Knox (A Merrick Brothers Novel)

by Prescott Lane

  Ugh, I’m tired. I don’t want to get into it with her, not now.

  Perhaps she mentioned something to the wrong person on accident. Or maybe someone called the station and asked for me, and without thinking, she said I was in California. I want to believe the best of her. I don’t want to mess up our relationship.

  Suddenly, I can’t walk another step, the weight of it all bearing down on me. I stop in my tracks. I have to know.

  “Amy,” I say, playing with the handle of my suitcase. “When you were at my house for Gigi’s party, I was wondering if you remember seeing a pair of Knox’s shoes on my porch?”

  I’m totally fishing for information. The shoes hadn’t disappeared at that point. I’m just trying to gauge any sort of reaction from her. From handling thousands of calls on the radio, I’ve learned that there are things people just don’t want to reveal. Tactic number one is usually to dodge, obfuscate, get defensive. An innocent person doesn’t do that. An innocent person laughs it off. If I accused Everly of something she didn’t do, she’d jokingly call me a bitch and say I owe her a drink.

  Amy laughs a little. “His shoes? Not that I can remember. What did they look like?”

  Her response seems genuine. Knox is probably right. It was most likely the sleazy reporter who left me that little present on my porch.

  “Oh, it’s not important,” I say, before continuing as delicately as I can. “There’s something else I was wondering about. I don’t like having to ask you this, but did you tell anyone about taking me to the airport?”

  Lightly, she places her hand on my shoulder. “I wouldn’t do that. I know getting slammed by the paps the minute you walked out of the airport must’ve scared the crap out of you—to be blindsided like that.”

  Another genuine response.

  “Sorry, I had to ask. I just thought maybe something slipped out.”

  “No worries. After everything you’ve done for me, I only want you to get everything you deserve,” she says, winking at me. “Including the Hollywood hottie!”

  Smiling, we say goodnight and go our separate ways. So glad I cleared the air, I head to the car. The driver steps out, getting my door and taking my suitcase. I sink into the backseat and look up at the driver as he pulls off.

  In these situations, I never know whether or not I should make conversation. Does the driver just want to be left alone? Do they like talking? Am I rude if I don’t talk to him? How much talking is too much? I’ve been talking for the past two hours, so I hope this driver is the biggest introvert in the world. I really could use some peace and quiet.

  I check my phone, which I keep turned off during the show, and find a couple messages from Knox. The first one is wondering whether I arrived safely. I guess I should’ve texted him a while back on that, but I was in such a rush when I landed. The second is that he’s listening to my show. Good thing I didn’t get into the waving goodbye bit. And the last text is a series of question marks followed by one word.

  Airport.

  He knew I was talking about him. Crap. I guess I wasn’t so discrete and clever after all, or perhaps Knox just knows me too well.

  I need to reach out to him. A phone call would be best, but this isn’t a limo. There’s no privacy screen to raise. I don’t want the driver hearing my business. He might sell me out, too. God, I hate thinking like that. But that’s my new reality. I decide to text Knox rather than call.

  Me: Sorry, I should’ve let you know I landed safely. It was a bit of a scramble to get to work. Thanks again for the car! Both cars!

  Knox: You’re welcome. Did your airport segment tonight have anything to do with me?

  Thinking about how I want to respond, I break my vow of silence and make small talk with the driver—thanking him, confirming he knows my address, that sort of thing. He’s polite, but he keeps his answers short and concise, a sure indication he’s not one for idle chit chat, at least not at this hour.

  Me: Maybe!

  Knox: I felt like our goodbye at the airport got cut short. I needed a few more minutes.

  Me: Me, too.

  Knox: I couldn’t stand to watch you get on that plane.

  That’s why he left! It hurt him to watch me go! My brain needs to stop assuming the worst.

  Knox: There was something I wanted to tell you, to say before you left.

  My heart starts to thump in my chest. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard Knox say he loves me. Could it be that?

  Me: Tell me next time you see me.

  *

  Everyone in my life knows not to call me early on a Monday morning, so why does my phone keep ringing? It may not be early for everyone else, but it is for me. After letting it ring a few times, I put it on vibrate and wrapped pillows over my ears, but nothing’s working. It’s just a constant stream of calls and texts.

  No more sleep for me today.

  Groaning, I grab my cell phone to see who I need to politely remind that sleep is important. There are multiple calls from Knox and a bunch of numbers I don’t recognize, and even more texts. Clearly, I need to change my number, get an unlisted one.

  Casually, I hit the button to return Knox’s call. He answers before the first ring is even over. “I’m sorry, baby! God, I’m so fucking sorry. I’m at the airport now, heading to you.”

  I bolt up in bed. “Knox, what’s going on?”

  “You haven’t seen it? You don’t know?”

  “Know what? I just woke up.”

  “I’ll be there in a couple hours.”

  “Knox?”

  “My phone . . . My phone was hacked.”

  “That’s terrible,” I say. “So I guess that’s why everyone is calling me. The press has my number now. Assholes.”

  “No, baby,” he says, pausing, the brief silence a warning. “Pictures.”

  I don’t know what happens first—my heart stopping, or my breathing taking off like a rocket.

  I hear Knox saying my name over and over again, but it’s not computing in my brain.

  I’m completely frozen thinking about my ugly underwear pictures minus the underwear.

  Oh my God! Oh my God!

  I reach for my television remote, turning to a national morning show. The headline story is about Knox’s phone hack. And my naked photo flashes across the screen, my private areas covered up with blurry blobs.

  No! This can’t be happening. Not to me! Dear God, please!

  I drop my phone to the ground. It doesn’t shatter, but it doesn’t matter.

  My life just went to pieces.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Knox

  A baseball cap and dark glasses are anyone’s best friends in times of crisis. That goes double when you live your life in the public eye. As I walk out to meet my plane, I’m donning both. It’s not that I expect no one to recognize me, though I always hope for that. It’s more to deny those assholes a decent shot and to protect my tired eyes.

  It was barely light out when I got the phone call from Heath about the photos of Mae. I didn’t go online and look at them. I didn’t need to. And the fact that Mae’s face wasn’t showing didn’t do anything to protect her identity. My phone was hacked. They had my text streams, my email. It was easy enough to piece together.

  I haven’t talked to Mae since her phone went dead this morning, but I’ve spoken with both Everly and Gigi. Having to tell the grandmother of the woman you love there are nude photos of her granddaughter all over the world was only slightly easier than breaking the news to Mae. Gigi promised me she’d get Mae somewhere safe. She told me to go to The Tune Up and wait there when I land.

  I work with some of the best writers in Hollywood, and I don’t think they could give me the words to describe what I’m feeling. It’s a combination of heartbreak and rage all rolled into one big ball of shit. I keep trying to call Mae, but there is no answer. I wonder if Everly and Gigi got hold of her.

  Of all the times for something like this to happen! I’m over a thousand miles away
from Mae.

  I have to get to her. I told Heath to clear my schedule, for however long is necessary.

  Stepping onto the plane, I realize things are not so private. Heath is aboard, with a laptop beside him. “Thought I would fly with you, and we could talk.”

  I’m not in the mood, and I don’t need an escort. But I know Heath is trying to help. And frankly, the company might be good for me. Being alone, I have too much time to think. Too much time to wonder what Mae’s thinking. What kind of state she’s in. Why she hung up. How to convince her not to dump my ass over this.

  “How’s she doing?” he asks.

  “Not good,” I say. “I actually haven’t talked to her again. I think her phone went dead or something. I’m worried.”

  “We will be there soon.”

  “Any luck on having the pictures taken down?” I ask.

  “Can’t purge the internet entirely, but we’ve made some progress,” he says.

  I take a seat opposite him. Because we have a total passenger count of two, it doesn’t take long for the plane to be ready to takeoff. There’s one flight attendant on board who offers us drinks and food, but I politely wave her away. I’m not one who likes someone to wait on me when I’m having a good day, so I really don’t want the attention when I’m having the worst fucking day of my life.

  I can’t even imagine what Mae is feeling right now. It’s hard sitting here with Heath, knowing he must’ve seen those pictures, even if he hasn’t said so. She must be a complete mess. She has to wonder if every person she knows has seen her naked. And how many strangers have downloaded the picture to view over and over again later.

  “Who’s responsible for the hack?” I ask as we taxi out to the runway.

  “The authorities are looking into it,” Heath says.

  “They need to work fucking faster. Find out who did this. Bring charges against them, and all the motherfuckers who posted those pictures.”

  It’s the worst when you’re upset, and the person you are talking to is calm—trying to “handle” you. I don’t want Heath calm. I want him to go nuclear, to be as pissed off as I am. That way, I can be sure he’ll fight to the death to bring down the assholes who did this to Mae.

  Some asshole reporters are speculating that this whole thing is a publicity stunt to create buzz around my upcoming movie premiere. Can you imagine that? How completely fucking stupid. I’ve told Heath that anyone who breathes that shit will never get an interview with me again.

  “The funny thing is—it was just you. Normally, these hacks take down a handful of celebrities, but it’s like they specifically targeted you.”

  “Did they hack anything else from me besides the pictures?”

  “Some financial information. A few scripts,” he says. “I’ve already handled all that.”

  “I don’t give a shit about that stuff,” I say. “Just the pictures. No one knew about those pictures but me and Mae.”

  “Perhaps they were just fishing, looking for anything. But you were definitely the target,” Heath says. “I’ve turned over the letters you’ve been getting to the authorities.”

  “You think there’s a connection between the letters and the hack?”

  “I’m not sure, but it’s possible.”

  “You don’t actually believe I have another stalker? This is not the way they usually operate. Those fuckers show up at your house, try to break in, go through your trash. I’ve had none of that.”

  “That’s what worries me,” Heath says. “Whoever did this isn’t out of control. They’re the opposite—calculated. The thank you note was very calculating. I find that concerning. But we need to let the police, FBI, whoever, do their jobs, and you need to focus on yours.”

  “Seriously?”

  “The movie is coming out in a little over a week. You have . . .”

  “You can’t expect me to continue doing press. You know all everyone is going to be talking about is those pictures.”

  “We can control that.”

  “No,” I say, feeling the plane increase in speed, waiting for the tires to leave the pavement.

  “Knox, you have a responsibility to the film.”

  “Do you really think I can do press junkets and walk the red carpet while these perverts are holding online polls about how fuckable my girlfriend is?”

  “I think you’ve enjoyed living in this little secret fairytale with her,” Heath says. “But that’s over now. Shit just got real. The only thing we can do now is move forward.”

  “By working?”

  “Yes, but also figuring out if you want security for Mae. How she feels about that? Do you want to make a statement about all this? Does she? Do you want to do an interview? Does she? Do you . . .”

  “Fine, I get it.”

  “Look,” he says, leaning forward slightly. “I’ve always got your back, and I’ve seen a lot of this crap over the years. It always seems like the end of the world at the time, but it will pass.”

  “I doubt Mae feels that way,” I say, looking out the window, the world speeding by. “What do you think is best? Address it head on, or lay low?”

  “I think that’s going to depend on Mae,” he says.

  “I need to be able to give her advice,” I say.

  “I think it’s best to address it,” Heath says. “Those were private photos, meant only for you.”

  “She was just trying to be cute and sexy while we were apart.”

  “You should say that, too,” he says. “How would these fuckers feel if it was their wife or girlfriend? Their sister, friend, or daughter?”

  “I know in a lot of ways I’m a brand, a product,” I say. “But Mae’s not. She should be off limits.”

  “Unrealistic, but I think it would be very powerful if you looked in a camera and said just that.” He relaxes back in his seat. “We can make this work in our favor.”

  “Heath, I’m not looking to capitalize on . . .”

  He waves me off. “I’m not talking about money. I’m talking about spin.” He pats me on the knee. “You are Hollywood’s leading man. Mae is the perfect girl next door. Your old high school and college girlfriend. If that doesn’t sound like a perfect movie, then I don’t know what does.”

  “You’re suggesting I make a movie of my relationship?” I ask, rolling my eyes.

  “No, I’m saying the public will eat that shit right up. If we handle this right, Mae will be adored by the public.”

  “It doesn’t change what happened,” I say.

  “No, but we can change how everyone sees it.”

  I look out the airplane window, Los Angeles now thousands of feet below me. I’m not sure what to do, or what Mae wants to do. Without hearing her voice, having her input, I feel stuck.

  But I do know that if we are going to do something, we need to act fast. We need to get a handle on this story, change the narrative. I can’t allow what’s happened to linger.

  I have no idea if it’s the right move or not, but I give Heath the go-ahead to get my team to spin this her way—now. It’s not an easy call for me. She’s the victim in this whole mess, but I want the public to see the strong woman she is.

  *

  My first stop is The Tune Up. When Timothy sees me coming in, he flips the store sign to closed and ushers out the handful of customers that were inside. It isn’t much of a hideout, considering the number of photographers outside. As soon as the pictures of Mae hit the internet, all the vultures flocked to Haven’s Point like it was the next big gold rush.

  This is the shitty price of fame. I only wish the shit would’ve landed on me and not Mae. I’d have gladly paid the price.

  I still haven’t heard from Mae, Gigi, or Everly. I keep trying to call Mae, but it goes straight to voicemail. I want to see her, hold her, tell her we will get through this.

  “Where’s Mae?” I ask Timothy as I take a seat in a booth.

  “Don’t know,” he says.

  “Did you see her? Or talk to her?” I ask.<
br />
  He shakes his head. “Everly shot out of the house like a bat out of hell.”

  Out of nowhere, Gracie heads my way and scoots into the booth across from me, sliding a picture to me. “Earlier today, Mommy was yelling about some bad pictures. She said Auntie Mae was crying. So I made her a new one. Can you give it to her?”

  She’s colored a picture of a St. Bernard, complete with the barrel around its neck. “I will,” I say, feeling a huge lump in my throat. “It looks really good.”

  “Daddy printed the picture for me to color. St. Bernards are Auntie Mae’s favorite.”

  The lump gets even bigger.

  “Hey, Gracie, I think I have some stickers in the drawer in my office,” her dad says. “Why don’t you go look? Maybe you can add some to Auntie Mae’s picture.”

  My phone rings in my pocket, and I rush to answer. Leading Gracie away, Timothy asks me, “Is it Mae?” I shake my head.

  “How’s Mae?” Ryder asks, skipping any pleasantries.

  “I don’t know. She’s gone MIA,” I say, keeping my voice low, wanting to avoid any detection from the assholes’ high-powered microphones outside. “You saw, huh?” My voice gives way slightly at the thought of my brother seeing Mae naked.

  “I heard,” he says.

  If he’s lying, I appreciate it and love him even more for it. “I don’t have any idea where Mae is,” I say. “I flew to Haven’s Point, but she’s gone into hiding somewhere. I’m waiting to find out where she is. I guess I should be grateful she’s away from the cameras and chaos. You should see Haven’s Point right now. It looks like a red carpet on steroids.”

  “You need me?” he asks, ever the big brother. “I was coming to your premiere next week, anyway. I can come earlier.”

  “Thanks, Ryder, but I need to focus on Mae, finding her, making this better.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll see you in a few days,” Ryder says before hanging up.

  Mae doesn’t want or need this craziness. She’s private. She likes her solitude, living alone on the lake. She likes the anonymity of her radio show. She doesn’t want a life in the limelight. She prefers the natural sunlight.

  She’s crushed right now.