by Tina Reber
Marla continued to address me. “Then you’ll both need to accept that the public’s perception of his status and behavior greatly affects his marketing viability. He needs to remain low-key and professional at all times—without scandal or opportunistic individuals taking advantage of his good fortune.”
Her last words felt like a slap. “Are you insinuating that I’m one of them?”
Ryan sat up, arching into defense mode, but stopped when it looked like Marla was going to apologize.
For a moment, I thought she would attempt to be civil.
“In this business, negative impressions can linger for years, in some cases having irreparable consequences on an actor’s career. Ryan is here to do press for his movie, not to be inundated with questions about his ridiculous display. His moment of indiscretion is now hugely overshadowing the premiere of Reparation. You forget that he is being paid by very influential people to promote the movie, not to explain why he climbed on a table,” Marla informed us harshly.
She turned her glare on Ryan. “How many times do I have to remind you that you do not want this kind of press?”
“I know what my responsibilities are!” Ryan snapped angrily.
“Then you should have controlled yourself and realized that standing up on a table in the middle of a crowded bar was a bad idea!” she zinged him back.
Ryan stretched his fingers as if he desired to choke her. “Do you really want to keep pushing me on this? I get the point.”
“Well, someone’s got to keep on top of your behav—”
Gaaaaahhhh!
“Enough! Just stop it!” I broke in. “I don’t care who you are. You will not take one of our most precious memories and turn it into something he should feel guilty for doing. I will not allow it.”
I stood behind Ryan and rested my hands on his shoulders, actually fearing that if I let go of him, table, chairs, and bodies would go flying. “So he stood on a table and asked me to marry him. So what? You’re making it sound like he was high on dope and clubbing baby seals when he did it. Surely this, this disclosure, can be turned into something positive.”
Marla stared blankly at me, apparently surprised that I had the guts to speak again.
She turned her attention back on him. “Ryan, perhaps it would be better if David and I continued this meeting with you privately to discuss our action plan. I’m sure your Taryn has other things she needs to attend to.”
“Excuse me?” I glared at her, completely astonished that she would even think to remove me from the discussion. This bitch had some nerve.
Ryan pulled out the chair next to him, startling me. “I don’t think so. Anything you have to say to me you can say in front of my fiancée, too. This affects her life just as much as it does mine. I’ll decide what doesn’t require her involvement, not you. Got it?”
Marla stared at him blankly.
“Got it?” he said with punctuated force.
Marla breathed out her unhappiness and righted herself in the chair. “Of course.”
Relieved, I took a seat and patted his thigh in private to thank him. He covered my diamond-clad hand with his own.
“Now then . . . we will inform all of the interviewers at the press junket today that questions about your personal life are off-limits. Someone will be present at all times to ensure that those questions are averted so as not to detract from the Reparation and future Seaside premieres. We’ll put the same stipulations on all of your appearances throughout the junket as well.”
Ryan looked like someone had strapped him in the electric chair and stood by with a heartless hand itching to flip the switch. I could tell his thoughts were mulling over the best ways to escape. I rubbed my fingertips over his back, trying to ease his tension.
“You will have to handle yourself appropriately during your appearance on Jimmy Collins tonight and with Nigel Allen on Night Life tomorrow. You should know by now how to avoid those types of questions,” Marla said. “But just in case I’m wrong . . .”
While she was on her soapbox, I picked up one of the tabloid magazine prints, eyeing the supposedly scandalous front cover.
“We’ll handle your discussion topics at the pre-interviews . . . ,” she continued to drone.
I tried to listen intently to her aggravating words, but my mind was suddenly very preoccupied, thinking of ways to choke the ever-loving shit out of her so she’d shut the hell up.
To me, the tabloid cover didn’t look bad at all, compared to some of the other reports that were previously printed about Ryan and me. Even the story byline wasn’t too hateful. Eyewitnesses had reported that “Ryan sang a beautiful song while playing his guitar before professing his love for local business owner Taryn Mitchell.” What’s so scandalous about that?
It was times like these I wished some of those inhuman special powers portrayed on film could actually happen, like being able to cut off the flow of oxygen to her lungs with my mind, or hurling her across the room just by imagining it. Evil thoughts, I know, but this woman brought them out in me.
Especially when she was smacking her lips together, lecturing my future husband on the proper behaviors of A-list celebrities and dictating the cryptic responses he should give today to avoid talking about our relationship in public.
Ryan and I both jumped slightly when there was another knock on our hotel door. I was thankful for any diversion that veered my mind off strangling the shit out of her.
Through the peephole, I instantly recognized the young, long-haired blonde standing outside our room, having seen her glowing face and friendly smile the last two days when we had numerous chats over our computers. She had a large messenger bag slung over her shoulder and a thick manila envelope pressed to her chest.
“Hey. Come on in,” I said warmly through the opened door. With all the reprimanding that was happening in our room, I had forgotten that Trish, Marla’s assistant, was coming to help me get dressed properly for the premiere.
The second Trish stepped into the room it seemed like the air changed and it was easier to breathe in here.
“It’s nice to finally meet you in person.”
“You, too.” Trish bounced excitedly and hugged me like we were reunited college friends. “Even though I sort of feel like I know you already.” I noticed Trish’s eyes glance past me into the room where her boss sat, still lecturing Ryan. “How’s it going so far?”
I shrugged. What could I tell her? That I thought her boss was a royal bitch whom I wanted to toss off the roof of this hotel?
“Did she say anything about doing a press release on your engagement?” she whispered.
“What is your problem? Why are you being like this?” Ryan asked Marla harshly, trying to keep his voice down.
I shook my head at Trish. “No. Not a word.”
Marla made her signature throaty scoff, the one that sounds like a cat starting to choke up a hairball.
“You’re starting to fly on a whim while the rest of us are left to clean up the mess.”
“What mess?” Ryan asked. “I got engaged. Big deal. I’m not the first actor to do this. I just don’t understand why you hate her so much.”
Trish frowned as Marla made no attempt to hush her reply. “Ryan, I don’t hate her. And I certainly won’t hate the next girl, either. You’re young. You have the world at your disposal. It’s my job to guide the perception that the world has of you, so those doors continue to open for you.”
Ryan raised his voice. “I’m telling you right now, there won’t be another one. Get that straight.”
Trish and I walked back into the dining room. She carefully placed the stuffed package on the table next to Marla’s arm, almost bowing as she set it down.
“Are these the new press packets?”
“Yes. I just came from the printer,” Trish said mildly.
Marla opened the envelope, taking her good old time scrutinizing the contents. She was just starting to complain about a mistake she found when Ryan interrupted.
“Are we done?”
I blinked in Ryan’s direction. Gone was the normal, even-tempered man I loved. In his place was a seething time bomb ready to explode. My heart pinched with fright hearing the menace in his tone.
Marla pretended not to hear him. How could she not?
“David, we need to schedule a meeting with Len Bainbridge. We’ve already received offers for exclusives on this. Celeste Crawfield left me ten voice mails; Glam wants first dibs for a cover story. Huge offers are starting to pour in and we both know how messy engagement-and wedding-generated earnings can be. Len should start drafting a prenup immediately for Ryan before his fortune is compromised and —”
Ryan stood up; his chair crashed to the floor, jolting everyone’s attention. “That’s it. We’re done here.
Get out. Everyone.” He grabbed the papers on the table and flung them at her. “And take this bullshit with you.”
She sighed like an unhappy, controlling mother. “You know things need to be formed legally, Ryan.”
“I don’t care!” Ryan yelled. “It’s none of your goddamned business!”
David was indifferent to Ryan’s order, taking the time to adjust his sleeves and peer at his watch.
Apparently movie star temper tantrums were old hat. “I’ll call the lawyers and get things rolling. Your car will be here at nine and—”
“I said get out! Out!” Ryan shouted at him, the veins in his neck cording from the strain. He nodded his chin at the door. I had never seen him this angry. If he’d yelled like that at me, I’d be running for the elevator.
Five seconds later, our bedroom door slammed shut.
I found Ryan leaning with both palms flat on the glass window, his head hanging between his arms, panting as if he’d just been released from a caged death match. I feared that even whispering his name might cause him to detonate.
I sat on the edge of our crumpled bed in silence, giving him ample time and space to calm himself while I mulled over how the news of our happiness had just turned into a twenty-minute patronizing lecture.
What should have been hugs and champagne and congratulations with smiles and pats on the back was the exact opposite—anger and heartless animosity mixed with ugly accusations and assumptions from the team he had managing his life.
Pressed against the glass like that, I wondered if Ryan was regretting his actions now.
I feared sooner or later, one of us would.
Not willing to take such chances, I stepped to his side. Ryan looked at me warily before clutching me to his chest.
Now was not the time for regret.
Chapter 2
Deviation
Ryan had just started eating his omelet when his little weasel manager, David Ardazzio, walked into the hotel restaurant to collect him. The hand that was tenderly stroking my thigh in private under the table suddenly stilled and tightened.
David, of course, had to adjust his wristwatch; his way of saying “it’s time to go” without appearing like a dickhead, I suppose. My eyes narrowed, giving him my own silent message in return, one that boldly said, “Mess with my man anymore today and I will dig my fork into your chest to find out if there really is a heart in there.” Hah! My first twenty-four hours in L.A. and I was already becoming cynical and hostile.
Considering I had just spent the better part of the last forty minutes trying to get Ryan to lose the murderous scowl on his face—five of said minutes were spent just holding him in the shower so we could apologize for loving each other—my hostility was justified. I’d like to think that precious water supply could have been used for much better purposes, like to wash off the sweat from our interrupted wake-up sex or even better, initiate a second session of incredibly hot shower sex after incredibly hot wake-up sex.
But no, sadly, we used the water to bathe, mask our disappointments, and attempt to exorcise unwanted demons from our thoughts.
The only reason Ryan was appearing somewhat lively and animated now was that his mother was sitting across the table from us, all shiny and happily oblivious. We both knew that all it would take was one slip and she would press for details. Lord knows neither of us was in the mood to be interrogated by Mom.
Ryan had enough on his plate. His day was packed with one-on-one interviews, a photo call, an open-panel Q&A with the press, and at the end a TV appearance on The Jimmy Collins Show. Taping was scheduled for 5 P.M.
“Ready to go, Ry?” Mike Murphy, Ryan’s personal bodyguard, asked as he slowly rose from the large dining table. Mike took extra care wiping his lips off on his linen napkin and then ran his hand through his short, dark brown hair, stalling while Ryan quickly shoveled more breakfast into his mouth.
I was so relieved that Mike had stuck with Ryan all these months. He was the only person within Ryan’s entourage that I truly trusted. He was there with us in the hospital when I lost the baby. He shielded us diligently when we dealt with our psycho-fan stalker and was by our sides so many other times that I lost count.
Ryan considered Mike to be one of his best friends and I regarded him as our own personal savior.
I glanced across the table and noticed Marie trying not to be conspicuous with her gaze, but I knew better. She and I had been best friends for so long; I knew the look she wore when she was stripping a man naked in her brain. And right now she had the former marine flat on his back on top of this table begging for her mercy. Can’t say I blame her. Mike was thirty-two, very single, six foot three with an incredibly buff body, and to say he was merely good-looking would be insulting.
“Gotta go, babe,” Ryan said in my ear before he kissed me quickly, snapping me out of my internal speculations. He patted his jeans pocket. “You need anything, just call me. I have my phone set on vibrate. Mike gave you all of the security details for the show tonight and you have our credit card and stuff if you need it. Have fun shopping. Whatever you ladies want, get. All right?”
“Got it.”
He gave me a hard, stern stare. “I mean it.”
That was his way of reminding me to get over my issues with spending his money.
“I know you do. I understand.”
“Good.”
He leaned in to give me another kiss.
“Get something sexy to wear for me,” he growled on my lips. “A few somethings, okay?”
I was glad to know thoughts of me in lacy undergarments were helping him step out of his funk. “You bet. Slutty towels in every color just for you.” Just as the words left my lips, I noticed one of the waitstaff take our picture on a cell phone.
Ryan tipped my chin and gave me a renewed smile, grinning at our private joke, oblivious to the girl stealing a piece of our moment. “That’s my girl. I’ll see you later.”
While everyone finished their breakfasts and chitchatted, I found myself getting lost in my thoughts again from the void left behind by Ryan’s empty chair.
I pushed a piece of pineapple around on my plate, still feeling the tingle he left on my lips, wishing he didn’t have to rush so much, and hating that no private moment in public was sacred.
Marie and her husband, Gary, started sniping at each other again, pulling my attention with their hushed argument. They’d been fighting a lot lately, even getting into a heated argument on Sunday at our impromptu engagement party held at their house. Gary had been so mad, he ended up getting in his car and leaving, causing everyone there to feel as though we were intruding. Every time I asked Marie what was going on she’d casually dismiss it, simply stating that he was being an ass again.
So I didn’t probe. Instead I drifted off into my own dilemmas, thinking how my mental breakdown over the last few weeks was such a ridiculous waste of energy. Had I known then what I knew now, all of the extra anguish and heartache swirling around the edges of my thoughts could have been avoided.
I glanced over at my other girlfriend, Tammy, who was buttering a piece of toast while her soon-to-be husband, my longtime friend Pete, talked and laughed heartily w
ith Ryan’s brother and sister-in-law, Nick and Janelle. Ryan had arranged for everyone important in our lives to be here. Another reason I loved him dearly.
As I took in the faces of my most cherished support crew, a sad thought occurred to me.
While two weeks ago in Miami I had carried on uncontrollably like an immature little girl, crying and insisting that Ryan had cheated on me with Lauren Delaney, all of the people sitting at this table had known that he was going to propose.
How long had they all known his intentions? Weeks? Months?
Suddenly I felt like a huge ass all over again, quite embarrassed by my completely irrational behavior when my friends had to break my bedroom door down to get to me. I had been physically and emotionally broken, locking myself away from the world while thoughts of Ryan being unfaithful tore me to shreds.
No wonder Marie slapped me across the face when I became somewhat hysterical. I must have looked like a blithering idiot to all of them.
But I couldn’t stop the flood once it started. It drowned me.
I stared at the blank whiteness of the tablecloth. How close I came to ruining this relationship—ending it, actually. Well, no more of that. Ryan has been nothing but faithful and trustworthy. He adores me and I want him more than I want my next breath.
“Taryn?”
Fingers touched my shoulder, startling me. Trish was standing behind me; her golden hair was pulled back by the sunglasses that rested on top of her head.
“Are you ladies ready?” Trish asked.
With a smile, I nodded and grabbed my purse. A large, chauffeured Suburban pulled up to the front doors and all of the ladies climbed in. Twenty minutes later, we arrived at the “hall of many dresses.”
Well anyway, that’s what Marie called it. She was right.
“Oh, what a day,” Trish sighed, eyeing a shimmery, burgundy-colored Prada gown. I had separated myself from everyone else to follow her through the rows.
“Bet you’re glad to be out here instead of in the office,” I commented, figuring she was enjoying shopping more than working.
