The F List: A celebrity romance

by Alessandra Torre

  I had to talk to him. I had to at least try to explain, even if it turned into a shit storm. I had to know what, if any, possibility still existed for us. And I needed to get his blessing to do the interview that Michelle was already frantically scheduling.

  I unscrewed the lid on a bottle of herbal tea that paid my mortgage each month and took a sip.

  “Freeze,” Edwin commanded, pointing at me. “Dion, can we get a picture of this? IG story, hashtag #goherbal.”

  I froze because that's what trained monkeys do.

  75

  #sweetbutshespsycho

  CASH

  “I have to tell you man… that chick is psycho but so good for business.” Frank pushed his sunglasses on top of his head, squashing down the few remaining strands of bleached-white hair. “You won’t believe what I have for you.”

  “She’s not psycho.” I turned and moved into the house, letting him close the front door behind him.

  “Okay, but please don’t say that in earshot of anyone with access to the internet. We need to ride this pity train as long as possible.”

  I entered the living room, and took my spot on the left end of the couch, kicking up my feet on the leather ottoman as I picked up the remote.

  Trevor glanced up from his place in the recliner. "Thank God." He nodded to me. "Talk some sense into our boy. He won't do shit."

  “Yeah, I noticed the social media posts are a little thin.” Frank took a seat beside me, rubbing his thick palms together as he surveyed the platter of wings. “May I?”

  “Sure.” I hit a button on the remote, bringing the television back to life.

  Trevor picked up his phone, angling the camera at me. I put up my hand and blocked the shot.

  “Oh, that’s actually not bad,” he murmured. “Look annoyed.”

  “I am annoyed,” I snapped. “Put that shit away.”

  "Here's something to improve your mood." Frank rolled the paper towel roll around his hand, then smeared the pile of napkins across his mouth, smacking his lips loudly. "I've got a grade-A deal that's just waiting for your signature. You're going to love this, Cash. Special Olympics called, and they want you as a national spokesperson."

  I couldn’t even muster the energy for a smile. “Okay.”

  "OKAY? You've wanted Special Olympics for years!" He paused, a gooey wing hanging between his forefinger and thumb. "What is this?"

  “It’s love,” Trevor muttered. “Love and heartbreak.”

  “With the trainwreck?

  “Hey,” I said sharply. “She’s not a train wreck, she’s not psychotic, and if one more person calls her white trash, I’m going to rip out your throats through your bleached assholes.”

  “He’s very irritable,” Trevor remarked calmly, and I had probably recycled that threat too many times for it to have proper effectiveness.

  “We can get you other girls,” Frank said. “I’ve got a Tanzanian that does this thing with her tongue—”

  "No, thanks." I flipped the channel.

  "What if we get you two together? I know the network would go for it. Get some cameras there…in a public place, somewhere where we can have a fan run up and call her a bitch?" He waved the wing, and a drop of sauce landed on his shirt. I stared at him and wondered what the hell I had ever valued in him.

  “You’re fired.”

  He grimaced, then looked at Trevor with a smile. “What’s with this guy today?”

  “He’s heartbroken,” Trevor repeated. “Like I said. Tread lightly.”

  “Look, if you don’t want the cameras there, fine. But this is the time to be the rodeo star. Don’t just sit on the bull, man. Wave your arm around. Buck your hips. Dig your spurs into his ribs and PERFORM.” His eyes lit up as he ripped off another bite. “We’ve got to—”

  I clicked off the tv and stood. “Seriously. You’re fired. Get the fuck out.”

  "You heard what I said about Special Olympics, right?" He looked up at me, his cheeks full, and if he didn't move his ass in the next thirty seconds, I was going to absolutely lose it.

  "Frank." Trevor spoke quietly, and the manager's gaze dropped to him. "He's not kidding. Put down the wing and get out of here."

  The wing hit the plate, and Frank stood, his face darkening as he realized the situation. "This is bullshit. The deals I've gotten for you? The exposure?"

  “Yeah.” I nodded to the door. “Go.”

  He looked from me to Trevor. Paul, who had been prepping another plate of chicken in the kitchen, appeared in the doorway and folded his arms across his chest.

  “Fine.” Frank wadded the paper towel into a ball and tossed it down. “Fine.” He raised his hands. “See how you do without me. You think I need this shit?

  He shouldered past me and toward the front door. From the recliner, Trevor let out a whistle of breath.

  The front door slammed shut.

  “That guy was a prick, anyway.” Paul flipped a dish towel over the shoulder of his chef’s apron. “Good move, Cash.”

  I wasn't sure that it had been. But if he didn't have the emotional intelligence to realize that I wasn't going to rodeo star up this situation with Emma, then he was the wrong person for me to trust my career with. And maybe it shouldn't have taken me three years to figure that out.

  But this life was like a rollercoaster. You got on and then Frank and Therma and sponsors yanked you from left to right and it was only the moments with Emma that I’d ever slowed to a stop and . . . felt something.

  And now I was back on the ride and needing a way off. I hated that I didn’t know where she was now, what she was thinking, what she was facing. And I didn’t understand why she kept her relationship with Wesley a secret. I had too many questions and I was pissed at everyone. Emma, her parents, my parents, Dana… I clenched my fist and fought the urge to break something.

  “Who’s the dick in the Maserati?”

  I didn't turn, because it couldn't be her. Instead, I stayed in place, my back to the voice, and watched Trevor, whose eyebrows hit the top of his forehead and stayed there.

  "Wow," Paul spoke from the kitchen. "Let me guess. You're Emma."

  “Unfortunately.”

  I turned, and my features didn't know what to do, my mouth scrambling to find a position that wasn't a smile. I ended up with a grimace of sorts, one that seemed to feed the wary look in her eyes.

  She was in white shorts and a baby blue tank top, her blonde hair down and pulled back by a giant pair of sunglasses that sat on top of her hair. Her eyes were bloodshot, her face pale, and she looked like I felt. Exhausted and, in a sea of people, alone.

  “I didn’t do anything with Wesley other than be his friend.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

  “And I never asked him about you. I—”

  “You know, I’m gonna head out.” Trevor snapped the recliner shut and stood, tucking his laptop under one arm. He squeezed past me and headed for the kitchen. He passed Paul, who looked from Emma to me, then back at Emma.

  "Yeah. Uh. I can't really leave because I got manicotti in the oven, but I'm going to head out to the backyard for a smoke break, if that's cool."

  I nodded and didn't look away from her. "Why were you there?"

  "Initially?" She moved closer until the couch was the only thing between us. "I wanted to see Wesley. What kind of conditions he was living in. What he was like. I was curious."

  A protective bolt of anger surged through me. “He’s not a carnival attraction, Emma.”

  "I know that!" Her forehead pinched together. "But I didn't know anything about him the first time I went to the Ranch. Part of it was just selfish curiosity. Part of me was concerned about him. And I thought if I could see your brother locked away—then maybe I could hate you for it. And if I could hate you for something legitimate, then maybe I wouldn't love you." Her lips pinched together, and she blinked rapidly, then inhaled.

  “You didn’t know me,” I said. “You couldn’t love me.”

  “I d
idn’t love you.” She shook her head fiercely. “I didn’t. But I did love the idea of you. You were…" she looked to the left, toward the kitchen and paused, wiping underneath one eye with the back of her hand. "You were like, the guy. The guy that I had always yearned for. The guy in high school who everyone worships, and he just smiles at you for one stupid moment, and then you're his. You… I loved your mom. I loved the idea of her, and the idea of you, and this life you lead, and that's why people follow you, you know? It's because they want so desperately to be a part of your world. They want you to like just one of their comments. Or to show them just one stupid and insignificant piece of your life. I get it because I am them. And when I was at the Ranch, and I saw Wes—I had to say something to him. I had to sit down with him. It was wrong, and it was stupid, but it was the closest I would ever get to you, and I craved that one tiny moment. That connection."

  “No.” I squeezed the back of my neck in frustration. “That’s bullshit, Emma. Because we’d had lunch at Frenchy’s and before that, we’d met at my party. You didn’t have to—”

  "I didn't know that you recognized me at the party." She took a step back and embarrassment flooded her face. "My teeth—"

  "You were just as pretty back then, you just didn't have the confidence."

  She massaged the tips of her fingers into her eyes with a groan, then dropped them with a sigh.

  "Okay, yes—I'd seen you at the party, and yes—I'd had a horrific date with you at Frenchy's. And I went to the Ranch to find a reason to hate you but visited with Wesley because a part of me was crushing on you. And then…"—she searched for the right words—"he was just, so freaking pure. So simple and good, and he looked at me as if I was a good person. And Cash… no one had looked at me like that in a really long time. Honestly, the last person who looked at me like that was you—at that party—and that moment almost broke me, but with Wesley, it was like it healed me. Like maybe I didn't have to be this hateful person online just to get followers. Like maybe other people would see what he saw." Her shoulders lifted limply, almost in surrender. "So I went back to the Ranch again. And again. Not for any reason other than because I loved spending time with him. And it made him happy, and it made me happy, and that was it."

  She looked at me, and her eyes wet with tears. "Please don't keep me from seeing him. He—"

  "Please, stop." I moved to the recliner and sat down, needing to process this. To be honest, I had been expecting her to woo me back—not to beg for visitation rights to my brother. And now, with everything she'd just said… I didn't know what to think. "Why are you here?"

  “I wanted to tell you the truth.”

  “Okay, and?” I looked up at her. “Any other confessions you have for me?”

  She walked around the sectional and sat down in the same spot Frank had been. Perching on the edge of the cushion, she pinned her hands to her knees and glanced out the windows.

  “Well.” She cleared her throat. “I was going to tell you about the party, but apparently you already know about that.”

  “And?” I snapped.

  “That’s it. At least as far as the confessions go.”

  There was something more she wanted to say. I could feel her hesitating, her tongue on the roof of her mouth as she held back something. She pulled her glasses off her head and folded them together.

  “Spit it out.” I hunched forward on the recliner, my forearms on my knees and stared at the floor to keep from standing up and walking over to her.

  “I’m getting hammered online, and I haven’t said anything. My team is pushing me to make a statement.”

  I'd wondered about that. A quiet Emma was unsettling and had made me even more suspicious over her motives and intentions. "So?" I stared at a knot in the wood as my inners waged war over kicking her out or carrying her to my bedroom.

  “So, I wanted to see what you wanted me to do.”

  That caused me to look up. “What?”

  “Do you want me to make a statement and respond to the allegations?”

  “Which allegations? The ones about you molesting Wesley?”

  “Well, yeah. I mean—” she paused. “There are a lot. But that’s one of them, yes.”

  “Why would I care if you defended yourself?”

  She frowned. “I don’t know. You’ve gotten really upset in the past about me talking to the press about you or your family.”

  I stared at her. “Emma. You aren’t this stupid.”

  Her cheeks tinted pink, and a hint of her attitude flared back into her eyes. "I'm not stupid. I just—"

  I poked the bear harder. “If you don’t know the difference between embellishing stories or defending yourself against criminal actions, then you are stupid.”

  “I’m trying not to piss you off!” She stood, her hands balling into fists at her side.

  “Too late,” I snarled, matching her action.

  "So, I can talk to the press?" She countered. "You won't accuse me of trying to use you for the publicity?"

  “Talk away,” I gestured in the direction of the front door and hoped she would walk toward it. “Blab to them until you’re blue in the face.”

  I don't know what I said, but then her face crumpled. It was a minor break, a wobble of her mouth, a widening of her eyes, a pinch of her features, but it was there, and it ripped a gash in my emotions and drained all of my anger out.

  “Come here,” I said gruffly.

  She looked to one side and tightly shook her head. "Please, don't," she whispered.

  I stepped forward, closing the gap between us and wrapped her in my arms. She sank against my chest, her head tucked against my neck and let out a jagged breath, the huff of it warm and comforting. I kissed the top of her head, and she whimpered.

  "I'm sorry." The apology was muffled, her voice clogged with tears, and I smoothed back her hair and pulled a half foot away, focusing on her face.

  “Don’t be.” I studied her light brown eyes, wet with tears. The almost invisible dots of freckles across the bridge of her nose. The pink tremble of her lips. God, I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to pull her into bed and hold her to my chest and confess every thought I’d ever had about her since the day I met her. The good, the bad, and the ugly. I wanted to strip her down and touch her everywhere and be the first and only man she would ever be with. I wanted to get her pregnant and share the news with Wesley, and adopt more ugly dogs and smear her face with wedding cake and watch her get old and cranky and scream at loud teenagers who don’t understand good music.

  "Why are you smiling?" She searched my expression, and I couldn't tell her it all, not now and maybe not ever. So I told her just a piece.

  "I want to kiss you." I didn't wait for a response or for permission. I brushed my mouth against hers, and the moment her lips parted, the anger and frustration seeped out of me. I gathered her to me and felt… calm. Peace. For the first time in a week, it felt like I wasn’t alone.

  76

  #crushable

  EMMA

  I haven’t been kissed by many men, but our first kiss, in the ocean, was when I really lost myself to him. At that moment, a new chapter in my life began—one where I stopped lusting after Cash Mitchell and began falling in love with him. And I’ve always had this ridiculous notion that I’m not like other people but honestly—unless everyone is like this—at the moment of that kiss, I shed any romantic future that didn’t involve him.

  Maybe that's crazy. Or maybe everyone feels that way when they're in love but he was always it for me, and at that moment, I believed that he might feel that way too, like there was a potential scenario where Cash Mitchell and Emma Ripplestine could be together, and my soul abandoned any other scenario.

  I’m not explaining myself well. What I’m trying to say is that in that kiss, I surrendered to him for the rest of my life. Whether we were together or not. I was going to be his or single. Part of a pair or alone. A crazy cat lady or Casma. Not that I was in love with that moniker.


  This kiss, in the middle of his living room, tears on my cheeks, his hand in my hair… was different. In this kiss, I think he gave himself to me. There was something raw and unprotected in the way he looked at me. The crush of his lips when he claimed my mouth. The need in his eyes when he scooped me up in his arms and carried me to his bedroom.

  He placed me on the mattress so tenderly that I smiled. He crawled over me and kissed my shoulder, my collarbone, my neck, and my forehead. He laid beside me and pulled me on top of him and ran his fingers through my hair, and it was terrifying how vulnerable I was.

  He could crush me. This could crush me. It was one thing to never know love, but it’s another to taste it and then lose it. I rested my head on his heart and hoped desperately it was mine.

  “When I came back in the kitchen, my manicotti was bubbling and lightly browned, and the living room was empty. I pulled it out and let it cool, then sprinkled some basil on top and jetted. Her car was in the driveway when I pulled out, and when I showed up the next morning, it was still there. I fixed them benedicts and kept my mouth shut, but I was watching and listening.

  You know, I've heard a lot of stuff about her. Crazy stuff. And maybe it's all true, but what I can go off is what I see and experience. And she was really sweet, but with these sharp moments of humor which kept me on my toes. And Cash was happy. I'd never seen him like that. Constantly reaching over and touching her, like he was reassuring himself that she was there.

  It was…umm. I don't know. It was cool to see. I was happy for him. And from that morning on, Emma was there. She likes her eggs over easy, with hot sauce on them."

  Paul Ricardo, Personal Chef

  78

  #Casma

  EMMA

  As soon as the first episode aired, we got the call about the reunion. Michelle predicted it, then crowed like a rooster with ten hens when her phone rang mid-Ceaser salad.