I thought of him at the movie awards, scowling as he stood up and practically stomped down the aisle of seats.
Him doubled over in mock laughter at the thought of me competing with him.
Our first fake date, the moment he leaned over and called me white trash.
I hammered the images into my heart, trying to wedge them in between my organs to stop the warm goo that was spreading across my chest. How had so much changed in the last four weeks? And how was I supposed to hold my own against a smile and look like that?
My mother stood and oh-no-no-no I didn't want this to happen. "You must be Cash." She stuck her hand out, fingers down, as if she expected it to be kissed. "I'm Tonya."
He gave it an awkward shake, then turned to my father.
"Sir? I'm Cash Mitchell. It's a pleasure to meet you."
"Ted Ripplestine." My dad stood, shook his hand, then adjusted his belt and retucked in parts of his shirt. "You're dating Emma?"
Cash nodded. "I am." He glanced at me and winked. I looked away and tried not to surrender to that weak part of me that was still madly crushing on him. This was a battlefield. Me and my parents, fighting over him. I had to stay strong and focused and play some serious defense.
"It's about time Emma got a boyfriend." My dad settled back down and picked up his glass tumbler. I glanced toward the crew and wondered how long they had been feeding my parents alcohol. "You know, there was a period when we thought she might like the ladies."
"Oh, Ted." My mom giggled, and I looked for her drink, then found it by her original spot on the couch. A vodka tonic, if I had to guess, a lipstick print on the glass. "She was just a slow bloomer. What were you, Emma, sixteen before you started wearing a bra?"
I ignored the question. How long, contractually, did this hell have to last? An episode was twenty-two minutes. A half-hour would give them plenty of fodder to work with. And it had been a least… I glanced at my watch. Four minutes. How the hell had I only been here for four minutes?
“I can see where Emma gets her beauty from.” Cash sat on the wide arm of my chair and put his hand on my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Oh, please,” my mom sputtered, but I could see how she warmed under the comment.
“It’s an exotic beauty that you both have. Where is your family heritage from?”
"Well, French mostly." My mother preened, literally smoothing down her hair, and her nose rose in the air. "And some Italian. Ted is actually a little Native American. Emma got some college money, though I don't know how they proved that. I think there's a registry of sorts for that kind of thing."
The window of time before my mother said something offensive was rapidly closing, especially with this vein of conversation. I jumped in with the one thing guaranteed to distract my mother.
“Cash’s mother is an actress.”
“Oh, really?” She mused, skeptical. “Anything I would have seen?”
"Not lately." Cash's hand stiffened along my back, and he probably hated talking about his mother as much as I hated being around my own. Too bad. We were going to suffer through this damn thing together. "It's been a few years since she had anything—"
"His mom is Jocelyn Mitchell," I interrupted. "From Beverly Hills."
My mother straightened. "You mean, Adel Berkshire?" All the color blanched from her face. "That's… that's your mother?" Her hand, which had been pushing up the right sleeve of her cardigan, stalled.
"Yes." Cash's hand fell from my back, and he crossed his arms.
"Bullshit." She let out a startled half laugh and covered her mouth. "I mean—" she glanced at the camera. "Are you serious? That was Emma and my favorite show for years." She looked at me, and there was genuine excitement in her face. For a split moment, I felt proud, because even if Cash's mom was a monster, we had adored that character. Glued ourselves to the television screen, drooled over the fabulous outfits and diamonds, and giggled and gossiped over every one of those episodes. That was the closest I had ever felt with my mom, and now I was introducing her to Adel Berkshire's son, my boyfriend. My real, not just for tv, boyfriend.
"Is someone talking about me?" A familiar southern drawl boomed through the room, and we all turned at the sound. There, stepping forward in a fur coat, black leather pants, a cream top, and more diamonds than a De Beers ad—was Cash's mother.
She didn't look like a monster. She looked stunning.
69
#meetingtheparents
CASH
Maybe I should have been more sympathetic to Emma's plight, but it wasn't until my mother stepped on her stage, my father somewhere in tow, that I really understood the perils of the situation. I watched as my mother paused, her arms held out to each side as if she was a scarecrow, and surveyed her audience.
She was in full Adel Berkshire mode, her curls pinned into place, the fur coat one that stretched all the way to the floor, her makeup flawless and set off by diamond earrings the size of dimes.
"Oh, Cash." She beamed at me, and a motherly gesture would come next. A warm hug. Maybe a playful remark. She would be gracious and kind, and everyone would trip all over her, and I wasn't in the mood for another one of these performances, especially not in front of Emma and her family.
I stood as she approached and moved away from the chair, distancing myself from Emma as she held out her hands, then wrapped me in a tight embrace. It lasted for a second, then two. I pulled back, and she captured my face in between her palms, keeping me close as she peered up at me. "How are you?"
“I’m good.” I untangled myself and tried to step back, wincing as she dug her long fingernails into the bones of my wrist.
“Who is this?” She gave Emma a sunny smile, and I wondered how much medication she was on.
"This is Emma. Emma, my mother, Jocelyn."
Emma stood to greet her, and I paused at the glazed look on her face. She wet her lips, and I put my hand on her back, ready to steady her if need be. "It's a pleasure to meet you," she whispered. "I'm a big fan."
Ummm… no. That shit wasn't going to fly. My girlfriend and she was definitely my girlfriend, was not going to be a fan of my mother. Not as Adel, not as Jocelyn, and certainly not as a person.
Emma's mother jostled into place behind her daughter, chiming in with gushing praise, and if either of them pulled out an autograph pen or selfie stick, I was going to walk out.
"This is so wonderful," my mother said, leaning forward to plant a kiss on Emma's father's cheek. "A true family affair. It's wonderful, isn't it? Everyone together." She rubbed the side of his arm, and if Emma's mother didn't watch that closely, it would turn into a problem. Not that Emma's father was a prize, but she couldn't help herself—just like my father couldn't help but leave the room whenever she opened her mouth.
I looked for my dad and found him by a production assistant, his head tilted down, his attention on the peek of cleavage visible above the buttons of her collared shirt. Dana nudged him forward, and he entered with the reluctant gait of a man forced to be here. Yeah, Dad. You and me both.
Introductions were made while my mother continued to stand in the middle of the room, her coat still on, and I almost wished for Marissa. In fact, I was surprised Dana didn't have her here, a bucket of red paint in hand, screaming at my mother about fur rights as she dumped it over her head.
"I can't believe your mother is here." Emma whispered out of the side of her mouth. "You have no idea what this is doing to my mom. No offense, but you could screw me on the couch right now, and she wouldn't notice."
My mom was doing that thing where she clasped someone's hand in between both of her palms and petted the top of it. Mrs. Ripplestine was sucking it up, watching my mother with rapt attention as bullshit spewed out from her fat-injected lips. The problem with Emma and her mom, and half of America, was that they fell in love with Adel's character. They spent twelve years watching her every week. They cried when she lost the baby. They gasped when she almost died. They rooted for her and
ranted at the television screen and gripped the remote with sweaty hands as she ran away from her abusive husband and into the arms of her sexy and heartbroken personal trainer. They couldn't combat twelve years of history with the truth, even if they read whispers of it in the tabloids, or heard a first-hand account of the reality. If my relationship with Emma continued, she'd have to learn for herself what my mother was like. I could tell her stories—but she wouldn't understand it until my mother put her hand on Emma's pregnant stomach and advised her to drown the baby in the tub when no one was looking. That was the sort of thing my mother said and did when the press wasn't around.
“We should have drowned you when you were born,” she spat at Wesley, jabbing a finger in the direction of his high chair. His face crumpled and I stood.
“Mom,” I whispered, “don’t say that. He’s—”
“A mistake,” she shot back. She threw back another shot of liquor and walked off, knocking a chair over on her exit.
I reached out and pulled Emma to me. Burying my face in her hair, I inhaled her scent as I wrapped my arms around her and stole a quick moment.
"Cash," my mother chided, and I felt a sharp burn of pain as she twisted the skin on my inner bicep into a tight knot. "You haven't seen me in weeks. Stop hanging all over Emma and come sit with me." She beamed at Emma. "You don't mind if I borrow him, dear, do you?"
"Hell no," I said tightly.
Both of them flinched, but I didn't care because the crew had parted around the end of the living room. Stumbling forward, his eyes wide and confused, was Wesley.
Out of the Ranch.
Away from his safe areas.
A stranger's hand on his back, guiding him into the living room and in sight of the cameras. He looked over his shoulder, then at Emma's father. He hadn't found me yet, and probably didn't even know I was here.
I grabbed my mother’s arm. “What is he doing here?” I gritted out. “You have to get him away from the cameras and this crew. You know better than to—”
"Missy!" His shriek pierced through the room, and I looked up in confusion, watching as he barreled forward, tripping over a side table, his arms outstretched, smile huge. I shoved past my mom and stopped, surprised when he launched at Emma, wrapping her in a bear hug that almost knocked her off her feet. She hugged him back. Without fear. With familiarity. With a smile. When her gaze darted nervously to me, I saw the deception drenched in every line of her delicate features.
“Missy?” I asked coldly, and this couldn’t be the helper that Wesley loved, the one who played with him and snuck him cupcakes. I stared at her and cursed myself for not asking more questions.
“Miss E,” she corrected quietly, her gaze not meeting mine, her arms still tight around him. She had been lying to me, and it was one thing to lie about a press release or a photo or a contract or a post. But Wesley was an entirely different and unforgivable thing.
"You didn't tell me you'd introduced her to Wesley," my mother scolded quietly, pulling me to the side. "Nice of you to give him more courtesy than me."
I snapped my jaw shut and forced myself to look away from Emma before I ripped her away from my brother.
“Ca-Ca!” Wesley lumbered over, his smile wide, face flushed from exertion. “You are here!”
I squeezed his shoulder and forced a smile. "I missed you, bud."
"I missed YOU, bud," he shot back. Over his shoulder, from the other side of the room, Dana met my eyes and gave me a knowing smirk.
70
#thisisawkward
EMMA
It was a slow-motion heartbreak. Wesley, tottering toward me, his short legs moving as quickly as he could, his face lit with surprise. Me, frozen, accepting his hug, squeezing him back, all while my brain sprinted in circles, on panic level 9. Cash's face. Surprised. Confused. And then… the hardening. The set of features, like a face mask changing color and cracking into place. The worst was the look of resigned expectation. Like he had known something was going to happen. Like this was what he had been waiting for.
I let Wesley hug me and waited for the blowup—but it didn't come. Cash said nothing to me, and the silence ripped out my throat and left me fighting for breath and unable to form my own defense.
Dana stepped in, orchestrating the train wreck with a well-placed seating arrangement, one that put Cash’s family on one sofa, mine on the other, us facing them across a glass table that was right at shin level and responsible for at least one bruise of mine.
I didn't have the energy to fight it, to put on a show for the cameras, to do the normal Emma things I would do. Cross my legs. Tousle my hair. Deliver dry and witty dialogue in the uncomfortable pauses. Pauses like right now, where Dana was looking at her notepad, and my mom was staring at Jocelyn, and Cash had one arm around Wes, a murderous look on his face.
“So,” Dana chirped, setting her pen down on the pad. “Let’s start with a question for Wesley. Wesley, how do you know Emma?”
Cash's gaze smoldered into me, and it wasn't a good heat. I looked away, focusing on Wesley, who perked up at the sight of the mini-sandwiches that were artfully displayed in the center of the coffee table.
“Miss E works with me.”
“I don’t understand.” Cash’s mother spoke up, her sophisticated lilt strumming over the tones as if it were a xylophone. “I thought Emma was a model. How is she working with Wesley?”
“Yes,” Cash intoned. “How?” He looked at me and beckoned for me to speak.
I glanced at the cameras. Then, my parents. Then, Wes.
"I volunteer at the Ranch. I've gotten to know Wes there." One hundred percent true, and it didn't even sound that bad.
"Really?" Cash hunched forward, his elbows settling on his knees. "Did you start volunteering there before or after I forced you to donate money to the Ranch?"
I recoiled at that. “You didn’t force me to donate money there. I—”
“Did you start volunteering there before or after?” he interrupted.
“After.” I lifted my chin. “I toured the facility and wanted to do more, so I looked into ways to help.”
“Very gracious of you,” he said, and it was back to the Cash of before. Cold. Irritated. Dismissive.
“Miss E had a sleepover,” Wesley continued. “We play together.”
"She what?" Jocelyn flinched, her perfect features gaping in alarm.
"I didn’t sleep over," I hastened. "I just stayed until he fell asleep one night." It sounded horrible, and what in the hell had I had been thinking? It didn't matter if it was completely innocent. Wesley was an incompetent minor, and I had no proof that I hadn't taken advantage of the situation. "We played Uno."
"And basketball," he reminded me. "And racing." He beamed at me, and I struggled between smiling back at him and starting to cry—because this was it. I would never be able to visit him again. I'd lose my volunteer access. Never find out if Becky and him continue their courtship. Never get the chance to sneak him in another cupcake.
"Wesley." Dana leaned forward and put her hands on her knees. "Does Emma ever talk to you about your brother?" She pointed to Cash, and he stood up.
"I'm going to say this in plain English, so you understand it." Cash pointed a finger in Dana's direction. "Don't ask him another question, or I'll throw every one of your expensive cameras into the pool, and I'll start with the one built into your phone."
Wesley tugged at Cash’s shorts, his expression growing alarmed as he looked from him to Dana.
"Okay, then," Dana said sweetly. "Cash, how do you feel about Emma using your brother to get closer to you?"
“It wasn’t like that.” I stood up, my temper flaring through my panic. “I never once used Wesley. I didn’t ask him about Cash, and we didn’t talk about Cash. I was there to spend time with him. That’s it.”
Cash snorted, then reached up and unclipped the microphone from the back of his shirt. Fishing the cord out, he undid the sound pack and dropped it on the center of the table. “Wesley.
” He held out his hand to his younger brother. “Come on. Let’s get you back to the Ranch.”
“Ice cream first,” Wesley said, heaving to his feet. “Dad promised.”
"Okay," Cash said softly…
This couldn't be happening. Not here. Not in front of my parents, and his parents, and the crew and cameras. I went to follow him, and he held up a hand, stopping me.
"Stay here unless you want me to file charges against you for inappropriate behavior with a minor."
"I'm not sure that we shouldn't be doing that anyw—" His mom rose halfway out of the couch.
"Don't." He threatened her with a glare. She fell back into the seat.
I watched him walk out, his hand on Wesley's shoulder, his head tilted toward him as the teenager spoke. A sob clogged my throat, and I wasn't sure if it was over losing Cash or his brother.
We'd only had four days together. It wasn't fair for this to crash already.
* * *
The room fell silent. Jocelyn looked toward me, and I hovered in place, torn between running after him and sinking through the floor. “I was just volunteering,” I said weakly. “That was it.”
“There’s nothing wrong with helping others out.” My mom pushed to her feet and came to stand beside me, briskly rubbing her free hand up and down my arms while she took a sip of wine. Someone had refilled her glass. “You did nothing wrong, Emma.”
“She slept with my son!” Jocelyn sputtered.
"I didn't sleep with Wesley. You don't know what you're talking about."
"Well, we'll see about that." Jocelyn reached for her coat and stood, folding the thick garment over one arm. She smoothed a hand over the top of her perfect blond coif. The gesture was so familiar that my mind stumbled, struggling to pair her threats with my memories of Adel. "I'm sure the security tapes at the Ranch will provide our attorneys with everything they need."
"Now, wait just a minute," my dad said sharply. "My family might have one impression from your show, but I've read the articles about you. You ditched your disabled son off at a place for strangers to care for him, and now you're accusing my daughter of improper behavior based on something he said?"
The F List: Fame, Fortune, and Followers Page 17
