The Killing Bind

Chapter 3: Chances Lost and A life saved

The address was five-one-four Finch Drive, Beverly hills. It was only 14 minutes from Santa Monica, where Christopher lived. Christopher Martin rang the doorbell. It was surrounded by gold. Yet it wasn't a surprise for him. Most of the directors he visited had one thing or the other. He didn't know the price. But he damn well knew it would be expensive. He waited for a few moments; the door didn't open. He thought of walking away. The man on the other side of the door was a director. He was a busy man. Yet Christopher thought he would open as the director was the one to call him. He rang it again. This time the door was opened by a woman, probably the director's assistant. She was young with a slender build, a pretty and pale face with brown long hair tied up in a ponytail. Just got out of university, Christopher presumed.

She smiled at Cristopher and said, "Good evening Mr. Martin."

Christopher just smiled.

"Come in, Mr. Finch will see you in a few." She walked away, probably to tell the director that Christopher Martin is here to see him.

He sat down on a smooth leather sofa. It was cold from the air conditioning that had was blasted on. He got up as he heard footsteps coming closer; it was out of respect and habit. He sat back down as it was not the director whom he had thought the footsteps belonged to. It was another man. A good body, well built. He looked younger than Christopher. Maybe five years younger, maybe six. He wasn't exactly a good-looking person, his face had scars. Bad ones. The man wasn't looking at him, not around the house. But directly to the ground. Christopher saw the man walk out of the door. He could see golden and silver awards with the director's name engraved on the base. Some of them were for best picture, some for best director.

A few moments later, another man came from the back. Christopher got up from his sofa again. The man was followed by the woman who greeted him at the door. William Finch was in his mid-fifties. His right age can be found on google.

William Finch walked towards Christopher and said, "You must be Mr. Martin."

Christopher smiled, shook his hand, and then said, "Call me Kit, please. It's an honor to be here."

Everyone calls him Kit. His mother called him that first. In school, friends and even some teachers used to call him by that name. Christopher was a big name. He liked the name Kit.

"Kit it is then, and you can call me Will."

They both sat down in silence for a few moments. Finch was looking at him. Kit was five-nine and well built. He had brown hair and his face was oval. He liked to think of himself as an average-looking guy. Kit's blue eyes met the piercing brown ones of Finch. Then the silence broke.

"I wasn't expecting a call from you, sir." Said Kit

"I heard a lot about you from Jacob." Replied Finch. Jacob was an old friend. Way back from high school. He's an actor now. He had recently finished a film with Finch.

Kit said nothing in return, he just smiled.

"He said you have some great stories; I'm looking for new projects and I want something new, something that could show the audience the power and influence of young writers like you."

"Thank you, sir, I do have some material with me."

Finch gestured to Kit to show him them.

He took two batches of paper out of his shoulder strap bag. He took a moment or two looking at the papers. Deciding which one to read first. He picked one. Both sat, Christopher had his face in the paper. Finch's eyes were on Kit for a moment and then he picked a bottle of wine that was on the coffee table and poured it into a wine glass and began drinking. Kit was still reading his story. It was more telling than reading. He knew his stories in's and out's. Kit's eyes not on his paper anymore, he was looking at Finch, it looked like Finch wasn't listening anymore. But he kept on.