Chapter 1

"Attention, attention!" says the seventy-nine year old grandma in style. The little girl laughs. "Today is January the tenth, the birthday of my beloved granddaughter Sarah. Blow out the candles and make a wish, sweetheart." The pretty little blonde-haired blue-eyed nine-year-old girl smiles and blows all the candles out. "What did you wish for, Sarah?"

"I can't tell you, Nana, or it won't come true."

"Just get it done. I don't understand the problem. I wrote the novel. Somebody wants to turn that novel into a movie and all I want is a say in how the movie is done. Is that so much to ask for? If you can't do that what the hell am I paying you for?"

"Alright, alright, Christopher, I'm working on it. Their concern is you have no experience in the movie field."

"I'm a successful author with ten novels to my credit. Two of them are best sellers. I served my country in war. If they don't trust me enough to let me have an input into turning one of my novels into a movie, then why should I trust them to do justice to my novel? It's go time, Cathy. It's time to show our worth."

On the other end of the phone Christopher's literary agent Cathy Herrington sighs and says, "Don't worry, I'll get it done."

"Good girl, now that is what I like to hear." he says it in a near condescending tone of voice. Without saying goodbye he slams his phone down and says, "Jesus Christ, I don't understand what the f•©king problem is."

His success has made him arrogant. His withdrawn loner persona has made him mean and surely. He is a six-foot two hundred pound thirty-five-year old man with short brown hair and brown eyes who has pretty much alienated everybody who once cared enough to get to know the successful writer and Army Ranger veteran. His body is still muscular from his Special Forces days, but his honor has been put aside for fame and fortune.

Cathy Herrington, of the Herrington and Smith Literary Agency, is a five foot four inch one hundred and twenty pound pretty and fit sweetheart with medium long brunette hair and hazel eyes who is thirty-two years old and has recently been thinking that she is too old to be taking crap from a writer that everybody else has written off. Though, that doesn't stop his books from selling, but it doesn't make for much of a social life.

Christopher likes his old style looking phone. It looks like a phone from the twenties, but it is a cordless handset. He likes that kind of phone because of the nostalgia of it, and he can be dramatic when slamming it down and it makes him feel better when he does it.

Christopher is in his multi-million dollar home in the Hollywood Hills wearing his plain brown pajamas with an olive drab tee shirt on that says US Army Rangers. After he hangs up with Cathy he picks up his rock gut whiskey from the glass-top end table and walks over to the glass wall that overlooks his backyard with the pool in it with the same kind of rock design that is in his den around the fireplace. As he is looking west he is watching the last remnants of the sun disappear beyond the horizon. At least he hasn't become so cynical that he can't see the beauty of a sunset.

Christopher sighs with annoyance and walks over to his early sixties style couch and grabs the remote off of the glass-top living room table. He sits down none-to-gently and throws his legs up on the couch as he twists so he can see the flat screen television that is on the south wall. First he pushes a button that is in a box of buttons that do one thing or another, and he pushes the button that brings the fireplace that is in the east wall to life.

Once he has situated himself he turns the television on and starts channel surfing. He goes to the sports channels first and finds nothing of interest, "Oh God, basketball! Let's see, the Super Bowl isn't for another week." So he goes to the news channel to see how the liberal politicians have screwed his country up this week, and hopefully to get some sports results. He gets the weather and sighs with annoyance as he sees rain is coming on Thursday. He doesn't know why he should be surprised, since it is the middle of January of the year two thousand and twelve and they need the rain.

He turns to one of his favorite movie channels and finds a movie playing that he has always liked, but now that he is about to have one of his books made into a movie all he can do is spot the mistakes they made as he says, "Ah, I can do better than that!" As his annoyance grows he turns the television off and takes a big drink of his whiskey. "Ah, smooth." he says, absolutely sure he could make a better whiskey than that.

As he sits there listening to the sounds of silence, he watches the shadows dancing on the north wall from the fireplace in the east wall and he looks around at his stylish den, and in his mind's eye he can see his expensive secluded home and he wonders why that, even though he has a lot of nice stuff, his life seems empty.

For a moment he regrets the way he talked to Cathy, and then he says out loud to anyone who will listen, "I pay her a lot of money to be at my beck and call, so when I call she can beck, whatever the f•©k that means?" Even though it is early, only six pm, he decides to turn in.

With one final sigh he finishes off his whiskey and gets up. He turns everything off as he goes. Not a single light stays on when he is not up and or around. He grew up in Northern California with a single mom and a two-year-older brother named Alex. He never wants to live like that again, so he has become a little stingy.

If he would just stop and think about it, he would realize maybe they didn't have much money, but they had love and laughter. His mom Martha is living in an old folks trailer park, and he sends her money so he doesn't have to deal with her too often. His brother is always busy with his life and family, but they manage to talk on birthdays and holidays. Their father has long since been gone, and good riddance.

Christopher finally makes his way to the bedroom. The headboard of the king size bed is a wooden piece of art built in the same kind of rock that is around the fireplace and the pool. It is a little chilly, since he doesn't want to turn the heater on too high, so he pulls his blankets high and tight.

He lies there a second staring at the stucco ceiling imagining other worlds and other times. Again he sighs at the fruitlessness of it all, and reaches over and turns off the lamp with the green shade on his black oak nightstand, and two hours later he falls asleep.

He is still in bed when the phone rings at eight o'clock in the morning of the coming Tuesday. He picks up the phone still tired from a shaky night. "Yeah."

"Hi, this is Karen and we are doing a survey on..."

"Son of a bitch!" he says as he slams the phone down and throws the covers off of him. This is not the start to the day he was hoping for.