Hunted - 8

Brice tossed the script down on the table with an angry glare at the rest of the people sitting around it. “You’re killing me off?” he growled, sounding like the character he played on the show.

“Only temporarily,” one of the writers said cautiously. She didn’t want him to turn on her, but felt it implicit upon herself to point out that fact, as no one else had.

“How long is ‘temporarily’?” Brice asked coldly.

“Six weeks,” the director told him. “Enough time to get your fans rallying to bring you back. It makes for great publicity.”

Brice scowled at him. “And just what am I supposed to do during this hiatus, take up knitting?”

“You knit?” his co-star asked snarkily. “I thought all you did was…” A cautionary throat clearing from the director shut him up.

“Brice, it’s not the end of the world,” the co-director told him. “Take the time to relax. Maybe go on a vacation; get away from the city for a while.”

Brice took a deep breath to rein in his temper and nodded. “Yeah I can do that I guess. But,” his temper flared again as he headed to the door, “by all that’s holy, if this is just your way to get rid of me, I’ll sue the whole damned lot of you for breach of contract and anything else my lawyer can think of.”

Once outside the room, he strode down the hallway, anger and tension rolling off him so strongly that people he passed almost jumped to get out of his way. When he got into his car in the studio parking lot, he slammed his fist against the steering wheel.

“What the fuck’s going on in my life,” he raged. “First the idiot walks out on me and now this. Who do they think they’re screwing around with?” He turned the key in the ignition and moments later the red Ferrari was racing out of the lot, barely missing an oncoming car.

Several minutes later Brice screeched to a stop in front of the building housing his condo, jumped out of the car, and tossed the keys to the valet as he stormed past him. When he got into his place he poured a good stiff drink which he downed in two quick gulps, after which he poured another. With that one in hand he went out onto his balcony to lean against the railing and look out over the city.

He sipped the second drink slowly, his expression tight with emotion. Then he took out his cell, dialed a number and when his call was answered he said sharply, “You, here, now,” and hung up without waiting for a response.