Twisted Passion

by Kayley Cole

"I'm going to be busy meeting your daughter, as you know. Let me assure you once-- and only once-- that if I wanted to pull the wool over your eyes, I wouldn't. I'd just shove it down your throat and be done with you. But I won't, just in case you are Ellie's father. I wouldn't do that to her."

  We stare at each other, waiting for the other one to flinch. His eyes aren't quite as blue as Ellie's, but it would be hard to imagine there was another pair of blue flames like the ones in her eyes. After several seconds, he looks down at the wheels of my walker. "I see. I'm glad she has someone out there protecting her."

  As I write down the address for the man— Matthew, apparently— my old man flesh feels like it's sliding off. I've learned it happens with all masks. I just need to be damn sure that this man's mask comes off before mine does.

  I never fell from grace.

  One of the first interviews Cold Crash did for their second album, they mentioned their "director was an asshole but got the job done." That was the foundation of my bad reputation, and as Cold Crash turned into a phenomenon, I turned into a missile— destructive, but effective. Also, twelve feet of pure steel.

  So, I didn't so much as fall from grace— as the world saw me as I am— but rather, I decided it was the best they were going to get.

  Ellie, however, has a million miles to fall down from. She doesn't leave a carnage of overworked cameramen, destroyed egos, and sixty-year-old actors bawling their eyes out. She gives out gifts to her security team. She gives a full embrace to every fan she has ever met. She's never been accused of diva behavior or even looking vaguely angry.

  As I step into the living room, she has a tablet on her lap as she sits on her cream-colored sofa. Her finger flicks up the screen as she reads.

  "I hope you're not reading the comments section of anything," I say. Her whole body jerks, the tablet falling from her hands and nearly slipping off her lap. She looks up at me, and the smile she flashes is enough grace for me.

  "I didn't hear you," she says, standing up, setting the tablet down on the armchair. I leave my walker near the door. We move toward each other, two magnets, and she embraces me. There's a lot to read in the way her body presses against mine, but most of all, I can feel how heavy today has weighed down on her. She gives me a quick kiss on the cheek and takes a step back. "Nice elderly look. How are you doing? How was the set?"

  "The same as always," I say. I start stripping off the old skin. I imagine this is how a snake feels— my skin breathing in the fresh air like it's been waiting to feel renewed. "Sit down. We should talk."

  "Did you get Anya Bowline's number?" she asks, referring to her request she had texted me earlier. I roll the fake skin into a ball and toss it into the garbage bin by her bookshelf.

  "I did," I say. I wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her close to me again. Even now that she's rich, she still uses the same peach vanilla lotion, and it relaxes me every time. When we kiss, a small moan from her lips rumbles between us, but her body doesn't relax. I slip my fingers into her hair. She lets her hand fall back against my palm. I kiss her throat, the scent of the peach vanilla so strong that I can nearly taste it. I move my hands to her ass, pulling her tight against me. Her shoulders drop and she kisses me back, but I can still feel the tension in her body like she's about to jump off a plane.

  It doesn't feel right. She usually enjoys this part— where she feels like she's fooled the world into thinking we broke up while we're still intertwined with each other— but now I'm trying to burn a fire between us while her wildfire thoughts are all over the place.

  I let my hands drop away from her, taking a couple of steps back. "We should talk."

  "I know," she says, sitting down on the edge of the armchair. The tablet slides down, touching the small of her back. "You were at Anya's birthday party too. Do you remember me saying anything about Goldfinch or Alex Soltis? I truly don't think I would have mentioned Jess Accordino. I recognize her name, but I don't think I've heard any of her music."

  "I don't think you'd say anything about any of them, Ellie, but I left early."

  "You were annoyed with Nick Costa."

  "He's arrogant enough for me to call him arrogant. It's nearly an impossible level of arrogance to reach, but he accomplishes it."

  "I know I had a little more to drink after you left. Could I have made some comment that somebody misconstrued?"

  "Ellie, who cares?" I ask.

  "Everybody." She grabs her tablet, unlocking it to show me the screen. The title of the article is written in big, bold letters— ELLIE RUE: A WOLF IN SHEEPSKIN. "Everybody is talking about it. Everybody is saying I called Anya Bowline a liar."

  I kneel down in front of her. "I just meant that this is the drama that Hollywood survives on. You've become incredibly successful. You were bound to become a target. Everyone will forget this in a few months. None of it will matter, so why worry about it? I've gone through plenty of shit and I've still got people begging me to work with them."

  She sets the tablet down on her end table. "This is different."

  "It is," I agree. "You were seen as a saint, and now you're not. I was never seen as a saint. But that's okay. You can rebuild from here."

  She stands up so abruptly, her legs hit against my knees. "That's half the problem. I don't expect to be seen as a saint, but I'd prefer that when people realized that, it was something I actually did that caused them to change their mind."

  "You were just saying you weren't sure if you said those things."

  She bites her lip, leaning back into the chair. "Can I have her number? I just want to fix this. It's just a huge misunderstanding and Anya is a great person. She'll fix this once we have an understanding."

  There is so much doubt in her words that if she was acting, I would have needed to leave the movie set to not lose my temper in front of everyone. This is not the person I know. Ellie is not the kind of person who shatters on the floor the moment criticisms start rolling in.

  I take out my cell phone and find the text that Miles Chambers— the husband of one of Anya Bowline's friends and a supporting actor in The Last December— gave to me. She grabs her phone and dials the number.

  I can feel the temperature rise as every second passes by, like my anger is setting fires under my skin. I don't want Ellie to see me lose control, but I know the fame industry. There are three common addictions here: alcohol, work, and jealousy. I have no doubt that Anya Bowline is a disciple of all three.

  "Hey, uh, this is Ellie Rue," Ellie says. I avoid looking directly at her. I don't see this conversation going well and I can't stand to watch her slowly break. "Yes. Yes. I just… I’m very confused about what you were talking about in your interview. I don't understand. I don't remember saying those things and I… I don't get why you'd accuse me of being manufactured by the industry. You've met me. I thought we got along."

  I stare up at her wall, where there's a large painting of Ellie's debut album. It shows her standing beside a burning tree while the background of the album looks like broken red glass. It was one of the last things we worked on together.

  "I wasn't drunk or high. I might have had a few drinks, but I wasn't drunk. I..."

  I take a step toward her bookcase. It's six shelves, filled with romance, thrillers, fantasy, and biographies. In the center of all of it, there's a photo of her accepting an award for Best Song.

  "Anya," Ellie says. "I'm not… I'm not saying that you're lying. I don't remember any of this happening and I certainly don't believe that those girls are prostitutes. Anya. Anya, please don't hang up. Anya. Please..."

  I hear a heavy sigh and the clattering sound of Ellie dropping the phone back onto the end table, but I don't turn around. I stare at her photo and the ease of her smile. I shouldn't have helped her rise up so quickly. I know how long Ellie has been working toward this dream, but everyone else sees her as an overnight success. I know how quickly people will put a smile on their face and a knife in your back if they don't think you deserve your success.
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  When I turn around, Ellie is looking at the painting of her album.

  "What happened?" I ask.

  "She insists it happened." She wraps her arms around her waist. "And now she's even madder at me. Jake, I can't have Anya Bowline mad at me. She has more followers on all of her social media accounts than nearly everybody else."

  "Your fans will be faithful," I say. "They won't be swayed by some rumors."

  "If they thought there was some truth to it, they should be," she says. "If I heard my favorite singer referred to her competition as prostitutes, I wouldn't buy her next album."

  "You've already denied it. They'll believe you." I say. I pick up the garbage bag hanging from my walker and untie the knot that kept it closed. "I bought you something."

  "And disguised it in a trash bag?"

  "I figured it completed my disguise as a crazy old man. The fact that I could put your present in here too was just a nice addition." I reach into the bag, pulling out a small book-like object, wrapped in brown paper and a bow made out of rainbow rope. I hold it out to her, but she doesn't take it.

  "Nobody is going to believe me when the other side of the story is coming from Anya Bowline."

  "Stop saying her name like she's a god. She's a great singer, she's a decent songwriter, and she's lived off the hype of Catastrophe for nearly two decades."

  "And everyone loves her."

  I start to pull her present away, but she finally takes it.

  "Thank you, Jake," she says.

  "You haven't opened it."

  "I just meant for trying to talk me down."

  I lean down, kissing her. "Well, you do know I love when you freak out, but that's just in the bedroom."

  "Shut up," she mutters, but she's smiling now. She carefully moves aside the rope to tear off the paper. Underneath, there's a leather-bound journal with a guitar embossed on the front and tiny leather cords to represent the guitar strings.

  "It's for writing your lyrics," I say. She stands up, giving me a kiss.

  "I love it."

  "It was that or a 20-carat ring," I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them. I close my eyes before I can see her reaction to the idea of a diamond ring. "Why don't I get us some wine from your kitchen?"

  "Great."

  I turn around, still not looking at her. As I retrieve the wine, I know I'm going to investigate this man claiming to be her father, and I'm not going to mention it to her. It's mostly because I know she can't handle this news right now. But there's also a small part of me that needs this distraction. I can't handle her pain. If I were a better man, I could sit down, wrap my arm around her, and love her like she deserves. But I'm not that kind of man.

  I never fell from grace. I rose up from Hell.

  Chapter Three

  Ellie

  I dream of being in a den of lions. My head presses against one of their rib cages while I sleep. The fur is rough against my cheek, but its large booming heart soothes me into a deep slumber. I wake up as the lion starts to growl, its whole body vibrating underneath me. I sit up. They must hear an enemy, lingering near the entrance of the den. I need to be prepared to run or hide behind my new family. The lions get onto their feet, staring at the entrance of the den, where nighttime obscures any threat. As I let out a slow breath, the lion I had been sleeping on spins around, its two front paws slamming into my chest as its jaws close around my throat.

  I wake up. I touch my neck, but it's only slick with sweat, not blood. I turn to my left. Jake is asleep, his hand resting on his chest while his other hand is hiding under the covers. Usually, it's so easy to look at him and forget everything, but my teeth hurt from clenching them while I slept and my head is filled with Brett Dreyer's and Anya Bowline's voices. The headline, ELLIE RUE: A WOLF IN SHEEPSKIN, flips around in my brain, the letters constantly rearranging, but always falling back into their rightful place.

  I slide my legs off the bed. I should just grab my guitar and write a song. It's what I've always done when it feels like my emotions are going to explode out of me. Instead, I grab my phone, clicking on the home button to light up the screen.

  5 missed calls

  10 text messages

  I click on the text messages—

  Marie: What. The. Fuck. Did. You. Do?

  Marie: For God's sake, answer my call.

  Marie: Ellie! For the love of Freddie Mercury, I'm trying to help you.

  Marie: Bumper Sticker has published an article about you, referencing every negative thing your brother and Natalie Leger said about you and questioning now if there's any truth to it. They're specifically highlighting parts of their book that referenced you being nasty to other people.

  Marie: Dirty Dashboard published an article, giving 'proof' that you were manufactured by Gas Pedal Records.

  Marie: Goldfinch and Alex Soltis have condemned your remarks about them. Goldfinch stated that what you said was more detrimental to all women in the music industry than what women are wearing or how they dance.

  Marie: Big Gesture tore apart your lyrics and is aligning them to the Seven Deadly Sins. They specifically went after you for 'lustful' lyrics, calling you a hypocrite.

  Marie: the Insight Morning Show is talking about you.

  Marie: Jess Accordino released a blog in response to the scandal. Luckily for you, it's mostly her praising prostitutes. She does refer to you as a Puritan at the end though.

  Marie: This is a shit show and you're the star.

  Nobody else has texted me. Since I've risen to fame, I'd usually get at least a few texts from various friends, sharing their newest endeavors or something funny they know they can't share with the public. But now they're all silent. I've contracted a scandal, and they don't want to get sick from it.

  "What are you doing?" Jake mumbles. I turn to look at him. He's barely awake, but the smile he gives me is enough to get my heart beating fast enough that it feels like it's purring, and I almost forget everything else. Almost.

  "I need to call Marie."

  "You really don't. I'm sure she'll be calling again within the next twenty minutes."

  "You knew she'd called me?"

  "I might have put your phone on silent last night," he says. "I didn't want you worrying all night and I knew Marie would have a stick up her ass about this."

  "It's her job to have that stick up her ass."

  He tilts his head. "This conversation isn't going quite the way I thought. I'm not overly fond of talking about jobs or things sticking up Marie's ass."

  I set my phone down, clambering back into the bed. "You don't think Marie has a nice ass?"

  "It's hard to notice when her mouth keeps babbling with every thought that crosses her mind."

  "Don't be mean."

  He reaches his hand up, his palm caressing against my cheek. I lean down, pressing my lips against his lips, sliding my arm down his arm, and slipping my body under the covers to press my legs against his legs. If our bodies weren't so drastically different, we could be mirror-images of each other, but I'm so happy that his body is constructed of muscle, tattoos, and rigidity while mine is soft and supple. It helps give me minor amnesia about the rest of my life.

  We could live in this bed forever, our bodies locked together and not letting anybody else into our padlocked paradise. It would be an eternal vacation.

  That would be a great lyric— eternal vacation.

  My phone rings, playing an old Depeche Mode song. I roll across the bed, grabbing it from the nightstand. It's Marie. Of course.

  "Hey, Marie," I answer. "I was just going to call you. I'm sorry about not getting back to you right away."

  "The reason better be that you lost both your arms and all your toes and you've been trying to call me using your knees."

  I glance at Jake. "I had it on silent."

  "Holy Christ, Ellie. You know what? I'm already over it. We need to focus on the problem. We need to do damage control. We can't just send you off to a children's hospital or a
destitute school because everyone's going to know you're doing that to save face. We need to create a whole new narrative. You need to tell the public that you have a drug problem."

  "What?" I laugh. "I'm not going to do that, Marie. I've never done drugs. Nobody would believe that."

  "They've believed it with other celebrities. Plenty of celebrities have gotten away with bad behavior by blaming it on addiction. And part of addiction is being able to hide it. Tell people that's the real reason you're a recluse. You lock yourself in your bedroom and snort up any white powder you can find."

  "I wouldn't cheapen addiction like that, Marie."

  "You wouldn't. You could go around talking about how the government needs to focus more on helping addicts and you can throw some money at some addiction programs. You can speak at events, talking about how hard it is being an addict. The entertainment media would gulp it up because the good Lord knows that industry is full of addicts."

  "Except, Marie, I’m not an addict." I can feel Jake's gaze burning into the back of my shoulder. He's despised Marie ever since I hired her eight months ago and I can see why now.

  "You're getting stuck on the details," she says. "The only other option is to paint Anya Bowline as a jealous old witch that's striking out at her competition. Think about it. She managed to tear you down while also creating conversations about whether Jess Accordino, Goldfinch, and Alex Soltis' way of promoting themselves in unethical. You all happen to be at the top of the charts. Or you all used to be. This will absolutely cause you to fall from every Top 20 chart. She's also had a few spats with other young up-and-comers..."

  "I don't care about the charts, Marie. I care..."

  "All my clients say that and they're all lying."

  "I care that the truth comes out."

  "It's not going to come out, Ellie. It's cowering under a rock, hoping nobody ever finds it."

  I rub my temple. "Marie, can I just have some time to think about this?"

  "It's rather an urgent matter. With social media today, everyone expects a response within a few hours. You're going to be surpassing twenty-four hours soon, Ellie."