Broken Crown

by Susan Ward

  I laugh and pull her into my arms. I lift her hair and start kissing her along the neck, then run my tongue lightly against her ear. When she starts moving into my kisses, I take her hand, guide it beneath the sheets and press it to my erection. “Why don’t you be a team player and come back to bed, Chrissie?”

  She laughs, jerks back her hand, and shoves me away. “God, you’re impossible. You’d think I’d learn it’s never safe to get near you when you’re being sweet.”

  I fall back on the bed, smiling. “What can I say? I love my wife. I’m horny as hell today. Didn’t get you last night. Didn’t get you this morning. Chrissie, stay.”

  Her lush blue eyes soften and fix on me. “I love you, too. I’d like to come back to bed. I’d like to hide under the covers with you today. But I can’t. So I’m leaving.”

  I watch her grab her cell phone and her purse. “Call me once you know what’s going on with Kaley?”

  A flash of surprise in her eyes—why does it still surprise her that I care and want to be involved? I’ve always cared about these kids. And anything to do with her is everything to me.

  Quickly the surprise is tucked behind a smile. “I will.”

  She turns the lock and then closes the door behind her. I sigh and stare at the empty room.

  I finish my coffee, read the Wall Street Journal online, contemplate having a Kevin Spacey shower, and check my email instead. Tour itinerary. I forward that to Chrissie. PR email. Fuck, not doing any extra press appearances. That’s a no. Kenny. Emailing instead of texting. Interesting. Directions to a new studio location. Wants me there today. No, not hanging out with him. Listening to him ramble about his marriage is less appealing than a day alone in the house with five kids. What the fuck is Brian sending me now? One line message: You need to start responding to some of these. Oh crud, more online tabloid links.

  I click on one. Interesting. Just pictures of the wedding. Nothing new. Fuck you, Brian, no comment. How did so many reporters get tipped off about the day we got married? We were so careful. We told no one. Jack called the people we wanted there. Invited them to Santa Barbara for the day. No explanation. If they showed they showed. If they didn’t they didn’t, and Chrissie and I couldn’t have cared less.

  It would have been perfect if not for the clusterfuck of paparazzi on all sides of us and even in the air. I was so worried Chrissie would step outside, see the nightmare of press and melt down. But no, my girl rolled with everything that day. Refused to move the ceremony indoors. She wanted to get married on the cliffs above the beach as planned. And how beautiful she was. No. It was a perfect wedding anyway…

  * * *

  “I now pronounce you man and wife,” Jack says.

  I stare at Chrissie, the breathtaking smile on her face, and the way her eyes are shimmering for me. What I’m feeling—being married to Chrissie…finally—there are no words for it. I’ve never experienced anything like what’s rushing through my veins today.

  “Are you going to kiss the bride?” Jack asks, louder and amused.

  I shift my gaze to Jack. “This better be legal.” It’s a mind blower that he performed the ceremony even though it’s perfect symmetry that he did because I would have never met Chrissie if he hadn’t interfered in my life all those years ago. How the hell did he manage to become a licensed justice of the peace in under a week to marry us so there would be no outsiders here?

  Jack laughs. “It’s legal once you kiss her.”

  I run my thumb along Chrissie’s cheek. “I just want to stare at you for a little while. Let me.”

  Her smile grows larger. “No, I want to be kissed. Kiss me fast since we’re not married until you kiss me.”

  I laugh, and pull Chrissie into my arms and lower my face to hers.

  Applause all around us.

  I kiss her slowly. Gently. Tenderly deepening it as she melts into me, then quietly drawing back before we go across the line of loving and appropriately chaste because her kids are watching everything. And the paparazzi overhead in helicopters and the cameras tucked into drones are capturing every minute of this.

  Fuck ’em. Who cares? Let them film today.

  Chrissie steps back, breathless and laughing. “Holy crap. We did it, Alan.”

  Everyone around us laughs and we’re quickly swallowed up in hugs and congratulations. My humor comes, fuller and richer. Shit, I’m so happy today I’m feeling fucking giddy. And my heart swells into something painful as I watched Chrissie embraced and kissed over and over again.

  I don’t think anyone outside the two of us knows that Chrissie tucked behind a few silly words to make everyone laugh what it is to both of us to get here, married and still in love and together as we should be. They don’t know the moments we’ve been through together, the bad, the good, and the loving. They think it’s just light banter, one of Chrissie’s cute-cute moments, but what it is for me is in her voice and the look in her eyes as she looks at me.

  Holy crap. We did it. My thoughts exactly, baby.

  Everyone moves to the wedding party beneath the giant tent Jack had set up on the lawn. He pulled together an amazing party—dance floor, music, buffet tables, serving staff brought here and not told what the function would be—and by the looks of it everyone we care about is here.

  Chrissie and Jack thought of everything.

  At 11:30 p.m. I stare down at my wife as we dance. Fuck, the only way I can keep her with me and not have someone drag her away is to dance with her. The party is not winding down. All the guests are still here. She told me not to plan anything. Did she plan a wedding night?

  I bring her closer to me, kissing her beneath the hair by her ear. “Is it time to go yet?”

  She laughs. “Already?”

  “I was ready to go when you said ‘I do.’ I am beyond ready to leave here now.”

  She smiles, her face flushed, her eyes sparkly and impish. “Don’t look at anyone. Don’t say anything. Follow me. We need to get to the stairs on the cliff if we’ve got any hope of getting out of here.”

  She takes my hand, pulling me through the crowd, and I laugh. I’m possessed by a pleasant sensation of déjà vu, a memory of Chrissie at eighteen, dragging me across the lawn at a running pace to the steps built into the cliffs.

  We slip out of the tent and then she hurries me to the access to the beach.

  She stops at the top step.

  We’re both laughing.

  I grab her against me, kissing her the way I’ve wanted to all day. When she pulls back we’re both breathless.

  “What are we doing, Chrissie?”

  She kisses my bicep, laughs, and then takes my hand and starts going down the narrow stairs.

  At the bottom, she pauses and turns in the sand to face me. “There’s security at each end of the beach. It’s empty. I want to walk on the beach with you. Kiss you in the exact spot where you kissed me the night we first met. Then slip down to where a car’s waiting. Jack’s got the kids for a week. Your plane is at the airport on standby for us. I don’t care where you take me. Run away with me, Alan.”

  * * *

  My mind fills with vivid images of my honeymoon with Chrissie. Oh yes, I need a Kevin Spacey shower this morning. Fuck, I wish my wife was still here.

  My phone dings again. Christ, another email from Brian. Why is he sending me this? It’s just the usual tabloid shit. Nothing new.

  I toss aside my cell without checking out all the links. Who gives a fuck what anyone writes? What they’re spewing online. I wonder if this shit is part of why Kaley’s being so difficult lately. Maybe she’s getting crap at school over it. Her friends are old enough to surf the web and understand this.

  It’s ridiculous what people are willing to believe and babble about. Every story. Nonsense. Is it worth trying to talk to Kaley again? She’s lived through this her entire life. Christ, she’s Neil Stanton’s daughter. Every anniversary of his death she ends up in print. She must know by now that what the tabloids write is ninety perce
nt garbage.

  Maybe Chrissie’s wrong about never commenting back on things in the press. Maybe it would all stop if we went on the record, did a late-night talk show or two or something. Maybe we feed it by freezing the press out. Maybe no comment is the same as telling them to comment how they want.

  No. I used to answer everything. It never worked well.

  Chrissie’s right.

  Fuck it. Not commenting, Brian.

  I know the truth.

  Chrissie knows the truth.

  We’re married.

  We’re happy.

  Fuck them.

  Chapter 16

  After my shower, I pull on some jeans and a t-shirt, and then check my phone. Ah, voice mail from Chrissie.

  I hit play: “Hi, baby. I didn’t understand anything the counselor talked about. They never say anything in a way normal people can understand. The best I can figure out is they’ve been reading her social media, Facebook, website and blog. Can you believe that? I don’t even invade her privacy and read her pages. I didn’t even know she had a private website and blog, and they think it requires follow-up with a counseling professional. Wouldn’t say why. Just said do. Insulting, patronizing and infuriating. I’m on my way to the studio. Hopefully I can get some time to spy online and see what they’re freaking out about. I’ll talk to Kaley when I get home. Don’t say anything to her. Thank you for caring. Thank you for loving me and understanding I couldn’t stay and play with you this morning. Can we play later—”

  Beep.

  I laugh and click off the phone. Chrissie can’t say anything in the allotted recording time. She doesn’t sound concerned, more frustrated, so I was probably right that it’s nothing to worry about. And Chrissie got in enough words in sixty seconds to make me look forward to tonight.

  I head into the kitchen for more coffee. The house is quiet. Didn’t expect that one. Is everyone gone? I pull things out of the refrigerator. I start cooking my own breakfast.

  Lourdes comes into the kitchen.

  “Señor Alan, if you wait, I will make breakfast for you,” she says flustered, shaking her head.

  I smile. “It’s all right. I like cooking. Where is everyone?”

  “Aarsi took Krystal and the boys to the Harrises’ for the day. Kaley, she is not home. Khloe is napping.”

  A full report. Empty house.

  I finish cooking my breakfast and eat it alone on the patio. I considering cutting out to join Kenny in the studio today. I yawn. I’m tired. Nope, not hanging with Kenny. I turn off the phone and stretch out on the lounger.

  Sleep.

  Uninterrupted sleep.

  Not a bad way to pass the time waiting for Chrissie to come home.

  A bang startles me from deep sleep. Oh fuck, how long have I been sleeping? And what the hell? Linda is rushing toward me, frantic and keyed up about something.

  “What the fuck is the matter with you people?” she exclaims in a voice that could puncture the sound barrier. She’s breathless, alarmed and discomposed in a way I’ve never seen her before. “Don’t you ever answer your phones? I’ve been trying to call you and Chrissie for hours. Why don’t you ever pick up the fucking phone?”

  She drops on the chaise beside me.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I ask.

  “Len, get the fuck out here!” she screams. Her eyes shift back to me. “Where’s Chrissie?”

  I frown. “She’s out for the day.”

  She exhales again. “Oh God. Wait. That’s probably better.”

  Better?

  Every muscle in my body jerks and then tenses. Nothing rocks Linda. Linda is nonreactive, but she’s near hysterical and she’s happy Chrissie’s not here.

  I am fully alarmed now even though I don’t know why.

  Len drops down on a chair in front of a patio table. He flips open his laptop and starts to rapidly hit away at keys. His eyes are fixed on the screen. He doesn’t even look at me. I spring from the lounger and go to the table, staring over his shoulder, trying figure out what has him in full panic, too.

  “What is this?” He’s clicking through pages too fast for me to figure out any of them.

  “It’s your worst nightmare,” he warns. “Imagine The Osbornes, the Kardashians, Jersey Shore and Intervention all rolled into a multi-episode documentary. That wouldn’t be as bad as this. I don’t know how the fuck we’ll make it go away. It’s on the Internet. It wasn’t bad when Kaley just had the demented burned Barbies on strings dancing around narrating and pretending to be different characters in different scenes. Anything real world Kaley shot at an angle with effects so you couldn’t see the images clearly. It was really clever and artsy, that. But she’s gone live, face-to-face and there’s no hiding what the hell we’ve got here.”

  “Len, what the fuck are you talking about? Would one of you just explain in plain English, please?” I shout, frustrated since neither of them seems able to tell me in a direct way what the fuck is going on here.

  “Kaley’s World on the Internet,” Len counters in an annoyingly overexcited way. “It’s your Kaley. Christ, look!”

  Kaley’s World—Oh God, a website. The reason the administrators called Chrissie in for a meeting today—this is not going to be nothing, not with the way the Rowans look.

  I wait, dread turning my digestive tract to ice.

  “Manny, the girl’s gone viral,” Linda says pointedly. “She’s on fire. Eleven million hits on today’s episode and it’s only been up a few hours. It’s on the network news. She’s crashed the servers at UCLA and a dozen other campuses with kids logging on to watch her live feed today. She’s been an Internet star for nearly a month. How could you and Chrissie not know? Every episode, more than a million hits. This has been going on for weeks.”

  I stare at the screen anxiously waiting for the video to load. What the fuck is taking so long? It’s the Internet. Then Kaley is on the screen. Shit, it’s fucking Barbies turned into puppets. Alarm shoots through me. That is the interior of Chrissie’s house. The sounds. What the hell is that I’m hearing? Is that Chrissie and me fucking? The background sound effects are us fucking while Kaley tapes a mock shock talk show with burned Barbies as the hosts. Oh no…what the hell is she doing?

  The camera pulls wide. Kaley stands up. “This is the last episode of Kaley’s World. I’m pretty sure I’m going to be silenced after this. Shut down after today’s live feed. But I’d like to send one last message to my dad, Alan Manzone. I’d like to call the remainder of this feed ‘Denial is a Terminal Addiction.’ So here is our live family therapy.”

  A link appears at the end of the video. Linda clicks on it and the computer is redirected to a streaming video.

  “This has been streaming for over an hour,” Linda informs me anxiously.

  The video loads.

  Kaley is shaking a can of spray paint. The wall. That’s my Malibu house. In big, bold red letters she’s already tagged: Fuck off Daddy. Entire walls tagged with brief offensive comments. She is filming live from inside my house.

  I can’t collect my thoughts enough to wonder how she got in, what my next move should be, how the fuck to shut this down…or even that other part…Fuck off Daddy. She is crying and destroying my bedroom with a bat and cans of spray paint for any idiot on the Internet to see.

  What do I do?

  What do I do?

  I need to stop the live feed.

  Shut down the website.

  Oh fuck, everything on the Internet lives forever…no, don’t think about that. And don’t think about what’s going to happen when Chrissie sees this.

  Why would Kaley do this?

  “Are the tweets still posting?” Linda asks anxiously.

  Len scrolls through his phone. “Yep. Girl is trending at number one. New tweet every twenty seconds. Oh God, you don’t think our Bobby is there with her helping her do this? She can’t tweet, film and swing a bat all at once.”

  They lock eyes.

  “Kaley has hel
p,” Linda announces. “It’s probably that airhead Zoe Kennedy. That girl does anything Kaley asks.”

  “So does our boy,” Len reminds heavily.

  Linda runs her fingers through her hair. “Oh fuck.”

  My temper explodes. “Who the fuck cares if Bobby is the one helping her? I have problems here. We need to stop this. Now.”

  They both look at me.

  Oh fuck, they don’t know what to do either.

  Not encouraging.

  “Linda, stay here,” I order. “Keep Chrissie here until I get back. If she hasn’t seen it yet, don’t show it to her. Len, get in the fucking car. We need to get to Malibu.”

  We climb into my Porsche and shoot out of the driveway, cutting at high speeds through Pacific Palisades only to be brought to a near stop on Highway 1. Fucking LA traffic. Shit, twenty miles to my house. How fucking long is it going to take? Len is still on his phone watching everything.

  I hit the voice button on my car. “Call Goldman, Loeb, and Fisher.”

  Len stares at me.

  The receptionist answers.

  “This is Alan Manzone. Put me through to Goldman. Now!”

  “I’m sorry, sir. He’s in a meeting. Would you like—”

  “Put me the fuck through now. I don’t care what he’s doing, who he is talking to—”

  Click. Did she put me on hold? Then hideous Muzak.

  “Sorry about the misunderstanding, Manny. What do you need?”

  Ah, Goldman.

  Sounding anxious.

  Greedy cunt. You better sound anxious.

  “I have a problem. I need to get a streaming video pulled from the Internet, a website taken down, a Twitter account frozen…” I look at Len. “What else?”

  “Wait, wait, wait. Slow down. What are we talking about here?” Goldman says.

  Len leans forward. “Go to www-dot—all one word—Kaley’s-World-dot-com. Click on the tab, ‘Denial is a Terminal Addiction.’”

  Lots of noise in Goldman’s office pours through the car speakers. Sounds of action. Good.