Good In Bed

by Bromberg, K

  “Yeah. It was bad.” I think back to that phone call. To the frantic feeling over whether she was going to be okay. From disbelief to guilt wondering if it was my fault. “And of course I immediately felt responsible for being the tipping point because I kicked her out of the house. Those first few days were horrible and for the life of me, I have no idea how her attempt had been kept out of the press. I can’t imagine the number of greased palms and signed NDAs that her agent or manager or the damn studio for all I know, swooped in and used to keep everyone quiet. But they did. Until two days later when someone saw me heading into the hospital to check on her and started snooping around. I had no clue but somehow the studio found out. Their PR person, unbeknownst to me, decided to distract the snooper by diverting their attention to me.”

  “The cheating story.” The way she says it, like she never believed it in the first place despite asking me, makes me feel a bit of relief.

  Let’s hope that feeling lasts. Shit. Why the hell did I ever go along with this?

  “Yeah. The story about me cheating on her. When I woke up and saw the tabloids and found out what was going on, you can bet your ass I chewed out the studio. I threatened and raged but the story already had a mind of its own and there was no stopping it by then. What was I supposed to do? Cause a scene? Admit to the press and in turn the backers I was part of the studio’s lies about Jenna’s drug use and now suicide attempt? At that point I was just as complicit as she was.”

  “Which was just what the studio wanted.”

  “Bingo. I walked right into that one. But how were my agent and I to know Jenna was going to take a bottle of pills and try to off herself? I had a twenty-million-dollar contract riding on this and obviously an emotionally fragile ex-girlfriend. I was fucked in all the wrong kind of ways and it was no one’s fault but my own.” I look at Saylor and search for judgment in her eyes but find none. “So yeah, I let the PR company and the press paint her as the damsel in distress who had to take some time away from Hollywood after I cheated on and humiliated her. So I ignored the questions about what happened with us in interviews. Figured the less I said the better. It made me look like the asshole but it was better than telling more lies.”

  “And of course women can forgive assholes because they love the bad-boy vibe but they don’t forgive other women. They vilify them.”

  “I never looked at it that way, but yeah, pretty much.” I blow out a breath and hate she’s about to find out firsthand just how bad the vilification can be.

  “And so the I love you was more . . .”

  She leads me into the statement, needing to hear me say what her eyes tell me she already infers. But I understand. If the situation were reversed, I’d probably feel the same way. Huh. Who am I kidding? I’d be pissed and demanding answers. Not standing there with admirable patience, listening to me make excuses for the woman who she has no idea just fucked up her world.

  “She’s a fragile head case, and I don’t want to ruffle her feathers. That’s why I said I loved you. Because I gotta admit, the longer this charade goes on, the more skeptical I am of her motives. I thought it was legitimate at first, but now? Now the special treatment and shitload of attention she’s receiving makes me think she’s feeding off all of this. That she couldn’t handle fading from the spotlight so she pulled this stunt—the “attempted suicide”—to get more of it. Of course, I played right into her hands. Everyone’s looking at her now, coddling her, paying attention to her. And it’s becoming more and more evident that we’ve all been had.”

  “Why’d you agree to go along with it all?”

  “Because I’m stupid?” My laugh sounds empty as I scrub a hand over my face and just shake my head at how ridiculous the situation is and how fucking gorgeous Say is. “Because at that point I was so deep into it I became just as guilty for covering it up as she was. Maybe because I felt sorry for her and the pressure she must always be under to live up to Paul Dixon and his shelf-full-of-Oscar’s legacy. And maybe, selfishly, because it’s a damn good movie. It’s some of my best work to date and Jenna . . . off-screen she may be a mess, but on-screen? On-screen she’s a goddamn genius, and I think this movie has the blockbuster potential the studio thinks it has and then some. So yeah, of course the twenty-million-dollar paycheck I have riding on it is definitely motivation to just ride it out. Let it release into theaters and then walk away and wash my hands of her.”

  “But how do they know the image they painted of you isn’t going to hurt the release of the film?”

  “They don’t but the studio has already scheduled me into the ground for the next month so that I’m visible and smiling and showing I’m still the nice guy everyone thought I was. The one who still politely declines to speak about my very public break-up and any inaccuracies reported about it for the sake of I’m a gentleman and that’s a private matter.”

  “The company line.”

  “Yes.”

  “Unbelievable. You have every right to be angry. I’m still trying to wrap my head around how the studio has the power to make you . . . that she had the audacity . . . all of it.” She purses her lips and looks at me with eyes full of disbelief. Dread fills me as I wait for her to ask the question written all over her face. The one I wish I didn’t have to answer: “So what happened just now that made this escalate?”

  Saylor

  Of course I’m relieved about the I loved you, Jenna comment, but digesting everything he’s told me isn’t easy. How do people get away with all the lies and deceit? While I understand the studio’s need to make the film a success, using Hayes and his reputation to ensure that feels dirty. And of course, good-guy Hayes lets them use him to take the pressure off Jenna in order to protect the hard work he’s done and his future paycheck.

  All of this I understand, so why do I feel like there’s more to the story? I glance to the left of him at the granite countertop we made love on two days ago amidst a mess of sugar and flour. I’d felt euphoria then, but now? Now I just feel confused and uncertain. Like my world is about to quake beneath my feet when being with him this week stopped it trembling for the first time in months.

  And the discord I feel is reinforced when I meet his eyes. It’s in the expression written all over his face—a mixture of resigned regret and cautious trepidation—that tells me I’m not going to like the answer to the question I’ve just asked him. I know this look. He averts his eyes out the window and runs a hand up from his shoulder to his neck and back again.

  I’m not the only one with a tell.

  I used to see this when he would let down his guard and tell me little bits about the bruises he noticed on his mother’s body or about the loud crashes against the wall in the night that would wake him up.

  He’s not coping well. Something’s going on. What the hell is it?

  “My agent thought it might be a good idea to use this trip as a way to get some good press in my favor.”

  Unease tickles the base of my spine. “What do you mean by this trip?” While I’m smart enough to infer, I’m trying really hard to control my emotions and to ask instead of immediately assume, which is a new thing for me. And that in itself tells me how much I care for Hayes and I want to make this work.

  Patience has never been my strength and yet right now I’m trying like hell to hold on to it as tightly as I can.

  Drawing in a deep breath, he takes a step toward where I’m seated and explains. “I mean as in, Hayes Whitley really is that good guy you thought he was. Sorry, he can’t make your premiere because he’s out of the country, busy taking an old childhood friend to a wedding. That type of press.”

  I take in his explanation and let it settle while I try to figure out if I should be offended by this or just accept it. And regardless of whichever one I do choose, what does it have to do with what he’s so upset about?

  “Okay.” I draw the word out. “So paint you as the good guy again. Try to get you away from the image of cheating boyfriend before the press junket beg
ins, right?” I nod my head all the while trying to put the puzzle pieces into place and figure out what I’m missing.

  “Something like that.” His eyes hold mine. Search them. Make me suspicious.

  “So did you offer to take me here with that agenda in mind or did you offer to come here and that became a side agenda once I said yes?” I hate that I have to ask. Hate thinking that maybe this whole thing was a hoax, and the selfless act was actually a selfish one.

  “My offering to bring you here, Say, has everything to do with you and fucking zilch to do with my reputation. You need to know that, hear that, and believe that, okay?”

  The sudden urgency in his voice confuses me. The tinge of desperation in it even more so.

  I nod my head. Let him know I hear him, but the feeling of unease intensifies.

  “What happened, Hayes?” It’s my turn to have insistence in my voice.

  “Believe me when I tell you I had no hand in this. No idea what was going on. My phone was off until just now and—”

  “Just tell me.” My heart pounds in my chest, an uneven staccato I suddenly hear pulsing in my ears.

  “Jenna pulled one of her bullshit, self-serving stunts.” He puts one hand on his neck and pulls down. His face a mask of regret.

  “What did she do?” My voice is barely a whisper but eerily even despite the feeling I have that the dam is about to give way.

  “Our first day here, she was calling me constantly then texting because she was pissed off that I wouldn’t come visit her. Like I should be at her beck and call. I was so fed up with her that I turned off my phone.”

  “That’s why you took my phone.” I remember the look on his face. The determination for me to hand over my cell.

  “Yeah. I didn’t want any of her bullshit to ruin the time we had together. She has caused enough problems for me and I just wanted to be here—with you. I know you never get away from work and I didn’t want her to distract me from what I wanted to get out of this weekend.”

  “And what did you want to get out of this weekend?” Curiosity has me asking.

  “Originally I just wanted to make amends. Be friends. I told myself you were off limits because we live in two separate worlds and you’d just come out of a long-term relationship.” He shrugs, a sheepish grin on his lips. “But I’m not that good of an actor, Ships. Even on my best day, I wouldn’t be able to convince myself being friends would be enough.”

  The smile on my lips is automatic despite the tension of untold truths floating in the space between us. “I told myself we had to kiss each other and get it out of our system. That we could be friends after that.”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever get you out of my system, Saylor.” His voice is resolute. Honest. But the concern in his eyes brings me back from romantic la-la land to the truth about what’s going on.

  “What happened, Hayes?” I implore.

  “When I turned on my phone, I had a bazillion messages. The press knew I was here at this resort. Not a surprise since I’ve thrown my name around so that Mitch the Prick and his family knew I was your date.”

  “Okay.” I nod my head. Try to think of worst-case scenarios. “So the press found out you were here. What are you not telling me?”

  He inhales slowly. Averts his eyes before bringing them back to me. “They took pictures.”

  My mind flashes to our time here. To patrons in the bar or at the pool with their camera phones sneaking a picture of Hayes and inadvertently, me. The thought doesn’t thrill me that I might be in some of those photos, but it’s not the end of the world.

  “Okay so pictures proving what? You went with an old friend to a wedding? That can’t be all bad, right?”

  “Saylor.” He shoves a hand through his hair. Shifts the balance of his weight from one foot to another. The man who’s always sure of himself is anything but.

  “Hayes.” My voice is a warning. A just tell me.

  “Some of the pictures are of us around the resort. The others are us in the ocean the other night.”

  Thoughts connect. My spine straightens. “When we were skinny dipping?” I ask the question with apprehension in my voice. I’m already running the night through my mind, figuring out my state of undress in and out of the water.

  He nods his head. His eyes are trained on mine gauging my reaction. “They’re grainy at best and I know that you have your suit on in all of them . . . but it’s hard to tell in the photos. They also have a few shots of our cupcake fight on the green. But those aren’t what—”

  “Oh my God. Last night. There are pictures of us last night on the back patio—”

  “No. No. There are none that I know of.” I sag in relief knowing pictures of us having sex won’t be going viral. “And I don’t think whoever was snapping photos was willing to weather the storm to take pictures of something they never knew was going to happen.”

  “Hayes.” His name again. A question. A statement. A placeholder for the rioting feelings I feel but can’t express.

  “If someone got pictures of last night, they’d already be sold and posted everywhere on the Internet and I’d currently be suing their asses, but there’s nothing so I think we’re good.”

  “Okay.” I draw the word out again, needing more time to see what I’m missing in the big picture of things. My first thought is what’s the big deal if there are a few pictures of Hayes and me out there. We’re adults having way too much fun in paradise. Big deal. “Well, maybe there being pictures is a good thing. The studio wanted to restore your image, and now your fans will see you with the sweet, safe baker outside of Hollywood. You can’t get any more down-home, salt of the earth than that, right?”

  “They spun the story, Say.”

  “What do you mean, spun the story?” Dread drops like a lead weight into my stomach. Twists it.

  “Jenna said that a reporter contacted her, fishing about why she’d been absent from her usual party circuits. Asked about the validity behind a rumor he’d heard stating she’d been in The Meadows facility and was asking what she had been admitted for. She said she freaked out and told him she’d only been visiting a friend there but he didn’t believe her. So . . . she tried to shift his attention away from her.”

  “What. Did. She. Do?” I close my eyes, hang my head, and wait for the rest to be said. Scenarios run through my mind and none of them are positive. I fear what he’s going to say next.

  “She leaked information. Said I was off in paradise with the woman I cheated on her with while she played the victim card. She said she’d been admitted to the facility to battle the depression she’d suffered from our affair.”

  “What?” I laugh the word out like this has to be a joke. He can’t be serious. Because I just went from thinking so what, a few pictures of Hayes and me—childhood friends—having fun have been posted on the Internet to realizing those same pictures—completely innocent in nature—have been twisted with the help of Jenna Dixon’s little prompts to vilify me. I’m now the whore who broke up Hollywood’s cutest couple. Holy. Shit. “What?”

  “I’m sorry.” And the way he says it—the tone—tells me all I need to know about how bad it really is.

  I stare at Hayes but don’t really see him. I blink my eyes repeatedly as if the action is going to help me comprehend all of this and then I notice the defeat in his posture and that tells me all I need to know. It’s way worse than I think. The bottom drops out. Realization hits. And the bazillion images I’ve seen splashed all over the tabloids of every woman Hayes has been associated with since their public break-up flashes through my mind. I can only imagine what horrible things they’ve said about me. Hollywood’s cruel and unrelenting cycle of drama.

  And to think they even have real pictures to substantiate the rumors. Of us slinking around in the dark of night like we’re having some secret rendezvous, when instead we were just living in the moment and skinny dipping. I can only imagine the headlines accompanying the pictures.

  I know I should
feel something. Rage and disbelief and confusion and vulnerability and every other gamut of the like. Yet as I sit here and stare at Hayes and comprehend what he’s just told me, all I feel is numb. I just want to go back to the dream world I was in a few minutes ago where the only thing wrong was the broken oven. When I was still comprehending everything that was happening with Hayes was real, and all was going to be perfectly fine.

  I was going to get my happily ever after with the only boy and man I’ve ever truly loved.

  And yet right now, all I can imagine is the potential fallout. The damage. My name drug through the mud to help some petty, selfish starlet get the attention she needs to feed her ginormous ego.

  I had thought the repercussions of leaving Mitch were bad. Hated being known as the girl from the valley who left Perfect Mitch Layton. But this is global. This time I’m the whore who violated Hollywood’s picture-perfect power couple.

  And in both instances I was innocent.

  “Say something.”

  I can’t. The only response I can give is to shake my head from side to side because I’m still trying to figure out how a woman can throw another woman to the wolves like Jenna has done to me.

  Then comments from the reception last night come back to me. Mitch’s. The other guests’.

  Oh my God. Oh. My. God. They all knew.

  They all knew and believed what was being said. And then there’s my conversation with DeeDee earlier. Her mention of the people outside the bakery. Her apologies for interrupting me with everything that’s going on. I had no clue.

  And then there were Ryder’s texts. He was talking about wanting to kill Hayes. Not Mitch.

  How about the requests for interviews?

  Here I was thinking someone was coming to do a feature on the bakery, when in reality they were waiting to twist any words I gave them to paint me as more of the home-wrecking whore they already believe me to be.