Bad Duke_An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Emily Bishop

  I allow one final, shuddering exhale and lunge up from the couch. I can’t just stay crumpled in a ball in my apartment anymore. Not now that Sam-o sold me out so hard and forced my goddamn hand. Now I have to do something.

  Now I have to tell Blake that I’m pregnant. If he doesn’t already know now.

  I have to tell Candace, too.

  I’m not sure which one is scarier to me, honestly...

  ***

  The paparazzi do not leave the outside of The Lofts, and I’m forced to don a comically large pair of sunglasses from Iggy and a broad-brimmed straw hat from Pepper. Still, as I shoulder out of the swinging glass door and duck my head, maneuvering this throng of bodies like it’s a river current, I can see all the flashbulbs sparking along the sidewalk.

  They call out incessant questions:

  “Is this baby truly Sir Blake Berringer’s?”

  “Will you concede to a paternity test if he demands one?”

  “What does your ex-husband have to say about all this?”

  That one makes me freeze. I commit the mistake of swinging my eyes up to hunt for the bastard who dared to invoke Jared Epstein’s memory, but all I get in return is a blinding tsunami of lights. I cringe away and bolt down the sidewalk while they literally chase me, and I wish upon wish that the unhinged Blake Berringer was with me now, fists swinging. I don’t care how old any of them are. I turn and thrust my purse in an arc in the air, swinging it like a mace, and the crowd fans out around me, allowing some breathing room.

  I turn and bolt again. Good god, this should be illegal. I’m running so hard, I could break an ankle with one false move. I’m running so hard, I’m starting to see stars, and then I spot a taxi, idling on the corner as an older woman slowly climbs from its backseat.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I gush, flinging myself past her and bouncing on the cushion on my hands and knees. I pull the door shut and look at the driver with wild eyes, gasping for breath, hair everywhere. I give him the address of the lot in Hollywood Studios where I currently work, and we tear off onto the street, leaving the zombie-like horde of pap behind.

  “You an actress or a model or something?” he wonders as we drive, scrutinizing me in the rearview mirror.

  “Or something,” I pant. I’m not sure what you would call me right now.

  Despised by my parents, who now believe Jared’s tales of my tawdry affairs more than ever, I’m sure.

  Hunted by an obsessive ex.

  Probably already fired from my new job at Hollywood Studios.

  Two or three or four weeks pregnant.

  And now?

  A D-list celebrity.

  ***

  My new boss reminds me a lot of Candace. He’s a man, but Candace has a very masculine energy. Maybe it’s that surly glare on his face that’s reminding me of Candace the most right now. His name is Dominic Montana, and he’s one of multiple people who are pissed at me right now.

  You get pregnant one time, and everybody freaks out.

  As soon as I arrived on the set, Mr. Montana commanded me to come to his office. Now I’m hedged by plastic ferns frittering beneath the ceiling fan, and I’m slumped so low in this chair, I feel like a grade-schooler in the principal’s office.

  I swallow. “Did I do something wrong?” I wonder hopefully. Maybe I’m just late for my shift.

  “Not in so many words,” he allows. “But there is a big problem, and I think you know what it is.”

  “You heard,” I say.

  Mr. Montana simply nods. “I didn’t need to hear about it,” he says. “My phone has been ringing nonstop because you’re a registered employee with the show now. I knew going legit would be a mistake.” He rolls his eyes briefly and then continues, “I can’t have a celebrity doing the makeup on my set, Roxanne. It’s too much of a liability for me.”

  “But I’m not a celebrity,” I assert.

  “Whether you want it or not, you are a celebrity.”

  But this is a great job. It’s low stress, low drama, and it pays regularly. I’ve got to keep it, especially because no one else will take me now. Mr. Montana is right. Having a celebrity on your staff is a liability for the crew to consider. The only shows that are going to want me now will only want me in front of the camera, not behind it.

  So, I come to a stand, scowling as I open my purse and dump the contents onto Mr. Montana’s desk.

  “Does this look like the purse of a rich woman?” I demand to know, picking through unpaid bills and shaking them in front of him. I’ve been paying the minimum balance on my credit cards ever since I foolishly signed up for some a few years ago. “Do these look like the bills of a woman who can afford to just quit working?”

  Smiling with noted compassion, Mr. Montana stretches out a hand and lays it across the scattered bills, some messy tubes of lipstick, crumpled receipts, and granola bar wrappers. I really shouldn’t have emptied my purse right here, but it was theatrical and it just felt right.

  “Look,” he says, “Ms. Madden is a proven asset to you. She truly cares for your well-being, and she’s a veteran of the industry. She can probably help you find work better suited to your...” He searches for the right way to put it, but all he can come up with is, “delicate condition.”

  My delicate condition.

  I slowly repack my purse like I’m repacking my life, trying to figure out where all the pieces will go now.

  “I’m sorry,” Mr. Montana offers. “It’s out of my hands.”

  “Mine too,” I grumble, swinging my purse over my shoulder and heading for the door.

  ***

  I try to aimlessly wander Hollywood Studios and simply pity myself, but even that doesn’t work. Too many people recognize me from the single episode of My Billionaire Bachelor and try to snap my picture. I shield my face and quicken my pace to escape because they’re only regular people, but it’s everywhere. As far as I know, my picture and the rumor of my pregnancy have only been in one magazine–Soap Sizzle–but I’m sure the rest of the Internet picked that up and ran with it. I have no way to gauge how recognizable my face is right now, and I’m sure that it will only get worse.

  The clouds huddle close and open up, showering down onto LA with warm, moderate rain. And I don’t care. Hell, it’s not going to mess up my hair. Not going to muss my non-existent makeup.

  None of that stuff matters anymore.

  The paparazzi all got pictures of me looking foul and deranged, swinging my purse with a face as white as pressed powder, but it doesn’t matter.

  Unemployed, single, and pregnant.

  That’s what matters.

  Begging Candace for help. Telling Blake the truth.

  That’s what matters.

  Still, I duck into a corner store and grab two things: a scarf and an umbrella. Now my face is so covered, you can barely discern my gender, much less my identity.

  The rainfall, scarf, sunglasses, sunhat, and large umbrella all protect me from being chased by more paparazzi on the street, and I genuinely feel like I have taken just enough and not too many precautions.

  I hail a cab to the address of the My Billionaire Bachelor LA mansion, folding in and shaking off my umbrella before ducking inside. I intend to go and talk to Candace, of course. Still, I unwind my scarf and fluff my flat, wet hair like an idiot. I still take out my cell phone and swipe it to unlock. I’m going to use this as a mirror and check my face, just in case. Slight chance of Blake.

  The cab pulls off the curb and we venture into gridlock traffic.

  My home screen is flipping tiles of top news stories, and I find myself staring right back at me. I have no idea where this picture came from, but it’s a shot of Blake gripping me in his arms, riding Lightning at a gallop. I’m in denim shorts, he’s in impossibly tight riding pants (those thighs), and the sun is blazing on our skin. He looks glorious, and I actually look pretty sexy, too. The joke I made about the Ralph Lauren cologne ad doesn’t seem like a joke anymore.

 
Someone must have gotten this picture when Blake grabbed me and galloped into the bushes. I wonder if they sold it to another tabloid for just as much as Sam-o got. I’m sure they lost their job, but I’m also sure it was more than worth it.

  The headline says: “BLAKE BERRINGER IMPREGNATION SCANDAL SWEEPS–”

  I feel a little sick and swipe out of that screen, turning on the camera and putting it into selfie mode. I use it like it’s a compact mirror.

  I had my number changed immediately following Jared’s phone call. If there was a chance he might call or even track this phone, I wouldn’t be able to hold this thing without trembling.

  The selfie cam tells the truth, as always: my eyes look heartbroken and unruly. Did my skin lose a shade or two overnight? I look gaunt, like a poet on the verge of death. My black pixie cut is spiky and wet like a dog’s fur. You can tell that I’ve cried today. You can tell that I’m wearing pajamas like they’re outside clothes. If I tried to put on makeup right now, it would just reflect my insides: totally askew.

  I hope Blake somehow isn’t there, actually. I look like a woman in mourning tonight.

  The entire set is dark and dreary when I step out of the taxi and thank the driver, and pay him.

  My heart sinks down into the pit of my stomach, and I advance up the slick walk, feeling cold even beneath this broad umbrella. Several shuttered windows overlook the street, which is sealed from the mansion by a tall brick wall, trimmed in both hidden and mounted cameras. In the production building—a renovated carriage house—there’s supposed to be a member of the security crew, if not the film staff, constantly watching the feeds on these babies.

  I come to the head of the brick wall: a wrought-iron gate with a neon green keypad beside it.

  I linger outside this electronic keypad, practically fingering it, for at least two minutes, thinking.

  I pull off the broad-brimmed straw hat and the sunglasses.

  Maybe the set is still on lock-down. Or maybe they’re extending that break while the producers figure out how the hell to spin this new deluge of tabloid press. Maybe the place was so bogged down with paparazzi, Blake quit and fled the country, contract be damned.

  The outside of this “McMansion,” as Blake calls it, is way too dark and quiet. It’s after 8 p.m., so I’m not crazy to think someone might be here, but I see no one. Somehow, it is less intimidating now, even though it looks nothing like my work place; it looks like a private home. It’s usually filled with milling boom mic operators and disgruntled contestants, unsatisfied at being saddled with one of the American dates. Handlers. Producers. Caterers. Animal trainers. Stunt doubles. Seriously. Jesus. The new faces never end.

  But this is nice. Now it’s just a looming, lonely mansion, backlit by a dark sky filled with warm rain.

  I wonder if Candace is in there.

  Taking a deep, uncertain breath, I punch in the passcode: MBB<32017.

  It’s deceptively simple, isn’t it? I’m actually not that shocked that Jared cracked the code—although he could have also just scaled the wall.

  This break-in must have been a wake-up call to security.

  As one of Candace’s favorite staffers, I know a little more about it than the typical makeup artist would, because whenever she needed someone to go fetch her keys that had been left on the kitchen counter, she would send me.

  But the keypad blinks red at me.

  Fuck. Shit. Damn it.

  They must have changed the passcode after the break-in.

  Marching around the brick wall, I find a place with several solid openings where a hook could be thrown.

  I secure my scarf to the handle on my umbrella and heave it overhead, like a badass. My talents are so wasted on reality TV.

  The umbrella bumps over the rim of the wall and misses completely a few times before finally hooking perfectly between two thick branches, and I easily scale the wall and leap down.

  I don’t know if I should feel victorious or worried as I land. I’m either at secret agent status, or the security here is still disheartening.

  I cast all this from my mind and abandon the scarf and umbrella, stuck in a tree now. I stride up the yard, more aware than ever that I’m wearing yogurt-pink pajamas (not the same pajamas I was wearing the last time I saw Blake, but still pajamas) and sneakers with a light leather coat. Like someone who doesn’t care how they look—which couldn’t be further from the truth right now. I just haven’t had the energy to bother with the mirror for days now, and Blake is going to have to accept that.

  At the end of the walk is a fork, and I can turn left and progress to the production building, or continue straight to the massive double doors of the mansion.

  My eyes tilt toward production, but then away toward the main house. Both are brick, slowly being slapped by the rain. Both seem utterly abandoned.

  Both seem to hold certain destruction.

  I press my lips together and choose to continue straight.

  When I reach the massive doors, I do not have a key, and I think I’ll have to go around or just give up—they changed the passcode on the front gate, after all—but the knob gives and I’m able to enter.

  Unlocked. Huh.

  As I cross the threshold, I pause and locate each of the four cameras stationed around the room. Camera A, inside the creeping ivy. Camera B, part of the centerpiece on the little table. Camera C, vase. Camera D, fountain.

  I wonder if he knows I’m pregnant. The whole set has been on lockdown.

  But the story is everywhere.

  It was on my damn cell phone home screen.

  But he doesn’t have a cell phone anymore.

  I don’t know. I don’t know.

  “Blake?” I call.

  I tell myself that everything is going to be okay. Even if Britain’s bad boy doesn’t want to have his own little heirs running around, I’ll still be a great mom. A lot of single mothers might not feel the same way I do, but my pride will probably keep me from demanding money from Blake if he’s not going to be involved in our child’s life. It will be his choice, of course, if his practically-royal ass wants to, you know, be with a makeup artist from Cali and actually raise a love child together, then he can.

  But he won’t choose that.

  He’s a billionaire playboy from another country.

  I’m not naïve.

  This is going to be a difficult conversation, but it’s okay. I’m just joining in league with the countless proud, strong single mothers across human history.

  “Blake?”

  I wind up the mansion stairs, disabling microphones as I walk, and down the second-floor corridor. Five cameras in this hall. I flick them off. One microphone at the bachelor suite door.

  I snap it off.

  Now it’s just me and this bedroom door.

  Chapter 11

  Blake

  “How could you not tell me?” I whisper…

  I hear her voice moving through the mansion, but I don’t call back. I maintain my posture, my balance, and the rhythm of my breath. I remain in this stance, with both thighs cocked and engaged at opposite angles, one leg extended, both arms high and palms fanned. I’ve held this stance for twenty minutes now, and my chest gleams with sweat. I learned this posture in a secret school during my time studying under Master Feng on Mount Kita. It’s called the root.

  They say it grants its students perfect situational awareness. It’s almost, but not quite, a psychic sense.

  No one knows this Blake.

  Not even Roxanne.

  I heard her advance up the walk. I could almost feel her body when she entered the mansion, as if she was a disembodied part of me.

  I found out that Roxanne was pregnant from a goddamn celebrity gossip television station. I found out that my girlfriend—or ex-girlfriend, or fuck buddy, or soulmate, whatever—was pregnant from an anchor named Ellie K.K., a British girl with silver hair on half of her head and a tattoo on the other.

  I found out that I was going to be a father
after most of the Western population already knew.

  Isn’t that just a magical moment? When the entire room is spinning around you and some pipsqueak with two million Twitter followers is broadcasting your future son or daughter to the world before you can?

  Isn’t that a magical moment?

  I thought I was going to be sick.

  My jaw clenches at the memory, and I forcefully exhale my anger, inhaling serenity. Inhaling goddamn serenity.

  I’m just so goddamn sick of the outside world infiltrating my private life. They swamped my life as soon as I grew into a man, and I’ve never been able to shirk them. I never asked to be a Berringer. It just happened. I was born with this face, which women seem to like. I tried to shake the interest of the world by doing nothing at all, by partying and saying oafish things, but nobody cared. They only wanted me more. I tried to do something good with my fortune, and they clamored for more. No one cared what I did, as long as they got a piece of me.

  Now, before I even knew it, they stole the announcement of my first child from me.

  Stole the words right out of Roxanne’s mouth and splashed them onto the front page.

  Cretins. No respect for the lives of celebrities as if we’re not real fucking people. I’m still Blake. I’m real.

  But right now I feel like my life is a funhouse mirror, a sick joke belonging more to the tabloids than to me.

  Meditation is the only way I can get my bearings back.

  Breathe. In. Out.

  “Blake?” Her voice grows closer. Her footsteps ascend the stairs.

  Her shadow clouds the hallway light, and I swallow.

  The door slowly opens, and when I see her, it’s pleasure and pain in the same punch. Her bloodshot eyes zing straight to my core.

  “Hello,” I say, still holding the root. My thighs tremble, and my body pours sweat. My voice betrays what a difficult day this has been, though my voice is still nothing compared to those eyes of hers.

  “Blake,” Roxanne says. She sounds like a cartoon mouse. There’s a hesitation, and then she launches right into it. “Do you know?”