by Max Monroe
As for the real reasoning of tonight’s movie selection, I couldn’t even begin to know why. All I know is that my friends—Kline Brooks, Thatcher Kelly, Wes Lancaster, Trent Turner, Quincy Black, Milo Ives, Caplin Hawkins, and Theo Cruz—know how to keep this shit as weird as possible.
Up until about a year ago, we were having book club instead of poker night. Then one day, it just went back. None of us has said anything, and honestly, I think it’s because we’re afraid to jinx it. It’s a time in our lives when most of us felt held against our will. I’m not saying we were, like, Elizabeth Smart, but it was close.
And it wasn’t even The Billionaire Book Club’s fault—yeah, our little book club even had a fucking name.
It all started out as some ploy by Cap, but quickly turned into insanity.
Cap and Thatch—the most outrageous of the group in personality—were relentless during that time, taking attendance with an iron fist and threatening bodily harm to any of us who didn’t manage to read the book. I’m all for upping readership, but we lead busy lives. The pressure was starting to get to me, and I don’t even have a wife and kids to add to the madness.
I snort to myself, and Kline raises an eyebrow. I pay little attention to it as I get lost in my own thoughts.
You’re also going to have a kid now…
I’ve been in a blind haze since I heard the news about the baby earlier this week. I thought once I took action, I’d come up with a plan. A toolbox to put myself back together, so to speak.
But much to my chagrin, despite all my efforts, I haven’t been able to resolve anything.
Frankly, I haven’t even achieved the first step—talking to Rocky.
Contact, it seems, with Hollywood’s most infamous good girl, is next to impossible.
I’ve called agencies and talent offices. I’ve reached out to old friends from elementary school and left a message for the school principal. I’ve sent emails to her publicity contact and scoured the internet for a trace of her life before fame, but all I’ve found is a whole world of shit I had no fucking clue about.
As it turns out, Rocky’s been in the business a hell of a lot longer than I first would have assumed. She’s been starring in shit since a year and a half after I left California at ten years old, for fuck’s sake.
She’s been in show business longer than I’ve been in any business, and the reality of my ignorance is almost impossible to swallow.
How in the fuck could I have had no clue about this shit?
How in the fuck didn’t we garner more attention in that bar?
I can barely even keep my eyes open and steady for all the questions I have, and it’s eating me alive from the inside out.
“Okay, enough is enough. Who the fuck keeps playing footsie with me under the table?” Wes asks, and the rest of us glance around the room at one another in search of the culprit. “I know you guys enjoy my company, but none of us is on the market except for Harrison.” He jerks his head toward me, and Cap laughs.
“What’s wrong, Whore-i-son? Feeling lonely?”
“Of course,” I say, my mind almost numb to the normally amusing charade. “I thought maybe one of you wanted something on the side.”
Thatch chortles, a gulp of spit and whiskey shooting out and spraying the table. Trent wipes at his shirt before picking up a napkin and handing it to Kline.
“As amusing as I find it to be covered in your spit, why don’t you share what has you so tickled with the class, Thatcher?”
He shrugs. “It’s my Roomba.”
“Roomba?” Milo asks. “Is that some kind of slang I’m unaware of?”
“No,” I say with a laugh, but Cap chimes in before I can continue.
“You should, however, be concerned that you’re turning into a fucking old man if you have to ask about ‘today’s slang.’”
“What? It’s not like I have a teenager in my house.”
Wes snorts. “I do. Slang is much worse than a Roomba.”
“Then what the hell is it?”
“It’s a vacuum,” Thatch supplies. “Certified expert in suction.”
Cap laughs. “So, it could be slang.”
“It’s Cassie’s new solution to spring cleaning.”
“I’ve got a solution—a housekeeper,” Quince suggests.
“We have one,” Thatch says with a roll of his eyes. “Harriet. But she’s getting older, so Cassie keeps insisting we find things to do her work for her.”
Wes snorts. “Why don’t you give her a retirement package and hire someone else?”
“I suggested that!” he explodes. “Cassie nearly took my head off. She doesn’t want her to leave.”
“So, you’re basically just paying her to hang around?” I ask.
Thatch nods. “That and eat my food. The only good thing is having someone to blame my mistakes on.”
“That’s terrible,” Theo remarks.
“Are you kidding? She’s the ultimate scapegoat. She can literally do no wrong in Cassie’s eyes.”
“Yeah, but you have to have at least given the woman a fake porn addiction at this point,” Trent says with a chuckle.
Thatch scoffs. “I don’t watch porn, son. If I want an adult film, I sweet-talk my wife and make one. Without actual film,” he stipulates. “That’s an explicit boundary.”
“And where is Harriet tonight?” Milo asks. “Should I be thanking her for the snacks?”
Thatch snorts derisively. “Are you kidding me? This shit is all me. Harriet’s at the movies with Cassie and Georgia.”
“I’m officially confused by this dynamic,” Cap remarks. “Harriet’s gotta be giving your woman something you’re not.”
“How dare you, sir!” Thatch booms. “My lovemaking is unmatched, and my woman’s needs are not lacking!”
“We know she has needs, Thatcher,” Trent clarifies with a smile. “The question is if you’re meeting them.”
“Don’t you mock me and my grammar while I’m emotional, Turner,” Thatch threatens with a shaky finger, using Trent’s last name like an angry mother. “Don’t you do it. You don’t want to know my wrath.”
“You’re so lucky you found a wife, Thatch,” I say with a laugh. “Even if she does go on dates with the housekeeper. I can’t imagine anyone else putting up with your bullshit on such an epic level.”
“Hey, I’m not the single one, bro. So maybe turn that judgy little finger of yours around and take a good hard look at yourself and why you’re not with anyone at all.”
“I actually have someone to set you up with, Harrison,” Kline says offhandedly.
I choke on my saliva before quickly trying to cover it with a cough. His eyes are too keen for my liking, and knowing Kline the way I do—we started out as BAD rugby teammates and have remained friends ever since—I wouldn’t be surprised to find out he’s somehow sniffed out my situation.
I’ve seen him strategizing and unlocking the secrets of others too many times not to treat him like the clever bastard he is.
“Oh yeah?” I say as casually as I can manage. He nods. I clear my throat and look to my cards. “I only hope she lives in California.”
I glance up just long enough to see several sets of eyes turning my way. I look back down at my cards and rearrange them needlessly. Shit. Now probably wasn’t the time…
“Why the hell would you want her to live in California?” Cap booms raucously. “You don’t like to have sexual intercourse?”
Yeah, now definitely wasn’t the time.
But it’s not like I can help it. California and Rocky and the baby are pretty much the only things consuming my thoughts at this point.
I shake my head at his ridiculousness and try to steady my voice. “I do, in fact, like to have sex. Which is why California is important.” I bite the bullet and look up to meet all of their gazes. “I, uh, might be moving there soon.”
Is this a bit of an overreaction to my current dilemma? Just up and moving to California?
N
o…yes…maybe? Hell, I don’t know.
But I do know that I can’t stomach the idea of my future child being born into a world that I’m not a part of. The fact that I haven’t been able to talk to the mother of my future child is minor details in my mind. I need to be there for my kid. I need to be the kind of father I wish I would have had growing up.
“What the fluff?” Thatch yells. “Cali-fluffing-fornia? That’s on the other side of the fluffing country!”
I nod, but as much as I want to, I don’t dare laugh. Thatch would turn apoplectic if he thought I was mocking his grief. “I know and I’m not completely certain yet, but I’ll be making a trip out there this week to finalize some details and decide for sure. I think I just need a change of pace. New scenery. New opportunities.”
“What about work?” Cap interjects. “Are you leaving HawCom? After everything my father has done for you?”
I shake my head. “Jared is on board. We’ve already discussed it at length, and we both think we can make the move work for both me and the company if it comes to that. He’s been talking about expanding his headquarters, and this will be a great opportunity to test the viability of a bicoastal structure.”
“I’m really getting the sense that I’m missing something. Did you just find out you’re making a major move this week?” Trent asks smartly.
“Yeah,” Quince agrees. “When are you going? Surely, you’ve stipulated that you have at least sixty days to make the transition.”
I shake my head. “I still have to make my trip out there this week, and if the move is viable, I’ll be back to make my arrangements and be out there by the following week.”
Wes chokes on his tongue. “A week? To move your whole life?”
“Relax, guys,” I say. “I’ll be working bicoastally still. I’ll be back to visit often, and I’m a single guy. I don’t have that much of a life to move.”
“I’m just not sure how—” Milo starts, but Kline cuts him off.
“Come on, guys. Sounds like Harrison’s made his decision. Let’s all support him.”
Theo nods. “Sounds like he knows what he’s doing.”
I wish I were half as confident as Theo sounds. Because as much as I know I’m doing the right thing—for both my future child and myself—I don’t have a goddamn clue what I’m actually doing. I haven’t even broken through the firewall of staff Rocky has around her to speak with her at this point. I’m not sure how I’m going to change that once I get out there, but I can’t imagine a closer proximity will hurt.
Cap scoffs. “You just want him to be across the country from Lena.”
Theo shakes his head. “We’re really still playing that fiddle? I don’t think Harrison gives a single shit about Lena.”
“Maybe a single shit,” I say helpfully. “But it’s not a romantic shit. Just a normal, ole human decency shit.”
Lena is Cap’s sister. Over a year ago, I had a lot of fun mentioning her name often in front of her brother just to rile him up. Not once, though, did I actually want to pursue something with her. Theo, on the other hand, well, he up and fell in love with her. Cap’s sister, of all fucking people. Talk about a shitshow for a while there. Thankfully, we can all get together, both Cap and Theo included, without having to hide the knives.
“I’m confused. Are we talking about actual shits right now? Because I’m feeling a little queasy,” Thatch remarks, and we literally all roll our eyes. “I don’t like the idea of letting one of the herd roam free. I mean, it’s Harrison, so if we have to lose one, I guess he’s the one to lose. But I don’t think it’s a good idea, period. Haven’t you seen the National Geographic Channel? Don’t you know what happens when someone gets separated? It’s pure carnage, boys.”
“He’s not going to the Serengeti, for Pete’s sake,” Milo offers with a laugh. “He’s going to California.”
“Oh, there are wolves out there, young Milo. Don’t be fooled,” Cap says sagely. “And they’re much more aggressive with their prey.”
“Guys, you don’t have to worry about me,” I assure them. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”
The bun is already in the oven.
Yeah, all that’s left is to actually get in touch with the mother of your child…
Lord Almighty, talk about being in the middle of a monumental fucking mess.
Raquel
Me and my favorite hoops used to be pals, but let me tell you, today, we’ve got problems. I was exactly today years old when it became clear to me that Taylor Swift must have been singing about a pair of earrings in the song “Bad Blood.”
Good God. That flipping hurts.
I wince and squeal as I shove the pointy post through my seemingly sealed ear piercing until it clears the other side, and I stomp my foot in a fruitless attempt to redirect some of the pain. I don’t understand the science behind it, but it seems like my body has super healing powers now that I’m pregnant. Scrapes disappear in mere hours, and my well-worn, twenty-year-old piercings self-heal overnight.
Which is seriously ironic since I need another discomfort like I need a hole in the head.
Only a few weeks into the new year and it’s more than apparent this year is going to be a fucking doozy.
And I didn’t exactly end the year with a bang either.
The week before and after Christmas were a blur of fitting in morning sickness and puking bouts in my bathroom between events and photo ops and a whole bunch of other bullshit I’m starting to realize I don’t care about at all. The only time I’ve been alone in what feels like forever was on Christmas Day, and I spent the greater part of that day in my bed, watching Hallmark movies and experiencing the kind of hormonal highs and lows that probably fueled Britney’s 2007.
One minute, I’d be daydreaming about what my baby will look like. Is it going to be a boy or a girl? Will he or she have hair?
And the next, I was overwhelmed with anxiety about handling motherhood all by myself. Which generally led me down a dangerous path of thinking about Harrison, which then led to me wanting to contact Harrison, and blah-blah-blah, I’m now a certified crazy woman.
Truthfully, I was a bit of a nutcase on what should’ve been one of the jolliest holidays of the year.
Once I finish the now excruciating ritual of getting ready, I head for the door of my bedroom just as Heidi starts complaining from the other side of it.
“Raquel, we have to be in the car in five minutes.”
Before she can finish verbally riding my ass, I swing open the door, and she flinches slightly but quickly gathers herself and heads down the long hallway toward my front door.
I struggle to keep up in my tight outfit and heels, but I make my voice loud enough that it carries well out ahead of me.
“Why are we in such a hurry anyway? I still don’t understand what this event is. All you keep telling me is it’s a ‘corporate appearance.’ Am I doing motivational speeches for Rodan and Fields now? Arbonne? LuLaRoe? What is this?”
Heidi slows her pace to let me catch up, but I’m not inexperienced enough with her habits to think it’s out of kindness. The moment she opens her mouth, I know it’s to make sure I really feel the blow of her next point. “It’s just a meet-and-greet with a media company called HawCom. And I’ll warn you to check your attitude about this being beneath you before you make a fool of yourself because they’re paying you a million dollars to do it.”
My voice stutters as my stride does the same. “A million dollars? For a meet-and-greet? I didn’t get paid that much for my first three movies.”
“Exactly. They were apparently very eager to have you. That’s what the woman I spoke with on the phone said anyway. ‘No one else will do, and we’re willing to do what’s necessary to make it worth Raquel’s time,’ I believe is what she said.”
“God. That’s insane. I hope they realize I don’t have any special talents. I can’t balance a ball on my nose or—”
“For God’s sake, Raquel. They know you’re not a seal.�
��
“Well, I don’t know!” I huff and toss out both of my hands. “Tell me, Heidi, what are they expecting me to do for one million freaking dollars?”
My security guard, Freddie Bones, as he likes to call himself, takes his place behind us as we leave my penthouse apartment and head for the bank of elevators just down the hall. The doors open quickly, and we all step inside.
“Pose for pictures. Smile. Chitchat. Should be an easy payday.”
A wave of nausea rolls through me, and I cringe. Should be an easy payday, sure. In theory. Unfortunately, getting out of bed and, you know, completing the simple tasks of eating and drinking is a damn challenge these days.
Ugh. And riding the elevator. I put one hand to my stomach and another to my throat to try to choke out the vomit’s exit like a tourniquet.
Once the elevator dings its arrival on the bottom floor of my apartment building, we swiftly step out into the lobby. Heidi doesn’t break stride as she takes her position in front of me, nodding to the doorman to swing open the door as we approach.
The warm California sun isn’t the only thing that greets us outside. A wall of noise smacks the previously silent air as flashes go off every millisecond. Paparazzi shout my name and aim their cameras at my stomach, but I duck my head, eyes shielded behind my sunglasses, and let a veil of hair fall over my face.
The door to my car is open and waiting, and I slide inside the tinted-windowed black Tahoe and settle into my seat as the door shuts with resonance behind me. Cameras jostle outside the window as people push and shove at one another in an attempt to get the perfect shot of me.
I keep my eyes down and my focus averted until we finally pull away from the curb.
My driver moves expeditiously, weaving strategically in and out of busy LA traffic until we lose all the people attempting to follow us. It’s adrenaline-inducing and surely not the best thing for the baby, but it’s my life, and I don’t envision it changing anytime soon.
Especially now that I’m with child. It’s like they somehow expect to be able to get a shot of my little peanut through my freaking uterus.
Notwithstanding any new technology I’m unaware of, I don’t think that’s likely.
