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59 The voice on the phone
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2025-10-06 19:38:05
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The Actor's Contract 92 More secrets
Date = 8 AugustPlace = San Francisco (Black Pit)POV - EnriqueJust as I reach the entrance — just before I run into the kitchen — I hear Rosa’s voice from inside.It’s not loud. But something in it stops me cold. I lean against the wall and peep through the open door.“Sky … garota (Portuguese = girl) … you don’t understand. It’s complicated.”There’s a tremble in it. No, not just a tremble. A rawness. Like something bleeding behind her words.Damion’s gone. Mel’s gone. Axel must be waiting down the hall. But I can’t move. I can’t stop listening.Aria’s hand flies to her heart like she’s trying to keep it from falling straight out of her chest.Sky’s eyes shine — not with tears, but with that fierce, armored fury that only shows up when grief gets tired of being quiet. She barks a laugh — sharp, humorless, the kind that makes the hairs on your arms stand up.“Oh, I’m dating complicated.”Aria elbows her — gently, but enough to remind her she’s not alone.“Tone,” she whispers.Sky ti
The Actor's Contract 91 A car, a knife, and a hair
Date = 8 AugustPlace = San Francisco (Black Pit)POV - Enrique“I need some food,” Jackson mutters like he’s issuing a court order, not stating a basic human need. His voice is low, sharp, and tinged with that ever-present irritation that makes you want to punch him or feed him. Probably both.“Thank heaven,” Miguel exhales dramatically two steps behind us, throwing his head back like he’s just crossed a desert. “I thought I’m never tasting food again.”Poor bastard. Being my twin’s unofficial emotional support minion must be exhausting. And they’re the same flavor of broody, which means any day now they’ll either start a bromance podcast or feature in a crime documentary titled ‘Deadly Men With Even Deadlier Silences’.But he’s right. I’m starving. My stomach is eating itself.The smell hits us before we reach the entrance — fresh-baked bread still warm from the oven, garlic butter melting into a sinful substance, and something thick and meaty that smells so good it could persuade a
The Actor's Contract 90 Hunger has no bounds
Date = 8 AugustPlace = San Francisco (Black Pit)POV - AriaThe kitchen hums with low chatter and clattering pans — right up until Sky lifts her hand to her mouth and goes perfectly still. Her eyes lock on the doorway, and the warmth in the room drains like someone cracked a thermostat to freezing.“Fock,” she breathes.A shadow fills the entrance.“I fucking told you to stay in bed and rest,” a deep voice growls.My shoulders jump. My spine snaps straight. Sky just smirks at the storm walking straight toward her, slow and wicked, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment.Slowly, I turn to look at him — I haven’t seen him up close since the crash. Not really seen him. Just a moment here, a second there, a brief blur at the funeral.He looks like absolute shit. Well, as close to shit as a hunk like him can get.Dark shadows bruise the skin beneath those scary eyes. His hair is a mess — more than usual — and he’s pale in that gray kind of way that comes from sleepless nights and t
The Actor's Contract 89 Kitchen gossip
Date = 8 AugustSad days pass more slowly than others.Place = San Francisco (Black Pit)Everyone’s settled in.POV - AriaDrawn on by the scent of roasted garlic and warm bread, I slide down the hall. The huge farmhouse kitchen feels almost too small for the crowd of women packed inside, sleeves rolled up, hands busy with dough and spoons and secrets. It’s alive with chatter — the kind that rises and falls like music between bursts of laughter.Some are young, faces glowing with mischief — others move more slowly, practiced and sure — all under the sharp eyes of Rosa, the matriarch of this warm, flour-dusted kingdom. Pies cool on the windowsill, pastries brown in the oven, pots simmer on the stove, and gossip fills every space the scent of baking doesn’t.“You must be careful,” I hear Lili’s great-grandma, Alice, caution gently. “You kids are a little wild.”She’s Alberto Garcia’s mother. And also Ash Blackburn’s grandmother. The widow of George.I don’t know the full sad story — jus
The Actor's Contract 88 Funeral
Date = 4 AugustPlace = San Francisco (Black Pit - family graveyard)POV - EnriqueAria’s voice sounds up, thin but strong. “I don’t think she’d want us to be sad, you know. Kiara.”I swallow hard. My throat burns. “She’d want a fight. A scene. A hell of a lot of noise. She’d want us to get the bastards who did this to her.”“We will.” A small smile tugs at Aria’s lips, though her eyes are wet.“I’m gonna miss her,” she whispers.“Yeah,” I say. My chest tightens. “Me too.”We reach the edge, and the little cemetery comes into full view. The wrought-iron gate, small and simple, stands half-open. Inside, headstones are planted in neat rows beneath the shade of cypress trees, their roots curling through the earth like old scars. The grass is trimmed, the lavender is blooming, and the paths are lined with soft, white sand.And at the center, waiting, is the raw wound of a grave not yet filled. The earth is fresh, black, and raw — carved open just for her.A small cluster of mourners stand
The Actor's Contract 87 On our way to a grave
Date = 4 AugustFour days of mourning her death.Place = San Francisco (Black Pit - family graveyard)Laying her to rest with the others.POV - EnriqueAugust in San Francisco is a month of restless fog. Early mornings are soft-edged and salt-damp, the air thick with brine, seaweed, and the faint tang of sourdough rising from unseen kitchens. Bougainvillea burns pink against weathered Victorians, and gulls wheel and scream above the piers.Mid-days are slow to warm up, but when the sun cuts through the mist, the city smells of roasting coffee, grilled corn, and warm bread drifting from corner bakeries. Lemons hang heavy in backyard trees. Blackberries tangle in hidden alleys, staining fingertips purple.The city is slowly shifting toward autumn, but August still clings to its feast of ripeness — a season fat with sweetness before the long dry light of September.A September Kiara will never see.A narrow cobblestone footpath winds lazily through the orchard, uneven and old, each stone
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