by Emily Bishop
“Blake! No!” Roxanne shrills from behind me, actually sounding adamant. She grabs the wad of clothes in my hand, and I go still, really looking at her. Her eyes are wild and desperate. “You can’t just make all the rules. I’ll get arrested for trespassing. The show will be suspended, and the producers will do whatever they can to bend you. Since I’ll be in jail, I’m sure all they will have to do is promise not to press charges, as long as you play ball.”
My fingers loosen, and she extracts the clothes from my fist.
“You have to let me do this by myself,” she whispers. “I have my own job. I have my own place. You can’t just spirit me away like some knight in shining armor.”
“Yes, I can.”
Roxanne tucks the clothes back into her drawer, and I deflate, knowing that she’s staying. She’s right. I can’t just sling her over my shoulder like a caveman.
“But I don’t want you to,” she asserts. “This is my real life. Your real life is over in that chateau.” She takes the next stack of clothes out of the duffel bag and puts them back, refusing to even look at me. “I bet a lot of girls get caught up in all the magic of a place like that.”
I scowl at her and cock my head. I’m trying to figure out if this is an evil twin or a doppelgänger of some sort. “What are you talking about, Roxanne? This isn’t the real you. The real you would be making fun of my hair right now and offering me a drink. The real you would be ecstatic that I broke another rule without implicating you in any way. The real you would be kissing the shit out of me, straddling me on that perfectly good bed over there. What did Jared say to you? Why are you closing me out?”
“I’m not closing you out,” she lies, her voice getting louder. “I got a new job and I took it. And maybe I came to my senses about what was happening between you and I, Sir Berringer.”
She’s on her way to put the duffel bag back into her closet, and I take one wide stride and close the space between us. I refuse to let her define all these new boundaries.
“Wait,” I say.
I pull her into my arms and grasp the duffel bag, thrusting it down into the floor like it disgusts me. I trace down her throat with my fingers. She can’t hide the way her body responds to me. I feel her every cell flower at my touch. Her lips part. Her neck relaxes. Her eyelashes flash up and down as she looks from my eyes to my lips and back again. She does still want me. I knew it. My lips just barely brush over hers. She whimpers softly.
“This is what’s happening between you and me,” I remind her.
“Sex,” Roxanne whispers, even though her body language is still wide open to me. I think I could fuck her right now, but I want to talk about this. “I doubt I’m the first girl to think that she has something special with you, just because your dick was inside her once.”
I can’t listen to this talk. I have to show her that she means more than just a random fuck. Or tell her. “Roxanne—”
My fingers trail down her throat and skate over her collarbone, then I pause. My words jam up in my throat. I don’t know how I didn’t see it sooner.
The brass chain is missing. Her throat is bare. I’ve seen her freshly showered and wearing it, but now, in day-old pajamas, it’s gone.
“Where’s your key?”
“It’s not my key,” she clarifies for me, slipping from my embrace. She crosses the room and scoops the intricate brass key off a writing desk in the corner, then holds it out to me, dangling by the end of its chain. “It’s your key.”
As asinine as it sounds, only one question crops into my mind: “Are you breaking up with me?”
Roxanne chuckles softly and shakes her head, as if that’s funny. I really can’t convince her that this is different from all the other women…or maybe Jared scared her so bad, she’s convinced herself that it’s worth the trouble to end this now.
“This is the first time in my entire life,” I confess to her, “that I’ve actually regretted being a man-whore in the past.”
“Ahem. Thank you for this,” Roxanne says instead, completely ignoring what I’m saying. “Please take it back. I will always carry the sentiment with me.” She extends the key to me in her flat, open palm. “But I don’t live there.”
“Keep it,” I breathe, folding her fingers over the key. I stoop down and press my mouth to her knuckles, gentle and pressing at the same time, but then she draws her hand away. “You might be surprised.”
I turn and leave The Lofts, hesitating and doubting myself every few steps that I take. It’s not just Jared. It’s not just this new job, which Candace probably forced her to take. It’s not just all the speculation about that fuzzy background image on some opening shots of my property.
It’s this strange, wiggling feeling in my heart, like something is on the tip of my tongue, but I know that I know it.
Something else happened, but she won’t tell me what it was.
Chapter 10
Roxanne
When my face shows in the window’s glass, flashbulbs go wild…
I give up my dreams, slow and groggy, to the muffled sound of Sam-o and Iggy arguing with their typical punk rock passion. This isn’t an unusual occurrence. They’re terrible roommates. Iggy works herself to the bone and loves a clean, quiet house, especially early in the morning and late at night. She’s a giver. Sam-o, on the other hand, is an amusing but self-centered slob who has a penchant for late-night drinking and early morning puking. She’s an acquired taste. We were wooed by her skill with the accordion, but after a year living with her, I’m starting to wonder if The Cabbage Splat Dolls really needs an accordion.
“And you didn’t give a shit, did you?” Iggy demands. The last of my dreams–Blake’s ocean blue eyes, smiling down at me–fade away completely, and I moan, pressing my face into the pillow. I do not care what they’re arguing about. I just want my goddamn dreams back.
“Oh, please!” Sam-o sneers. “Like you gave a shit when you kicked me out?! You left me no choice!”
“Guys, guys!” Pepper begs sweetly. “Just stop!”
“Get the hell out of here if you can’t take the heat,” Sam-o snaps at her.
A deep frown digs into my forehead, and I glare over at my bedroom door hanging ajar. I’ve never heard an argument like this before. I roll my tongue around in my stale mouth and wonder how much time I have before work...if I dare go out there to make myself some breakfast, anyway. Sounds like I might get hit by shrapnel or something.
“I can’t leave,” Pepper pipes meekly. “The sidewalk is swamped, Sam-o.”
The sidewalk is swamped?
“Look,” Sam-o says. “I know you’re pissed. That’s why I’m leaving. Don’t even worry about it. I’m gone. I’m out. It’s over.”
“You’re damn right you’re gone and you’re out and it’s over,” Iggy says. “You totally fucked Roxanne!”
That gets my attention.
I lunge upright in the bed and glower harder at my bedroom door, still partially blind. I’m pretty sure Sam-o and I have never had sex. “What?” I call.
“Did you even think about Jared?” Iggy goes on. No one seems to have heard me.
“You didn’t give me any choice,” Sam-o insists. “I did what I had to do, and now I’m gone.”
“Well, you’re not leaving fast enough!” Iggy screams. I’ve never heard her like this before, and I shamble up from the mattress, forcing my wooden legs to propel me to the bedroom door. I have to see what’s going on.
I shove the door open and lean on its frame. The lower level is in total bedlam.
Pepper is on the couch, looking like a little girl watching her parents fight. Her knees are drawn up to her chest and tears shimmer her eyes. Poor Pepper. She’s too good for this world.
Sam-o is elbow-deep in a suitcase that has already been packed with her sleeping bag and a lot of her clothes. So that’s that, then. Guess we really don’t need an accordionist.
And Iggy is grabbing Sam-o’s collection of vinyl records from the corner of the
living room and heaving them out the window, onto the street, like a betrayed girlfriend. Damn.
I’ve never known her to be petty or violent…which means that Sam-o really did fuck me over.
Great.
“What the hell is going on?” I demand, staggering down the steps.
Sam-o glances up and, for just an instant, I see remorse flash in her eyes.
“Tell her, Sam-o,” Iggy commands. The green-haired drummer has a more ruthless and wrathful face than I’ve ever seen before. That’s saying a lot, for a green-haired drummer. “Tell her what you did.”
Sam-o slings her duffel bag around her shoulder and gives the living room one more cursory look before nodding to herself, then looking at me and shrugging. “She’ll figure it out,” she says, still looking at me, although she’s replying to Iggy.
Sam-o pivots and marches from the couch with her duffel bag bursting at the seams. I see the portable clothing rack is empty now. “I don’t need the rest of my stuff,” she mutters, shoving open the door and lurching out into the hall. “I can buy new stuff.”
My stomach drops flat to the floor as all the little pieces of the argument slowly filter together, a puzzle solving itself. Iggy is furious. Sam-o has been kicked out. But she suddenly has plenty of money...because she fucked me over.
And Pepper said the sidewalk is swamped.
I stride to the apartment window where Iggy stands, moving with much more speed now that I’m freaked out, and we peer down at the fray together.
Paparazzi yammer excitedly on this busted street, and when my face shows in the window’s glass, flashbulbs go wild. I cringe and fall away from the cameras, holding my hand over my face like a vampire exposed to the sun. “What the fuck?” I bark. “What was that?”
Iggy grimaces and places one small hand on my shoulder, drawing me forward. “So,” she sighs, “remember how we all gave Sam-o that ultimatum?”
My gut creeps. “Yeah?”
“She decided to make the most for herself.” Iggy settles onto the side of the couch. “I mean,” she goes on, “she does know you’re having a tryst with this Blake Berringer guy.”
“Had,” I correct her bleakly. “We broke up.”
Iggy’s eyes bulge. “Now?!” she shrills. “Right after you get pregnant?”
“It was preemptive,” I explain. “He would have dumped me as soon as I told him. I mean, you know Blake Berringer. We all do. Right? Nightclubs. Supermodels. Fist fights. He’s not...” My hand subconsciously folds over my stomach, even though I’m only a few weeks pregnant. Our baby could have his own chateau on the head of a pin. “…going to be anybody’s daddy.”
I shrug and break eye contact. The more I think about the lonely truth of this pregnancy, the less I even care what Sam-o did. She clearly told the paparazzi where I live, and that I’m Blake Berringer’s American flavor of the week. So what? I’ll be out of the news cycle as soon as he goes back home again.
I wonder how long it will take Jared to come here and kill me when he finds out. At least I changed my phone number after Jared’s call, but I can’t just move out of the apartment. I’m fucking trapped.
“Did you at least tell him?” Iggy asks.
“Tell who?” My mind is still in a million places at once. Part of me is in Blake’s arms, and part of me is getting ready for work, and part of me is fighting through this sludge of camera people, and part of me is being choked to death by Jared. “Tell who what, now?”
“Did you at least tell him that you’re pregnant?” Iggy reiterates.
I’m still thinking about both Jared and Blake. “Who?”
“Blake!” Iggy cries. “Does he know that you’re pregnant?!”
“No,” I answer, voice soft and without inflection. “He wouldn’t care. He thinks babies are little monsters, and I didn’t want to make it weird.”
“Whelp.” Iggy offers me a helpless smile and shrugs her shoulders.
“He knows now,” Pepper contributes.
I blink and then my eyes bulge. “That’s what she told them? She told them that I was pregnant?”
“Oh, she did more than that.” Iggy’s sad smile falls apart. “You left your pregnancy test in the wastebasket.”
“Oh, my god,” I say, anticipating her next words. But it can’t be. It’s so…nasty. “You’re shitting me.”
“Nope,” Pepper says.
“She sold it to Soap Sizzle,” Iggy tells me. “She sold them everything she could get her hands on. She sold them the receipt from the grocery store...also in the basket. She sold them pictures of you, pictures of your test, and pictures of your test and the receipt. Before I got ahold of her, I think she might even have stolen some of your clothes to sell.”
I groan and bow forward, vengefully rubbing at my eyelids and forehead. This cannot be happening. Sam-o was my friend (kind of). At least, I didn’t think she would totally fuck me over like this!
“How much did she get?” I have to ask, still massaging my temples and staring at the ground like I’m preparing for impact in a plane crash. And I kind of am.
“She wouldn’t tell me exactly,” Iggy says. “Probably because I was ready to kill her.”
“She bought herself a new car…in cash,” Pepper volunteers. “So, I’m going to guess that she got at least $50,000 for all of it.”
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?”
