by Mimi Strong
I’m in the middle of this month’s Vogue when I see something that shocks me. It’s a feature about Crazy JT, an artist Morris Music signed recently. That part doesn’t surprise me, because I remember when this publicity was getting set up.
What shocks me is seeing the blonde who’s posing with Crazy JT. She’s sticking her butt out to the camera and pouting like she’s a little girl. She’s no innocent little girl.
This is the same girl who was kissing Dylan at the Avalon. I’ve seen that video countless times, and I would know her face anywhere.
She’s pretty and tall, of course. Her features are nearly perfect, except one of her eyes is a bit smaller and set higher on her face. It’s nothing anyone would notice in person, but the asymmetry would show up if the photographer shot her straight on. Because I work in marketing, I notice these things. In all these Vogue pictures, they’ve used shots where the girl’s face is at a slight angle.
I flip back and forth through all the images. My body is so tense, I accidentally rip some of the pages.
Rage plows through me. It’s her fault my life has been hell for the last ten days. If she was here in front of me, I’d slap her harder than I slapped that jerk Antonio.
If I hadn’t seen those pictures of her and Dylan, I wouldn’t have had so much to drink that night at Shari Vari. Antonio wouldn’t have had the chance to put his disgusting mouth on me. There would have been no photos, and no awful fight with Dylan.
If it weren’t for this blonde, Dylan might be sitting next to me on this flight.
I turn to show Chet the ripped pages. He’s dead to the world, sleeping with an in-flight sleep mask over his eyes. That figures. He took a sleeping pill when we lifted off. Now I wish I’d had one, too.
I wave for the air steward.
“What can I do for you, Miss Rivera?” she asks sweetly. She’s an older lady, not nearly as old as my grandmother, but she has the same comforting aura.
“Is there something you give passengers who are freaking out?”
She looks down at the ripped pages on my lap. “Would you like some more magazines?”
“Never mind.”
She pats me on the shoulder. “You’re going to be okay, hon.” She looks at my engagement ring, then glances over at Chet. “He’s a handsome one. Is he your fiancé?”
I snort. “Practically. At least he has time for me, and he trusts me.”
She squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll bring you something.”
In a minute, she returns with two drinks, one hot and one cold. They both smell of booze. The air in the cabin is cool, so I take the hot drink and thank her. It smells like cocoa and almonds, but it’s not too sweet. She starts to walk away, but I stop her and tell her to leave the cold drink, too.
Over the next few hours, I’m able to nap lightly, but I keep jolting awake.
My anger builds steadily as I think of how Dylan and I spend our brief time together in Rome. Had it only been one night? He kissed me so passionately. He carried me out to the balcony and made love to me in front of the whole city. He said he’d be lost without me, then he believed the lie of one picture and… some dirty laundry.
I’d laugh, if it wasn’t so heartbreaking.
He gave up on me so easily. He gave up on us. It had to be because kissing that blonde was more appealing than marrying me.
I press the torn-out Vogue pages smooth on my lap. Look at her stupid smile. On her dumb face.
The air steward brings me orange juice and soda water.
“You look relaxed now,” she says cheerily.
“I feel great.” I’m not smiling because I’m relaxed. I’m smiling because for the first time in ten days, I know what I’m going to do when I get back to L.A.
I’m going to track down this girl and… it’s not going to be pretty.
Chapter Fifteen
Chet wakes up just as the jet’s wheels touch down on the runway. He pulls off the sleep mask and blinks at me.
“Good morning,” he says. He looks out the window. “Or is it evening?” He turns back to me and seems alarmed by my appearance. “Jess, you look like hell.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t come in to work today. I booked us off for the next two days so you can recover.”
“Sounds great,” I say professionally. Inside my head, I’m screaming. Two days? Without a job to go to? What am I supposed to do with myself? I don’t even know if I’m welcome in my own home, which is technically Dylan’s house.
We get our luggage, including Dylan’s old guitar, while someone retrieves Chet’s car from the long-term parking lot. He drives me back home in the reverse journey we made weeks earlier. I feel even older than I did on the plane.
A lump in my throat grows bigger as the car climbs the Hollywood Hills. The lump is huge by the time we arrive at the two houses Dylan owns.
I’ve made arrangements with Amanda and Riley already. I’ll stay at their house, next door to Dylan. If he wants to talk to me, he knows where to find me. I won’t go over there. I’m not setting one foot in a house where I’m not welcome.
Chet gives me a hug goodbye and says, “Take more than two days off if you need it.”
I squint under the bright California sun. The long flight and alcohol have dried me out, and I feel weak.
“You take a break, too,” I say. “If you wouldn’t work so hard, your staff wouldn’t kill themselves trying to keep up with you.”
He looks hurt by this, so I quickly tell him I was joking.
The girls come running out of the front door and help me with my luggage. I get emotional, because I’m so touched by their thoughtfulness. They both took the day off work, just so I wouldn’t have to be alone.
Inside the house, I see they’ve hung a big Welcome Home sign in the living room. They’ve made it themselves, from colored construction paper.
“You guys are the best,” I say. “I love you both so much.”
Amanda is already unzipping one of my suitcases. “Yeah, yeah. You love us. Come on, show us what you bought. Where are these presents you promised?”
Riley leans in and whispers, “She really missed you.”
“Next time I fly to Italy, you guys are coming with me.”
We stay in the living room, where there’s more space to spread stuff out. Riley and I watch like amused parents while Amanda paws through the Italian shopping bags and squeals over the accessories, dresses, and souvenirs I brought back.
I hear the rumble of a car driving by, and run to the window. It must not have been Dylan, because his driveway is still empty.
Riley comes to stand at the window with me. “He hasn’t been around the last few days.” Her words seem slow and careful, like she’s trying to keep me calm.
“We were going to get married,” I say softly.
She puts her arm around me. “And you will.”
I turn to my half-sister and stare into the brown eyes that are a mirror of my own. “We were going to get married this coming Saturday. That’s why I asked you to keep the day available for shopping.”
Her eyes widen, then get glossy. She blinks and looks away.
“I’ll kill him,” she says, her voice low and threatening. “He can’t treat you this way. I don’t care if he boots us out of this house. I can live anywhere. But I can’t stand by while he gets away with this.” She’s practically fuming, spitting the words out. “He’s going to be sorry.”
“For shutting me out? Riley, it’s okay. Couples have fights.”
Through clenched teeth, she says, “But they don’t hit each other. A real man doesn’t hit a woman.”
I take a step back. Amanda has gone quiet over by the new dresses. She’s staring at us, her blue eyes wide and frightened.
“Is now the right time?” Amanda asks Riley.
“Not now,” Riley says.
“What are you guys talking about?”
They look at each other, both of them dead serious.
I don’t know
what’s going on, but my insides are feeling heavier by the second. I take one last look out the window at Dylan’s empty driveway, then go to the couch and collapse.
“Dinner,” Riley says, taking control of the situation. “The answer is always food, no matter the question.”
I let out a small laugh. “That’s something Nan always says.”
“She’s a smart lady.” Riley pulls out her phone. “Your choice, world traveler. What’s for dinner?”
I groan. “Anything but Italian.”
They find this very funny, even though I wasn’t really joking. I’m not in a joking mood. These two know something about what’s happening with Dylan, and they’d better tell me soon.
The Chinese food arrives. We eat in the living room, right in the midst of the mess from my luggage. It seems fitting, since my life is a disaster zone.
The girls dig in, but I can barely nibble on egg rolls. My stomach still feels unsettled, from jet lag and being this close to Dylan’s house.
Amanda catches me looking out the window for the millionth time. “No one’s been there with him,” she says.
“Has he been sleeping there?” I ask.
The girls look at each other, but don’t say anything.
My voice gets louder and more demanding. “Has his car been in the driveway overnight?”
They both shake their heads. No.
I glare at the window. He might be parking in the garage, but he prefers the driveway, for what he calls his “fast getaway.” That expression doesn’t seem so amusing now.
Where has he been sleeping? I can understand him staying on the couch at the recording studio once or twice, but not every night for over a week.
Amanda comes over to sit on the floor by my feet. She wraps her arms around my knees. “We’ll get you through this.”
I turn to Riley, who’s on the couch next to me. “What’s going on? What aren’t you telling me?”
“You’re better off without him,” Riley says coolly as she reaches for the stir-fried vegetables. “Any guy who beats up a girl should be in prison, if you ask me.”
“Beats up a girl?” I’m so stunned, I drop my chopsticks on the floor, along with some food.
Amanda cleans up the spill while giving my sister warning eyes.
Riley glares right back at her. “I know we said we wouldn’t bring it up unless Jess did, but what he did was wrong. I won’t stand by while some jerk beats on my sister.”
“What?” I jump up. “Dylan has never hit me. He’s not like that.”
Riley looks up at me from her seat on the couch. Softly and slowly, she says, “He has a bad temper. You told us yourself, he nearly killed that homeless guy who jumped you in the abandoned house.”
“That was different. He was protecting me.”
Amanda stands up and hugs me. “You don’t have to hide it from us. Don’t defend him.”
I look to Riley. Her expression is hard. “The counselor said you’d be in denial.”
I push Amanda off and step back. “I’m not in denial. I’d know if he hit me.”
They share a knowing look, like I’m being an idiot.
“Where are you guys getting these ideas?” I demand. “Did you misinterpret something he said? Or did you read some text message the wrong way?”
“Everybody knows,” Riley says. “The story came out last night, and I made some phone calls this morning. We have a counselor set up for you already.”
“Whatever you heard, it’s fake.”
Amanda runs out of the room, then returns with a laptop. She’s breathing heavily, and on the edge of crying.
“See for yourself.” She pulls up a news article on Huffington Post and hands the laptop to me.
The headline reads, Wolf Bites! Lover Distraught Over Beating.
My heart starts to pound. This isn’t just some random music blog. Huffington Post picks up stories from many sources, and they’re not always what they appear to be, but they don’t make things up wholesale.
Underneath the awful headline is a photograph of the blonde with the crooked eye. She’s definitely the same girl from the Vogue pages in my purse. There are several pictures that show brown and purple bruises on her arm and hip.
My whole body hurts, then goes numb.
I’ve seen bruises like the ones on this girl’s arm. At one of my first jobs as a teenager, I worked with a shy redhead who always had them on her arms. They were from her abusive boyfriend, who knew better than to punch her in the face, but grabbed her by the arm and shook her when he didn’t like what she was doing. The girl finally got out of the situation, thanks to some friends and family doing an intervention.
An intervention. Like Riley and Amanda are doing right now.
My mind is racing, and the room is spinning, but I force myself to read the entire article. According to this, Dylan shook her up after she refused to sleep with him. She said he has a history of beating up women, but she’s the only one brave enough to come forward.
The article mentions me at the bottom: Dylan Wolf’s fiancée, Jess Rivera, has been in Europe for the last month, and could not be reached for comment. Sources close to the couple say Jess Rivera has been distraught, and barely leaves her hotel room in Rome. She was photographed at the Shari Vari nightclub, locking lips with Italian cologne model Antonio Bruno.
I swallow hard and review the last paragraph. That part is all true. I’ve been distraught, and hiding in my hotel room. The nightclub name is correct, as well as the name of the guy who kissed me.
“This last part is all true,” I say to the girls. My throat is dry, my voice barely a croak. “It’s true.” I scroll back up the page. “Maybe it’s all true, but I swear, Dylan never hit me.”
Riley puts her arm around me. “I really like Dylan,” she says. “I don’t want to believe this about him, but he does have a temper.”
“He does,” I say.
Amanda takes the laptop so I don’t have to look at the pictures anymore. “He can get some help,” she says. “So what if he grabbed some chick’s arm? She looks stupid, anyway.” She frowns at the laptop screen for a moment. “Her story doesn’t add up, anyway. She says she slept with Dylan, but then she contradicts herself and says he got mad when she wouldn’t sleep with him.”
I lean forward and put my face in my hands. I might throw up if I hear any more.
They rub my back and talk to each other like I’m not even there.
“This chick is a liar,” Amanda says. “Maybe she’s looking for money. Dylan has a lot of it.”
Riley says, “If she’s blackmailing him, why would she tell reporters? If she wanted his money, she’d fake some bruises and go to him. She’d ask for money and threaten to tell the police.”
“Then why’s she doing this?”
“Maybe it’s true.”
“I don’t know. Girls are always throwing themselves at Dylan. She’s not that pretty. He could get anyone. He wouldn’t beat some girl up, he’d just find someone else.”
“Amanda! Jess is right here.”
“She knows what it’s like.” Amanda takes a deep breath and sighs. “You know, some of these famous guys, they like to buy hookers. That way they get what they want, and the girls don’t go blabbing to the press.”
“Not Dylan,” Riley says with disgust.
“I don’t know. Someone’s keeping all those hooker girls in business.”
“You think this blonde is a call girl?”
“That would explain a lot. Maybe he keeps her on the side.”
Riley leans forward and whispers in my ear, “Can I tell her what you told me? About Saturday?”
“Sure. Go ahead.” My voice comes out flat and miserable.
“Dylan and Jess were going to have a surprise wedding this Saturday,” Riley tells Amanda.
“No way.” Amanda groans. “Maybe Dylan was breaking it off with the hooker, because he was getting married. Then she got mad and made up this story.”
“Hmm,�
� Riley says. “That could—”
“Shut up!” I jump up from the couch and stumble my way across the living room. I manage to find the hallway.
The girls have gone silent, but I can’t stop screaming at them.
I keep yelling for them to shut up.
For everyone to shut up.
I need to get away, but I don’t have anywhere to go.
So I stand in the hallway, screaming for everyone to shut up.
Chapter Sixteen
I wake up feeling groggy.
I’m in the spare bedroom, at Riley and Amanda’s house, next door to Dylan’s.
The pajamas I’m wearing aren’t mine. They’re covered in pink sparkles, so they must be Amanda’s.
It’s nine o’clock, according to the alarm clock next to the bed. I have to look closely at the AM/PM dot to determine that it’s the morning, not the evening.
My body is stiff and my bladder is aching, like I’ve slept for twelve hours. I probably have. The last thing I remember is the girls giving me something so I could sleep.
I drag myself out of bed and into the shower.
The girls have both left for work already.
I find some of my clothes already hanging in the closet in the spare room. I guess this is my bedroom now.
It’s barely nine-thirty, and I have nothing to do today. As much as part of me wants to wallow, I’m not going to sit around watching TV and getting more depressed.
Chet told me to take two days off, or as many as I need.
Zero is how many days off I need.
Work is what I need.
I put on a clean suit, then go outside to get my car from next door.
I approach Dylan’s house carefully, glancing around as I walk up to the door. I can feel people watching me.
I whip around quickly and scan the surroundings. The only other person I see is a guy with hedge trimmers. He’s listening to music on headphones and doesn’t even look at me.
My pulse races as I step up to the door. I ring the doorbell and wait. Nobody comes to the door.
The window coverings are closed, so I can’t tell if any lights are on inside. I knock on the door, feeling more ridiculous by the second.
