Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
They stayed like that for a while. Neither of them speaking, just enjoying each other’s closeness.
“When I said that I thought maybe it was time for a new line of work I was serious,” Trystan said into the silence. “I don’t think I can do this anymore. I don’t want to do it anymore. Even before Trish’s death I’ve been feeling apathetic about it. I find myself loathing it. Despising everything that goes with it. The lack of privacy, the people constantly vying for my attention, men and women throwing themselves at me. But that’s not the worst of it, Iris. I used to love what I do and now I absolutely despise it. Every role I play is a variation of the same character and I’m bored and just so fucking tired of it. That’s one of the reasons I believe in us, Iris. I could be just a regular guy, and you wouldn’t have to worry about all the other shit that goes along with dating someone like the man I was before. No invasive press, or screaming fans, or long periods apart while I’m on location.”
She propped her chin on the back of her hand to look into his face. He had to know that this was just a lovely dream, that he couldn’t just take a step back and be forgotten. He had one of the most recognizable faces in the world and that wasn’t going to change anytime soon. She didn’t point that out to him and instead she watched him thoughtfully.
“What would you do?” she asked.
His shoulders shifted and he shook his head, the gesture almost helpless.
“I mean, I wouldn’t have to do anything, really. I’ve made enough money for several lifetimes and I’ll be earning a fortune off residuals for the rest of my life.”
“You’d be bored out of your mind in no time,” she scoffed.
“I kind of like carpentry, I could make high-end furniture.”
“Like a reverse Harrison Ford,” she mused. “I could see it. These gorgeous hands were practically made for artisanal work—you’d create beautiful furniture. I still don’t think it’s quite you though.”
“What do you think I should do?”
She smiled and kissed his jaw, her mouth landing on his scar. She liked kissing him there—it made her feel like she was healing it a little more with every affectionate peck. It was stupidly whimsical, but she was prone to occasional—okay, more like frequent—flights of fantasy.
“I need to give it a little more consideration, but for now I think you should help me fix dinner after which, we should cuddle up in the cinema room and watch a movie. My choice.”
He laughed and palmed her face to give her a long, sweet kiss before rolling her off him and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.
“Maybe I should be a chef,” he suggested, smothering a yawn.
“You’re a good cook, but you don’t have enough imagination in the kitchen, I’m afraid,” she told him, her voice filled with feigned regret, and she giggled when he swatted her arse on their way out of the room.
“Christ Almighty,” Trystan groaned when Iris gleefully pushed the start button on her chosen movie. “Where the fuck did you dig this old thing out from?”
“I rented it off one of the streaming services,” she said as she crept under his arm, nestling her head in the crook between his shoulder and armpit, huddling beneath the fleecy blanket as she settled in to watch the movie.
“Fuck, Iris, why would you want to torture me like this?”
“Ssh,” she hissed as the title shimmered onto the screen in a drippy, creepy red font: Night of The Killer Wētās. “It’s starting.” He swore beneath his breath and dug a fistful of popcorn out of their large shared carton.
She squealed in delight when a painfully young Trystan Abbott appeared on the screen in his debut role. He’d been just twenty-one at the time of filming, not yet as big and muscular as he was now. He’d been a tall, skinny, good-looking young man, with striking eyes and moody dark looks. There were hints of the beauty to come, glimpses of his talent in the earnest delivery of every terrible line, and it was clear that he—and every other cast member—were having the time of their lives.
Trystan hooted beside her when Hunter Quinn—the boom operator—appeared in shot, gave the camera a deer-in-the-headlights look and awkwardly edged his way back out of sight. And laughed uproariously when his friend Darryl—who’d cast himself as the hero’s self-sacrificing best friend—died dramatically after having his face gorily chewed off by a gigantic, obviously fake wētā.
The production values were appalling, the special effects horrendous, the acting mostly subpar, but some of the writing was brilliant. Trystan’s talent shone through though, as did Darryl Constanza’s directing skills. There was a reason this train smash of a movie was a cult classic. And it lay in the occasional witty one-liner, the obvious innate acting ability of a future leading man, and the hilarious on-and off-screen gaffes of the inexperienced cast and crew. It was endearing, and it was entertaining from beginning to end.