In Hollywood, even lies have a longer memory than men!

From a writer who is unafraid to drag old Hollywood by the throat comes a raw, street-bitten noir carved from real American dirt. Book Two dives deeper into the lies men lived, the deals they struck, and the bodies they stepped over to stay alive. In this satirical world, truth isn’t a virtue—it’s leverage. And the price of survival is paid in secrets, silence, and blood.

“Yes, but what did you do to get that part? I WANT to know what exactly you did to you to get that part? What code did you violate? What law did you break? What did you do that lead you down the fucking rabbit hole Marc? It’s all about 3s, isn’t it? But to get to 3 we must first at least have 1.”

Marc Able had always feared the truth would kill him long before any headline could. But out in that desert—beneath the crackling fire, beneath the laughter that wasn’t quite laughter—his secret stopped being a ghostand became a weapon with a pulse. Not swung by strangers this time, but turned inward, razor-sharp. For years he’d buried the memory beneath fame, beneath bottle after bottle, beneath the pretty lies a man tells himself when the mirror starts asking questions he can’t answer. But confession has its own gravity, and once spoken, it pulled everything with it.

First came the place—The Beverly Wilshire. Then the man: the smile, the stall, the deal struck in shadows. The truth wasn’t scandal. It was surrender. And the wound he carried wasn’t from the touch of another man—it was from the moment he sold a piece of himself he never got back. The crime wasn’t in the act. It was in the permission. His permission.

When Jimmy Mind heard the final words, when the gents saw Marc’s mask crack for the first time, a different silence settled over the desert. Not judgement— recognition. The kind a man feels when he’s finally cornered by his own reflection.

And as the flames bent low and the night thickened, Marc realized something colder than any scandal sheet revelation:

His enemies weren’t the ones who printed the stories.

They were the ones who already knew how much he’d bled to become a king— and how much more he’d bleed before they were done.