. There isn't anyone, aside from a few tribes of Zulus on the African plains, who hasn't seen that movie at least a dozen times. Still one of Blockbuster's most rented videos. The poster of you in black leather pants, shirtless, and wailing into a microphone is still selling fifteen years later. Sexy. So was Mick Warner."
He said nothing, just stared at her so coldly she expected her coffee to ice over.
Alyson sipped her coffee again and tried to keep her hand from shaking. Still, the cup clattered against the saucer as she set it down. "Funny. Or maybe it's not so funny. Your life has mirrored Mick Warner's. He was a rock star whose career was nearly destroyed by drugs. You're a movie star whose career began to erode because of your alcoholism. But, unlike you, Mick didn't bury himself away in B.F.E. after he hit rock bottom. He overcame the obstacles that life threw in his path. I think that's why the moviegoers loved him so. He represented everyone who ever found himself beaten down by life and circumstance. He rallied. Like Rocky Balboa. An underdog who fought his way back to win the hearts of all disbelievers."
"Only to have a fan blow out his brains in the end," Carlyle pointed out in a monotone, his expression unchanging. "Life's a bitch, and then you die."
"Another parallel. Someone who calls herself Anticipating is sending you love letters. And you're afraid that if you crawl out of this town, she's going to put a bullet in your head."
"Obviously I don't have to crawl out of this town for her to put a bullet in my head. She's here already. Somewhere." His eyes cut to the front window, as if expecting to find Anticipating peering in at him through the tinted glass.
"And you don't want to end up like Mick Warner, bleeding to death on a dark, rain-slick street, Technicolor life fading to black and white as he dies." Narrowing her eyes, Alyson added, "Or maybe you really don't care if your existence fades to black and white. Maybe your only concern is for your aunt and uncle, and how your death would affect them."
His brows drew together. "I won't talk about my family."
"What will you talk about?"
"Nothing. Not to you."
"I can help you. If you let me."
"That's a lot of bull crap. No one does anyone a favor without getting something in return."
"I never said I didn't want something in return." She reached for her purse. He tensed, and for an instant looked as if he might bolt. But something kept him from it. Perverse curiosity, perhaps.
She dug into her big, deep bag and withdrew the hardcover book with his photograph on the cover. She slid it across the table, next to his forgotten cup of coffee. An expression of surprise momentarily replaced his stony anger as he stared at it, his face at first turning bloodless, then as dark red as it had in Sheriff Dillman's company.
Brandon Carlyle
HOLLYWOOD HELLION
an
Unauthorized Biography
Alyson frowned, a sick
What could she say? Nothing, of course. He had every right to be angry. Every right to rip his images into shreds. And he did a good job of it, much to her great disappointment. Jaw locked, the muscles of his face so tense that its every angle and hollow were exaggerated, Carlyle purposefully tore each and every photo of his face down the middle, right between his exceptional blue eyes, as if he were a psychopath intent on the mutilation of some hated enemy—or a man intent on self-destruction.
When the photos lay in a pile like discarded confetti, he reached for the negatives and lighter in hand, touched the flame to the dark strips one by one, watching as they curled and melted.
Finally, he pocketed the lighter and sat back, pleased with himself. Smug.
Doing her best to relax and to keep her focus, Alyson sipped her coffee, decided it needed more sugar, and reached for the dispenser. "You know, your attempt to camouflage your identity by becoming Mick Warner from Dark Night in Jericho is ridiculous. There isn't anyone, aside from a few tribes of Zulus on the African plains, who hasn't seen that movie at least a dozen times. Still one of Blockbuster's most rented videos. The poster of you in black leather pants, shirtless, and wailing into a microphone is still selling fifteen years later. Sexy. So was Mick Warner."
He said nothing, just stared at her so coldly she expected her coffee to ice over.
Alyson sipped her coffee again and tried to keep her hand from shaking. Still, the cup clattered against the saucer as she set it down. "Funny. Or maybe it's not so funny. Your life has mirrored Mick Warner's. He was a rock star whose career was nearly destroyed by drugs. You're a movie star whose career began to erode because of your alcoholism. But, unlike you, Mick didn't bury himself away in B.F.E. after he hit rock bottom. He overcame the obstacles that life threw in his path. I think that's why the moviegoers loved him so. He represented everyone who ever found himself beaten down by life and circumstance. He rallied. Like Rocky Balboa. An underdog who fought his way back to win the hearts of all disbelievers."
"Only to have a fan blow out his brains in the end," Carlyle pointed out in a monotone, his expression unchanging. "Life's a bitch, and then you die."
"Another parallel. Someone who calls herself Anticipating is sending you love letters. And you're afraid that if you crawl out of this town, she's going to put a bullet in your head."
"Obviously I don't have to crawl out of this town for her to put a bullet in my head. She's here already. Somewhere." His eyes cut to the front window, as if expecting to find Anticipating peering in at him through the tinted glass.
"And you don't want to end up like Mick Warner, bleeding to death on a dark, rain-slick street, Technicolor life fading to black and white as he dies." Narrowing her eyes, Alyson added, "Or maybe you really don't care if your existence fades to black and white. Maybe your only concern is for your aunt and uncle, and how your death would affect them."
His brows drew together. "I won't talk about my family."
"What will you talk about?"
"Nothing. Not to you."
"I can help you. If you let me."
"That's a lot of bull crap. No one does anyone a favor without getting something in return."
"I never said I didn't want something in return." She reached for her purse. He tensed, and for an instant looked as if he might bolt. But something kept him from it. Perverse curiosity, perhaps.
She dug into her big, deep bag and withdrew the hardcover book with his photograph on the cover. She slid it across the table, next to his forgotten cup of coffee. An expression of surprise momentarily replaced his stony anger as he stared at it, his face at first turning bloodless, then as dark red as it had in Sheriff Dillman's company.
Brandon Carlyle
HOLLYWOOD HELLION
an
Unauthorized Biography
Alyson frowned, a sick
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