Sex, Lies and the Dirty

by Nik Richie

  Brush my teeth. Clean up a little.

  I go back out to Shayne who’s laying in bed, wrapped in blankets, and I say, “I’ve got to see Lonnie before he goes, so I have to leave soon, but…I’d really like to hang out in L.A.”

  I stress that last part. I’m so used to fucking girls and throwing them away that it’s important Shayne knows that I want to see her again, that this wasn’t a one-night thing for me.

  “I would love to, Nik,” she smiles at me from the bed.

  I’m not ready to say good-bye.

  She was almost my wife.

  At Rehab, Lonnie name-drops me and we get all of our drinks comped. He’s trying to chase down some American Idol girl, and I’m trying to talk to him about Shayne.

  I say, “Lonnie, I like this girl.”

  He says, “Forget about it, dude. It’s not going to happen.”

  “We had a great time together last night.”

  “Did you fuck her?” he asks.

  “No, nothing happened,” I lie. I don’t know why I lie. I’ve never done that to Lonnie before, but I don’t want to cheapen what Shayne and I did.

  “That chick is impossible, man. Forget her. Move on.”

  “Why? Why should I move on?” I ask.

  “Because every one of my friends that has tried to hook up with that chick has never been able to do it, so forget it. Enjoy your weekend.”

  “Lonnie, we tried to get married last night.”

  “You’re lying. Why do you lie? Just relax, Nik.”

  We’re in a cabana. Scooby is there along with all these girls. Hot girls. They’re drinking, flirting. I’ve seen it before. I’m bored by it. Scooby asks what the hell happened last night, and I give him the short version. I like Shayne. I tried to marry her.

  “Well, thank God that didn’t happen!” he says.

  I’m having to come to terms with my friends and inner circle not understanding this. They don’t get it, and maybe there’s a good reason for that. I’ve been with a lot of girls, and the few I’ve gotten close to have fucked things up. Last night with Shayne was real though. She and I know that. If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t miss her as much as I do right now. I wouldn’t be so happy. It’s got nothing to do with the girls or the attention or the booze—it’s none of that. It’s Shayne. Only Shayne.

  I’m sitting in the cabana with Scooby and these girls, thinking about Shayne and when I can make it out to L.A. My iPhone buzzes, and the text reads: Still want to get married?

  Shayne says: I’ve researched it. I know what we have to do.

  I say: Yes.

  It moves fast.

  We get married at The Little White Wedding Chapel. Shayne wears a loose-fitting cream top, a tissue-white veil. I’m in a black T-shirt. Jeans. There’s maybe eight or nine people attending. Lonnie is MIA because he’s passed out somewhere, I’d find out later. Scooby is our “flower girl.” People are pointing Flip cameras and taking photos with their cell phones. It’s the first time I actually want people documenting me. Us. Shayne and I, we’re happy, embracing. She says, “I’m a bride today,” to the cameras, smiling. Glowing. We say our vows. Sign the papers. It’s a done deal. We’re married. The group of us go out to Lavo to celebrate.

  Meanwhile, the sharks are moving in.

  Now that I have Shayne, I have something to lose.

  55Aired in 2009 for one season on the E! network. The show documents the lives of Lorenzo Lamas, his ex-wife Michele Smith, their two children, Shayne and AJ Lamas, and Michele’s daughter with ex-husband Craig Pike, Dakota.

  56Playmate of the Month, May 1996.

  57Season 12: London Calling.

  Media

  CBS gives us 48 hours.

  Most of the other news outlets are making snide little comments about how we got married at the same place Britney Spears did the first time, the same one that was over 55 hours later. Everybody is placing bets on this thing like we’re a fucking craps table.

  Two days. One week. Not even a month.

  In the articles reporting the marriage, there’s usually a couple of pictures to coincide with the text. Just in case you have no idea who Shayne Lamas or Nik Richie is—sort of like how we weren’t aware of each other. The press usually snags a pic of Shayne from her Bachelor days, or some modeling shoot she did. Full hair and makeup with the occasional Photoshop touch-up.

  As for me, the villain, the “Internet scumbag,” the media has taken the liberty of posting my DUI photo all over again. That grainy little piece of shit is cropping up everywhere, and the comment boards are eating it up.

  “You mean she married him? Is she on stupid pills?”

  So there’s the issue of how we “don’t go together” along with the ever-growing speculation that the whole thing’s a sham. “A hoax,” they call it. One attention whore deserves another. That sort of thing. Even my friends are asking me if this is some kind of publicity stunt. Texts are rolling in from people I haven’t talked to in months, pretty much asking the same thing in one way or another: if this is for real?

  I might as well send out a mass text:

  Yes, I’m really married.

  No, it’s not a hoax.

  I’m back in Scottsdale watching Shayne on TMZ. She’s coming out of the LAX terminal carrying a few small bags, clutching a Blackberry and not at all surprised that there’s a camera waiting for her. If she’s caught off-guard, she’s certainly hiding it well. Her fingers keep coming up to her forehead to brush the hair out of her eyes and the cameraman is asking her about the “wild Las Vegas weekend” she had.

  “I found a husband!” Shayne says, and quite happily.

  “You did!” the camera guy says, “And it’s actually Nik Richie of all people.”

  “Of all people” is tabloid code for: you could have done better.

  I watch my wife get on her phone while this guy tries to get the story from her. She’s looking around the terminal for her ride, and this guy asks her, “Is that his real name?”

  This is actually a trick question. TMZ’s bread and butter is catching celebrities either looking stupid, getting into trouble, or humanizing them in some way. Most of the show concentrates on the third thing, so even though Paris Hilton getting a coffee or Lindsay Lohan picking up dry cleaning may sound boring, for some reason people are watching it. In Shayne’s case, however, this camera guy is trying to make her look stupid. The TMZ crew knows that certain people are going to come through LAX at certain times, so they prepare lines of questioning to see if they can get a wrong answer on film.

  When the camera guy asks Shayne about my real name, he’s hoping that she doesn’t know it because it’ll make for better TV. She knows I’m Hooman Karamian, though. It was right there on the marriage certificate. No matter what the world thinks about me, I’d never marry a woman without being up front on a few things, and that includes my name.

  Then the camera guy says, “You seem like a pretty honest person, Shayne,” which is just more tabloid speak for: I’ll fuck you over if you lie to me.

  He asks, “Will you tell me the honest truth? What happened? Is this like a publicity stunt?”

  I’m in Scottsdale, watching my wife on TV when I should be with her. She’s miles away while this jerkoff is asking her the same stupid question every other news outlet has. Shayne isn’t camera-shy though. She laughs at this guy and his tired-ass question. Laughs convincingly.

  “I wouldn’t get married to a man for a publicity stunt58,” she says. “I actually met Nik and I fell in love and we got married, so why not?”

  “Love at first sight, actually,” camera guy says. Not genuine. Sarcastic. People forget that you can still be sarcastic without sounding it out verbally, and that’s why Shayne is speaking to him instead of telling the guy to fuck off.

  “It was—well, we’re not in love. We’re in love with being, y’know, in like with each other…and we’re doing it backwards,” She says. “We’re getting married and then we’re dating.”

 
I’m watching this play out, thinking, Fuck, babe, why did you say that?

  “Doing it backwards” is a term Shayne came up with in Vegas. It was time to leave, and I needed to know what she wanted to do next. For my own peace of mind, there needed to be some kind of a plan. She told me to fly home, and that she was going to fly home, too. Let’s be married and then be in love, she said. We were doing it backwards. Of course, saying that to a TV camera out of context is made us look like idiots.

  That’s how TMZ came about using I’m Not “In Love’ With My Hubby for the title. Up go the ratings.

  I’m watching my wife on TV, and a blue compact pulls up in the terminal to pick her up. Shayne is putting her bags in the backseat, and now the camera guy knows she’s about to leave so he pulls out the big guns.

  He says, “Are you kind of worried that Nik is so critical of girls? He always says that every girl is ugly.”

  The TMZ dude is referring to the site, the “Would You?” section, and all those times I bagged on girls for being too fat, too tan, too hairy, too unattractive. He’s trying to bring it to Shayne’s attention that her husband is too judgmental, but she has no idea what he’s talking about. Shayne hasn’t seen what I do yet.

  I get on the phone to tell her I’m coming out to L.A.

  The next day I’m in Los Angeles with Shayne, driving around in her Lexus convertible while she wears big designer sunglasses and smokes in the passenger seat. We’re holding hands, cruising along in no particular direction because right now just being together is the most important thing. We talked about the news reports and what people are saying about us, coming to the same conclusion that there’s always going to be talk, but that doesn’t mean they know anything. It’s just noise. Spectacle.

  “It’ll die down,” she says. “It always does.”

  Then my phone rings, and it’s Harvey Levin from TMZ. The Harvey Levin. I’ve never spoken to the guy, but I recognize the voice from the show. So at first I’m excited because Harvey-fucking-Levin is calling me, and this is a guy that I respect and look up to. Then I remember yesterday’s clip of Shayne at the airport, thinking that what TMZ ran and Harvey calling now might be related, and possibly not good.

  Harvey says to me, “I just wanted to let you know—and this is no disrespect to you, but I’m going to say that your marriage is going to last three days.” He tells me, “I wanted to give you a heads-up so you don’t hate me forever.”

  It’s a professional courtesy. There’s an entire world devoted to talking about celebrities, spreading gossip, taking cheap shots. Marrying Shayne meant becoming both the gunman and the target, and I’m okay with that. It’s business. She’s worth it.

  I say, “Harvey, thank you, man. That means a lot to me.”

  Shayne squeezes my leg, smiles at me. Wind blows through her hair.

  “Do what you gotta do, man,” I tell him.

  We say good-bye and hang up. Shayne grabs my hand again and I notice something’s missing. Not missing, really, but not right, and I decide that there’s an easier way to get the point across about how serious I am about Shayne. Something these people will understand. We didn’t have what the press calls “a real wedding,” and that’s part of why we’re taking so much flak. We’re “moving too fast.” We’re “doing it backwards.” No one is supposed to understand it but us, however, it’s important to me that Shayne knows how serious I am. Even if the world questions what we have, the last thing I want is for her to question me.

  So I have a plan now.

  The first thing I do is get Shayne a $135,000 wedding ring. Not in spite of the media or as a defense mechanism. She deserves it and I’m devoted. Maybe we didn’t have “a real wedding” but she’s damn sure going to have a real ring.

  The second part is more important. Even though Shayne is fine with her “doing it backwards” plan, I’m not. I need her. I need my wife.

  I ask Shayne, “Will you come back to Scottsdale with me?”

  We get to a point where we ignore everything.

  It’s us. We’re in love. Shayne said “yes.”

  She’s agreed to come to Scottsdale and live with me, so we’re packing up all the stuff from her Malibu pad. You can learn a lot about a person by what kind of stuff they have. Shayne owns a lot of leopard print, I notice. Lots of designer sunglasses and watches, a ton of makeup, but that’s nothing compared to the shoes. There’s hundreds of them. Hundreds. And they’re not cheap either. Every pair is Louboutin or YSL or Jimmy Choo or some French designer I can’t pronounce. Gucci…Chanel…LV. It’s easily over a hundred grand just in shoes, but Shayne’s a girly girl. She loves fashion. It makes her Hollywood legacy more real to me, now that I’m actually sorting through her belongings.

  Packing gives me a lot of opportunity to think: about this new direction in life, how we’re going to work as a couple, and family. I dwell on that last one for a bit.

  Shayne had no family at the wedding, no friends. Obviously, she didn’t want to invite Shauna Sand because they don’t get along. Her father, though—he was sort of robbed of that “walk your daughter down the aisle” moment. We’ve been so busy getting to know each other that the topic of family hasn’t come up that much. My own mother found out through the news.

  She was yet another person asking, “Is this real?”

  Yes, I’m really married.

  No, it’s not a hoax.

  Shayne hasn’t said anything about her parents” reaction. Come to find out it’s because she never told them. They found out the way the rest of the country did.: through the news.

  On TMZ, Shayne’s father, Lorenzo, is being filmed by these guys. They’re asking him what he thinks about his daughter getting married, and reacts the way any father would who was left out of the loop: he’s fucking pissed. He’s angry, telling the camera, “Shayne, call me!” like she just got caught sneaking out on a school night. We look stupid again. TMZ succeeded in that regard.

  So we finish packing and I tell Shayne we need to make this right.

  We need to see Lorenzo and explain things, and hopefully, I won’t get the shit kicked out of me in the process.

  58Refer to: Matt Grant.

  Optima

  Shayne paints her nails, sometimes six or seven times a day. Pink or turquoise or black. Whatever “feels right” at the time. I think it’s more about the ritual than the actual color. She’ll penguin-walk over to the shaded patio, toes separated and spread apart by foam dividers, and smoke a cigarette (usually a Marlboro Light) while she checks her Blackberry. Shayne never checks her Blackberry until 2 p.m. It’s one of the few rules that she has, possibly to deter becoming a slave to e-mail and texts like so many people have. I actually admire this about her.

  She enjoys fitness and fashion.

  Shayne does not enjoy movies.

  We’ve yet to make it through one where she doesn’t leave the living room. Madison usually follows her. Her dog is a Westie-Bichon mix, and like most of Shayne’s possessions, is very girly-looking. I don’t mind Madison but am not particularly attached to her, either. Shayne will baby-talk Madison sometimes, or they’ll curl up on the couch while she reads US Weekly and People. It hits me that Shayne probably knows most of the people in the magazines on one level or another, so for her it’s like reading the school newspaper. She could call some of these people if she wanted to. Shayne lives in her own little bubble though, which I refer to as Shayne’s World. It’s a place where the concept of time and money barely exist, and she does the things that she enjoys. She shops. She goes to Starbucks. She gets dessert at a café. Sometimes she’ll try on outfits just to see how they look. Or she’ll cut a couple of dresses up and make a new one. Shayne spends her day doing whatever she wants. This approach to life has resulted in her being an especially calm individual. Carefree. This I also admire about her. Being Nik Richie is a stressful existence, but Shayne brings a certain level of tranquility to this place.

  We live in Scottsdale, in an area called Optima.
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  We love each other. We say this and believe it, but we’re still very much in the process of getting acquainted and Shayne’s just settling into the apartment. I’ve never been one to own things. Nik Richie doesn’t have a nesting instinct, so the apartment is minimalist: a couch is a couch and nothing more. A bed is just something to sleep in. If I buy a piece of furniture, it’s for function, not fashion. I’m not trying to impress anyone with a bath mat or toilet seat cover. I don’t need designer throw pillows from Pottery Barn. This place is a source of shelter, not a home. So when Shayne walked into the apartment for the first time, this look crossed her face like, Oh, I’ve got some work to do. She had a project.

  So Shayne brought in her framed photographs. She brought leopard-print rugs and blankets. Jar candles. Art. Music. I’ve literally never bought a CD in my life, and now we had stacks of them. My dishes were “too boring.” We had to get some with designs. And she brought in more photos: her smiling, modeling, us on our wedding day. Us in Vegas. Another photo of us kissing. If someone robbed us, they’d at least know who lived here now. She brought in shoes, dresses, bras and underwear with little bows on them. She brought in fragrances, the smell of girl. Bottle upon bottle of nail polish. Cosmetics. Lotions. Tampons. Even Madison has a little wardrobe of dresses and shirts.

  While Shayne delivers her woman’s touch to the apartment, I blog.

  I blog just like I normally do, commenting on some chick’s +2’s and Shayne walks by and says, “That’s hot.” Shayne has still never been on the site. The closest she’s come to it are the passing glances she steals while she puts the apartment in order. Making this place livable.

  My plain couch now has pillows, blankets, and a dog on it. My perfectly functional coffee table has coasters, a candle, and a centerpiece that wasn’t there before. I keep blogging, but every time I get up to go to the bathroom or get a snack in the kitchen, something’s different. A girl lives here now. The medicine cabinet is now packed with facial and hair care products. My once blank refrigerator is covered in magnets and photographs. Slowly but surely, Shayne shifts this place into a home. It’s culture shock, but a welcomed one. I would have done anything to get her to move in. Allowing Shayne to take over my empty apartment and do whatever she wants isn’t a big deal in the grand scheme of things.