by Kyle Rutkin
There was nothing about falling in love. A last-minute verbal addition, no doubt.
It was a lot of money. More than I’d ever had to my own name. The fine print said she would pay for plane tickets, hotels, trips, and miscellaneous expenses. The money was for my total commitment. Both of us had final approval over the finished manuscript. Publication required two signatures. She had the right to stop this project at any time. One of the guest bedrooms would be available for me during the project.
She wanted me to live there, at her mansion.
A spot for a signature.
A check for $200,000, signed and dated.
Jez came in, fully clothed. Professional black slacks, a conservative gray sweater, and thick black glasses. No more bouncing tits. The spell of the night was broken. The enchanted castle with all its inhabitants clean and polished by first light.
“Kelly, we’ve got to go. Are you posting?”
Kelly nodded, grabbing her phone and flipping the screen around. She angled her face in the center, recording. “Rise and shine, KTroops. Today I used your letters as inspiration for a new song.” She smiled, reaching for a piece of paper on the floor. “One letter in particular from @KTErica2, who’s been going through a difficult time.” Kelly fixed her hair, then looked into the camera with determined eyes. “Remember, when I returned from my own struggles last year, I promised that I would never abandon you again. Today I’m asking you to make the same promise, Erica. We are in this fight together. No one is left behind. Please pick her up, KTroops. Remember that our armor is forged in fire.”
Kelly stopped recording and handed Jez the phone. “Post that in the car.” Then she turned to me. “So what do you think?”
I was taking it all in. My eyes went back to the enormous painting in the room. The check was in my hands.
“Kaleb,” she pressed. “The offer?”
“Kelly, I am truly intrigued. But—”
She stopped me before I could finish.
“Think about it. I’ll text you later this week. Feel free to make yourself at home.” She paused and followed my gaze back to the painting. “Do you like it? I commissioned it from a talented young artist I found. I’m a fan of Greek mythology. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
“It’s impressive.”
“Which character do you identify with? The monster, the damsel, or the hero?”
I didn’t answer. Kelly already knew.
Before leaving the room, she paused and turned to me once more.
“Did he really do it?”
“Huh?”
“At the end of the book…AJ. Did he really do it?”
I smirked. “Do what?”
She giggled, then she left. I collapsed onto the couch. My gaze lingered on the painting. There was something about it. The green scales of the sea monster rising. Its sharp fangs preparing to dig into the soft flesh of the captured princess. I held the check up to the light. Bob was reading the newspaper on the couch. His legs were crossed, his dark eyes covered by the pages. He looked up, nodded. His eyes went back down.
“Think it over,” he chuckled behind the newspaper.
Jez: Kaleb wasn’t a morning person, I’ll tell you that. It was cute watching them flirt. They were so playful. Kelly was upset that he didn’t sign the contract right away. She was terrified that the paperwork might scare him. But she had to protect herself. Wouldn’t anyone in her position?
Lizzy: No matter what he told you, that guy craved the fame. This was his golden ticket. He’d go from a no-name author to penning a Kelly Trozzo biography. Talk about a step up. But it’s funny, the more I find out about him, I think it was more than that. He wanted other things. Much darker things. Call me crazy, but I think he always imagined this ending.
The Real Kelly Trozzo
TheInsideJuice.com Interview 2019
INSIDEJUICE: That story of your first audition is legendary. That’s when you signed with your manager, Barry Monroe, correct?
TROZZO: Correct.
INSIDEJUICE: There’s been a lot of controversy surrounding Barry, whom you’ve been with your entire career. Why have you been so loyal?
TROZZO: Signing with him was an easy choice. Barry Monroe was a legend in the industry. He was hard to miss in that first audition room—three hundred pounds and a smile that could haunt your dreams. He said it was my eyes that caught his attention. He recognized in me everything he saw in himself…strength and ambition. I wasn’t like those other kids that auditioned day in and day out. He said that most of them were easy prey, mere sheep. But every so often, he found someone like me—a hunter, a wolf.
Those first billboards gave me chills. No matter how cheesy they were, even the one of my face bursting out of a cartoon heart. Every time I saw them, something inside me came alive. I was destined for this life. I can’t say that it wasn’t exciting, dressing up for the premieres, the parties, the private planes. I wasn’t one of those coked-out Hollywood kids either—I never touched a drink or a drug back then. My purpose was too strong. My favorite part of the night was when Barry would see me mingling and schmoozing with investors, and in the middle of a conversation, our eyes would meet. I knew what he saw. He saw a partner.
I imagined I saw a father.
The Blog of Kaleb Reed
July 22, 2019
I haven’t decided how I will end this. If I stay here, they’ll find me. They will barricade me inside this motel room. It’s last place I’ll see as a free man. You would like that, wouldn’t you? Don’t think I don’t see your videos. I read your tweets. I know what you think of me.
I know what I have to do. But I can’t. I just can’t. I’m not ready. I won’t bother calling my lawyer. I’m on my own. This is what I do when I’m on my own. If someone needs me, if someone is counting on me, I’m better. I really am. When I have a purpose.
You don’t believe me?
I hear my phone ringing. It’s Nathan. I don’t even have to look. He’s the only one who would call. No one else would claim me. He’ll tell me to surrender. To flush all the drugs and face this shit like a man. I don’t pick up. I don’t feel like hearing his stern voice. I smash the leg of a chair on top of the phone. It shatters. No more phone. No more interruptions. I feel like staying high.
Much better.
I do miss Nathan.
I met him at my first meeting, back when I ingested cocaine and pills like they were candy. He saw through my bullshit. During my introduction, I announced that I was a writer. What a joke. I hadn’t written shit. One barely readable screenplay. A couple of half-assed short stories. I was twenty-five and full of it. Always loaded. A total amateur. Entirely self-indulgent. Still guilty. Nathan told me that writers didn’t stand up in a meeting and announce that they were writers. They just fucking wrote.
I approached Nathan after meetings. He would grunt like some old bulldog declining a walk. Could I blame him? I was a mess. I used to get high every night, then go to NA with the same bullshit story. I blamed my family for cutting me off. My dad for being an unavailable asshole who hurt my mom. For abandoning her. For abandoning me. I blamed my friends for making drugs so available. But most of all, I blamed myself. For not protecting my kid brother. I’ve kept that guilt. Guarded it like it was sacred. Buried it deep in the shadows so I never had to look. I invested my time and energy into bullshit. Drugs. Distractions. I chose dulling and numbing instead of self-discovery and growth.
California was my answer. Who could go wrong in the Golden State? Manifest Destiny. I could outrun my problems. Leave my failures behind. Seemed logical. But my problems—all problems, all demons—they adore their owners. They follow them like shadows.
One NA meeting, I was getting coffee and Nathan looked at me and mumbled, “You’re a fucking idiot.”
I stood there, wounded. I knew he didn’t like me, but c’mon. Thankfully, he was capable of remorse. At the next meeting, he sat down in a metal chair next to me. Handed me a coffee. A man of very few words.
>
“Want to stop doing drugs?”
I looked at him blankly.
He smacked me in the head with a newspaper.
“Be a man and start writing. Do that, and you won’t care about your stupid pills anymore.”
He stirred his coffee, tried to smile but his stubborn wrinkles were out of practice. He managed a half grin at best.
Our relationship developed slowly. We had…not a friendship, a non-committal sponsorship. He said that at the core of most addictions were people who were scared of their truth. Humans are petrified of God’s will. God’s plan. God’s love. Scared of their potential. The universe rose and fell, expanded and contracted. But we clung to our tiny little worlds. We refused to fall into the unknown, into the mystery. According to Nathan, that was where real art took place. True transformation.
Where we faced God.
“Have you written anything?” he would ask every week.
“No,” I would respond.
And he would reply, “Good luck with those bullshit problems.”
The newspaper would unfold back over his face.
Nathan told me that everything in life came down to two choices: the right one or the easy one. Addiction was the easy choice—the impulse, the shadow. The right choice? Becoming an instrument of passion, of purpose, of spirit. Face the darkness in your heart. Face the rage. Face it with courage.
I got coffee with Nathan after I slept with Kelly.
I talked about our night together. Two hundred thousand dollars to write a book. I left out the drinking. And the sex. And all the cocaine on the glass table. I knew Kelly’s lifestyle wasn’t ideal for a recovering addict, but she was offering me a chance to take my writing to a real platform. That was a sound argument. Even Nathan couldn’t disagree. She was the perfect subject. A public figure with a compelling story. She was relevant, mysterious, even inspiring in a way. She would push me as an artist. Wasn’t that what professionals did? Push themselves? Evolve. Fall into the mystery. He couldn’t argue with his own words.
I heard him chuckle behind the paper.
There was a long pause.
“You don’t give a shit about the book,” he said.
“What?”
He dropped the sports section. He was tough to look at. Worn-down, leathery skin. Wiry gray hair tucked underneath an Angels baseball cap. Fresh gray stubble on his chin. Massive brown eyes that scared the living shit out of me.
“You just want your rush. I can see your dick from here,” he grunted. He laughed at himself, then held the paper up again, covering his face.
I haven’t left the motel room all day. I can’t stop watching my face on the television. Authorities are calling for the immediate surrender of Kaleb Reed. They found the murder weapon. I wonder if Jez offered some assistance.
The hunt begins.
I’m formally being charged.
Detective Donaldson finally got his moment on the podium. Well, almost. He is standing right behind the chief of police, looking sharp in a crisp gray suit. It’s the best he’s looked since the circus began. Reed’s fingerprints were on the knife, which matched the lacerations on Trozzo’s arms and legs. Cameras snapped in the background. Reed’s fingerprints were on the gun used to kill Barry Monroe. Donaldson kept a somber expression as the chief spoke, but I saw the shrewd smirk twisting in the corner of the mouth. Don’t worry. His elation won’t last. Even if he tracks me down, even if he brings me to justice, he’ll always have his doubts.
I turn the station.
The booze and drugs come back out.
The news station is broadcasting videos of Kelly’s fans taken next to her star on Hollywood Boulevard. The hashtag #KTroopsForever is trending. On the screen, a skinny, acned teenager is crying hysterically. “All you haters need to shut your mouth! She wasn’t fake like the rest of you. She was real! She actually gave a damn about us.” He wipes the tears pouring down his cheeks. “Thanks to Kelly, nobody dims my light. No one drowns my voice. I face my haters head on. I rise and I shine, KTroops!” The crowd around him cheers. “You’re an angel, Kelly. A goddess…Who is going to lead us now?” he cries. “She didn’t deserve any of this.”
I turn the television off.
Snort a line.
I take a pill for good measure.
I know it’s bad. I know what I’m doing is wrong. It’s been awhile since I’ve done this. You think I’ve given up, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t have to impress you. You need me. The reporters. The Internet. The comments. These videos. It’s all the same shit. Imagine if there was no villain. No bad guy to tweet at. We despise the things we can’t face in our own hearts.
I remember this next part of the story so clearly.
After I left Kelly’s mansion, I returned to Santa Ana. At 2:00 a.m. I was still awake, listening to police sirens and my neighbor and her husband squabbling next door. I tossed left and right. Kelly’s check was next to me on the nightstand. My stomach churned. Self-destruction circled like vultures in the desert. The way it always did before a setback. The storm was brewing. I’d go two weeks without drugs, and then I’d slip.
I hated being weak.
Five months prior, Sara and I were lying in bed. It was the eve of my brother’s birthday. Typically, it was a tough day for me. But I had her. I had Sara. That was all I ever wanted. She was in her underwear and a long shirt. She looked over at me, and I saw such love in her eyes. She wanted to be with me. After everything we’d been through. All the shit. All the horrible things. I was terrified of losing her.
Then I saw a shadow standing in the doorway. My heart took off like a racehorse at the sound of the gun. It couldn’t be him. Bob was gone. I convinced myself that I was seeing things. Imagining the worst. I kissed Sara and rolled over. But I couldn’t sleep. Not with him standing there, whispering to me.
You’re going to hurt her. Just like the guy before you. Just like your father hurt your mother. It’s only a matter of time. That’s what damaged people do. They hurt people. You can’t protect her. You will never get rid of me.
I went to sleep with a stomachache. The next day, I slipped. I did the unthinkable.
It was the night Sara truly met my monsters.
We couldn’t play house any longer.
I liked attaching myself to things. Losing myself to them. The easy choice. Drugs or people, it didn’t matter. And when I burned out on the person or thing, I would just discard it and look for something else, something better, as soon as the thrill was over and the person or thing no longer served its purpose.
I didn’t deserve Sara. She saw something in me that I couldn’t. She believed deep down I was good, worthy. I was her protector. But I couldn’t believe it. Not for a second. She could never understand. She couldn’t stop me. No one could.
It was 2:15 a.m. when my phone finally beeped. As if Kelly knew I was lying awake, tortured by my thoughts.
Her message said: Meet me in Philadelphia. We can hang before my concert .
The easy choice or the right choice.
I could feel the desire growing, stretching. I wanted this. I needed this. There would be no mercy. Let the vultures feast.
I am your villain.
Lizzy: The turning point in their relationship? That’s easy. It was Philadelphia—only a week into their little book arrangement. That’s how quickly things unraveled. When Kelly saw him for the animal that he was. That’s when everything should have ended.
Jez Philadelphia? That’s the beginning of their fairy tale.
The Real Kelly Trozzo
TheInsideJuice.com Interview
INSIDEJUICE: Since your comeback, you’ve gotten quite a lot of tattoos. Do you have a favorite?
TROZZO: The first one…it hurt like hell. It’s the stem of a flower, with thousands of dots covering the area where the petals should be. It was a sad day, watching the soft scar tissue being covered up with black ink. I didn’t cry. I enjoyed every pinch and jab of the needle into my flesh. The tattoo is a rem
inder of pain. The stem leads to an array of black dots on my upper forearm, forming the cluster of stars that make up Andromeda, the chained lady.
Sometimes, when I’m in bed, I stare at it. The tattoo is rather abstract up close, but if you look at it from afar, you can see the constellation in its entirety. It’s a reminder not to get caught up in the details, keep my distance, walk with purpose, never be chained again, never let the bloodsuckers close, never let them exploit you. The only difference in this story? Perseus is under my control. And I will free my fucking self.
The Blog of Kaleb Reed
(Continued)
Two days after Kelly’s death. Detective Donaldson was grinning at me from across the metal table. He lit another cigarette. The flames ripped through the tobacco. The smoke swirled in slow motion, hovering between us. I was woozy, spinning. Trapped. My hands were trembling again. I hadn’t slept since arriving at the station. Hunkered down in the interrogation room, the hours blurred together. I didn’t know what they found. I didn’t know what they knew.
Our lead detective was stronger than I gave him credit for. He wouldn’t back off. His eyebrows were relentless. I saw all twenty-two signature moves. Phony empathy and condescending asshole were among my favorites.
This was all part of the game.
He was breaking me.
