Page 96 of Nothing Special X: The Last Stand

River Blackwell

River Blackwell was Celestine Ashford’s son by blood, Bennett Ashford’s son by paperwork.

He walked down the west hallway of their house—Celestine Seas Manor—a sprawling stone monument on Pacific Coast Highway above Carbon Beach.

Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the sound of waves broke against the shoreline with an overlapping, insistent pattern.

River had been on his way to his stepfather’s office to tell him he was going to visit his mother. A quick courtesy, because Bennett liked knowing everything, even regarding the people he didn’t care much about.

He’d just turned the corner when he heard Bennett cursing.

Not the annoyed profanity he used on studio calls or when fussing with his mother’s management team.

This was uglier. Meaner.

River stopped two doors away from the office and listened.

Bennett’s voice carried through the heavy door, loaded with a fury he didn’t recognize.

“What is taking so fuckin’ long? How hard can it be to get one clueless actor? He was alone on the lot. Alone at home. Twice, he was right in front of you, and neither of you could do the job you were paid generously to for.”

A man answered with a rough voice. “If you want this done now, the price goes up.”

Bennett gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“I’ve already paid you.”

“You paid half, for a different job.” A second man spoke this time, quieter than the first but just as gruff. “The kid doesn’t have studio rent-a-cops around him anymore. He has new muscle.”

“So what?”

“Maybe do your goddamn homework before you start throwing money at troubles you don’t understand,” the first man snapped. “These guys are professionals. Whoever Vale has around him now, they’re fuckin’ tactical cops. They’re not gonna let us just walk up on him.”

“That’s your problem.” Bennett’s voice shifted from left to right, as if he were pacing. “You said you could handle this.”

“And now I’m telling you what handling it costs,” the second man said. “We need more men. More eyes. And a sharpshooter.”

River’s breath stopped.

Shooter.

“Whoa. I didn’t say I wanted Xander Vale dead,” Bennett said sharply.

“I didn’t say dead either. I said a shooter. A marksman can take him out of commission without a kill shot. Leg. Shoulder. Something crippling that’ll shut down the filming and scare him away.”

River pressed his palm against the wall, nausea stirring in his gut.

He’d known Bennett was stressed. Spiraling, even. But he never thought he was capable of this.

Real violence. Criminal stuff.

There were actual men in his stepfather’s office talking about hurting Xander Vale as if it was their day job.

Since Xander’s film had overtaken his mom’s, their house had been falling apart.

Celestine Ashford was Hollywood royalty, the kind of star whose films would go down in the history books as the greatest of all time, a class act younger actresses bowed to.