The White Night Read Online Free PDF Page A

through
the gap.
    I need the money,
You need people to love you again.
    Well, I mean, like
big time love you. Not just the folks you meet at a deli or walking down the
street. I know you need to sit on the couches of late night shows and get
invited to Eastwood’s ranch. Not me. All I need is for Dayton and Ashley to
look up to me again, and for Toni to chill the hell out.
    I’m trying, okay?
Please just get off my ass. I can’t make people take my ideas for a new
series. I can’t make the people who sign the checks sign the fucking checks.
Don’t you get it? This is out of my control. I have no say in this whatsoever.
None. And that’s exactly why I had to go crawling back to Ford and beg him to
do this. He’s the talent. He’s the show. He’s Batman. I’m Robin.
    The almighty Ford
Atticus Ford was the show. He was Graveyard: Confidential all by
himself. He was the gas, the engine, and the body of the Corvette.
    I was the can of
soda in the cup holder.
    Maybe I had
my own little cult following, but the spotcamgirls were never going out of
their way to send me naked pictures of themselves, no matter how much
Ford tried to placate me.
    For God’s sake,
this coffee… Tastes like it’s been filtered through desiccated dog turds.
    Desiccated. Word
of the day right there.
    If Ford will just
do the documentary—two weeks of shooting, we kick this demon’s ass, and then we
go home. Little bit of promo around Christmas during the release, sit through a
few press junkets, and we’re golden. I cash in on a few mil, and then I can
disappear again. Maybe the kids will like me. Maybe Toni will stop looking at
me the way she does. She doesn’t even try to hide the disappointment anymore,
not even after I dropped the pounds.
    It was never about
the fat, was it, Toni? Always the money. I dropped seventy-three pounds for
you; the biceps, the pecs, the six-pack, the tan? I thought that’s what you
wanted, but no, the money. The stupid money. I wish I’d never said yes to Ford
back at that asylum.
    You will fall.
    So many years
later, and that continues to pop up in the back of my mind now and again. How
did it know? Or did it? Could’ve been talking about me tripping down the stairs
later that night. And yet, here we are, Toni.
    Answer me this, sweetheart ,
when did dollar signs replace the love and affection?
    Was it after
season two, when the sponsorships really started rolling in?
    The shoes, the
fast food joints, the online investment websites—nobody at TPC headquarters had
ever seen anything like it. Such amazing offers right up front for two goobers
with a camera and some bad jokes. All we had to do was shill a product, and the
bank accounts would runneth over like that Jesus cup thing.
    Those were the
days, weren’t they, Ford?
    Looks like the
tide is heading out. Should I go to the gym today or take it easy?
    It’s, what, leg
day? Don’t be a cliché, Mike, everybody loves skipping leg day.
    Up and at ‘em, old
boy. Get moving. To Do List. To do, to do.
    Hit the gym. Check
in with Ford, then call Carla. Status update on the documentary.
    I should—
    “Mike?”
    Lost in the
randomness of my own runaway thought train, I hadn’t heard the patio door open,
and Toni’s voice scares the bejesus out of me. I jump, spin around to face her,
and feel the lukewarm coffee splash on my toes.
    “Oh, hey, you’re
up early.”
    “You didn’t answer
the phone.”
    Hair mussed and
sleepy-eyed, she still looks phenomenal in one of my t-shirts and nothing else.
Obviously, I don’t mind that she’s never broken the habit of sleeping in the
nude—man’s a man, am I right?—and will only throw on a t-shirt to come
downstairs if she thinks the kids might be awake. They’re old enough to throw
out a few jabs of “Gross, Mom,” and, “Dad, make her put some clothes on!” but I
chuckle and ignore them. It’s one of the only awesome things left over from the
good times.
    The other is her meatloaf.
    She