Free Bad Boy Boss by Abby Chance Page B

The only lie he can tell is a lie of omission, with his mouth shut. And basically, what is acting? It’s a form of controlled lying. A form of being something, someone you’re not. He’s an artist, consumed with being who he is, not who he isn’t. He can’t act because it’s the antithesis of what he is.”
    “I never heard it explained like that,” said Pauley. “And yet it makes perfect sense. An actor will tell you it’s assuming another persona on purpose, but basically it’s just lying. And if you can’t lie, you can’t act.”
    “So how about you?” asked Anabelle, looking at me.
    “Oh, I am good at it. My dad was really strict; I mean a cop and all that. If I wanted to do anything at all in high school, I had to build a whole web of lies, keep them all straight and all together or I’d get caught.”
    “And you just got a job on America’s second most favorite sitcom,” said Pauley .“Sort of makes one reconsider the value of education.”
    “There’s education,” I said, “and then there’s education. When you screw it up, they start calling it experience.”
    I asked to have my family up before I started the show so they came up on Thursday and took my cabin; my mother, father and sixteen-year-old brother. My dad took a sick day, knowing I had to be in LA on Sunday. That night, Peter really showed off, smoking two ducks for Peking Duck.
    The girl next door in Sugarloaf was luscious and my brother sort of disappeared; she was stacked and underappreciated. It was a very nice visit until Saturday afternoon.
    Peter wanted to try the first of the three costumes that would finish the book, so we were coming home from the photo shoot about three and my ex, Jimmy, was leaning on his hood outside the door. I was instantly sick to my stomach.
    “Hello, Lisa,” Jimmy drawled, then went right into the reason for being here. “People around me don’t leave. It creates a bad impression.” With that, he drew his nine-millimeter.
    Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my father assess the situation. He ducked back inside and came out with his pistol.
    Peter looked, and then started walking confidently toward Jimmy, who responded by pointing the gun right at Peter
    “Look to your right, Jimmy,” said Peter. “The man with the gun is a cop. He won’t stop shooting until his gun is empty. And he’ll do that soon, if you even look like you’ll squeeze the trigger. Go ahead, shoot. I might survive, but you won’t. The only guarantee here, Jimmy, is that you won’t survive. Hand me the gun, get in your car and drive away. Okay, we both love her; I really can’t imagine a straight man that wouldn’t. I promise to do my best by her. Now hand me the gun, Jimmy. Because if you don’t, you’ll die, and neither of us wants that. And Cash happens to be my cousin, so if you fire of your whole magisine of perfect shots, you’ll still be a corpse in the making,” Peter held out his hand.
    Jimmy handed the gun to Peter, got in his black Lincoln and left.
    Peter flipped the Glock around and handed it grip first, to my dad. Dad automatically popped out the clip and made sure there were no rounds in the chamber. Once satisfied, he slipped it into his waistband. Only when it was out of sight did I begin to breathe normally again.
    “Process it or not,” Peter said. “The word in the Valley is that there are two murders attached to it. I rather doubt it, because Jimmy is a world class wuss. Still, I’m glad you were here. I don’t like guns, don’t own any and have no plans to buy one.”
    “I looked you up on the net, you’re a known hunter,” said my Dad.
    “You have your most accurate weapon here?” answered Peter.
    “I only use a pistol, I don’t hunt.”
    “Then come along.” He looked at me, “you’ve got dinner handled?”
    He took his bow and a quiver of arrows and they left.
    Of course I asked. His cabin had a fifty yard range down its side. Apparently, Peter out shot my Dad shot by shot