Dirty Secrets

by Regina Kyle

  “Word to the wise—watch everything you say on the red carpet. I’m not the only reporter with big ears. And next time it might not be something as harmless as a crack about my youthful appearance.”

  Crap. I’m not usually so careless. Or such a jerk. Chalk it up to nervousness. “Thanks for the heads up. And, uh, sorry about the dig.”

  He releases my hand and slaps me on the back. “No worries. I get it all the time. You can make it up to me by giving me an interview. Maybe even an exclusive on the new man in Brie’s life.”

  “See, I told you he’s one of the good guys,” Brie chimes in. “But Connor’s not giving interviews today. I, on the other hand, am happy to talk to you. And I promise, as soon as we’re ready, we’ll give you first dibs at the whole, sordid story of how we got together.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Doug motions to his cameraman to start filming, and Brie gives a short interview, gushing about how excited she is to be here and how lucky she is to be part of the Mortal Misfits. After the camera stops rolling, we say our goodbyes and thank-yous and start back down the red carpet, but we don’t get two feet before our path is blocked by a woman who looks like a low-rent version of Rita Skeeter from the Harry Potter movies, cat-eye glasses and all.

  “Brie Lawson. I’m Irene Fisher from Celebrity Intel.”

  “Of course.” Brie smiles through clenched teeth. “Lovely to see you, Irene.”

  “And who’s the handsome hunk with you?”

  Brie warned me about this. Not the objectification. Although she warned me of that, too. Of getting hit with variations of the same question, over and over.

  And this particular question isn’t exactly surprising. It’s my first “official” appearance with Brie, and it’s only natural that people are going to wonder about our relationship. I’ve got no problem setting the record straight.

  “Connor Dow.” I’m not sure whether it’s proper protocol to shake hands with a reporter your date didn’t go to college with, so I avoid the issue by sticking them back in my pockets. “Brie’s significant other.”

  Irene tilts her head and squints at me behind her glasses. “You look familiar to me. Have we met before?”

  “Connor owns Top Shelf,” Brie says, jumping in. “The nightclub in Chelsea. Maybe you’ve seen him there.”

  Not likely, seeing as I spend most of my time at the club upstairs, out of sight. But it’s a shot.

  Irene taps a finger thoughtfully on her cheek. “I don’t think so. But I’m sure I know you from somewhere.”

  “I’m sorry, Irene.” Brie looks past the reporter, down the red carpet, and up the stairs leading to the main entrance of the Academy of Visual Arts, the venue for tonight’s event. “You’ll have to excuse us. The ceremony is starting soon, and we have to get inside.”

  I lift the cuff of my dress shirt and casually check my watch. We’ve got plenty of time to find our seats. I’m guessing Brie knows that. And Irene, too.

  But if she’s aware that Brie’s bullshitting, the reporter doesn’t call her on it. Instead, she pastes on a smile as fake a Brie’s and reluctantly steps aside. “I’ll remember eventually. I always do. I never forget a face.”

  “That woman gives me the creeps,” Brie mumbles when we’re inside and out of earshot of the press corps.

  “That makes two of us.” I put an arm around her as we follow the crowd up the split staircase to the second floor, where the theater is located. “I’m glad that’s over.”

  “If only it were. I’m sure we’ll see her at the after party. And if I know Irene—and I do, unfortunately—she’s frantically Googling you on her smart phone as we speak, trying to figure out where she’s seen you.”

  I don’t like the way that sounds. The thought of that Rita Skeeter wanna-be searching the internet for dirt on me makes my skin crawl, even though, aside from the fact that I’m the son of the literary world’s most notorious playboy, there’s not much to find.

  “This is us,” Brie says when we reach our seats. Down front, on the aisle so she’s got a straight shot to the stage when it’s time for her to present the award for best actor in a narrative feature film, whatever that means.

  The ceremony itself is kind of dull except when Brie takes the stage. Which, unfortunately, gives my mind plenty of time to dwell on Irene and her smart phone. What if she’s already connected me to Vincent Dow, king of the modern mystery/thriller? Hell, what if she’s already posted her scoop on line, and it’s gone viral?

  I can see the headline: Rising TV Star Seen With Son Of Renowned Author And Philanderer.

  I’ve run far and fast from my past, and for good reason. I didn’t want my success—or failure—to hinge on my parentage. I’ve worked hard to build a business with my best friend on nothing but sweat and determination. I knew dating Brie would put my personal life under a microscope, but until tonight I never fully considered what that might mean for Top Shelf.

  “What’s wrong?” Brie asks three too-long hours later, when we’re in a cab on the way to the rooftop after party.

  “Nothing. Just tired, I guess.” I mentally smack myself for the lame-ass excuse.

  “We don’t have to stay long. Just enough to make the rounds and touch base with Miriam.”

  “Miriam?”

  “My agent. She wasn’t able to make the ceremony, but she’s meeting me at the party. Fair warning, I’ve told her all about you, and she’ll probably grill you even worse than the vultures on the red carpet.”

  “If you’ve told her everything, what’s left for her to grill me about?”

  Brie looks up at me through long, dark lashes, a flirtatious grin parting her lips. “Well, maybe not everything.”

  “Don’t look at me like that,” I growl. “Or I won’t be able to stop myself from taking you right here in the back of the cab.”

  “Is that supposed to be a deterrent? Because it sounds pretty good to me. Too bad this cab ride will be over in a few minutes.”

  She’s not kidding. We probably could have walked to the damn party if Brie wasn’t in heels higher than the Empire State Building. In less than ten minutes, we’re in the middle a rooftop garden, surrounded by some of the most beautiful flora and fauna—and people—in Manhattan.

  The night is chilly, even for late October, but the space heaters strategically placed around the terrace keep it nice and toasty. I snag a couple of champagne flutes from a passing waiter and hand one to Brie.

  “Thanks.” She raises her glass and clinks it with mine. “It’s funny. The last time I was at a shindig this fancy, I was the one passing out drinks, and you were the guest of honor.”

  I wrap an arm around her waist and sip my champagne. “I’m happy to supply you with alcohol and bask in your reflective glory.”

  Before she can respond, Brie’s agent, an older, heavyset woman with sleekly styled gray hair wearing a dress that could double as a circus tent, sweeps in and steals her away to meet the director of some indie film she thinks Brie would be perfect for. I finish my champagne and make my way to the bar for something stronger.

  “Scotch,” I say, sliding a twenty-dollar bill to the bartender. “The best you’ve got. Neat.”

  “I’d offer to pay,” a voice over my shoulder says. “But I’m guessing Vincent Dow’s son can afford to buy his own drinks.”

  I turn to see Irene, a smug look on her overly made up face. She’s got a photographer in tow, and he snaps off a string of quick pics.

  “Can you tell him to put that away?” I ask.

  Her arched eyebrows disappear under her bangs. “Why would I do that?”

  “I’m not the story tonight. It’s Brie you should be talking to.”

  “The story is what I say it is.” The smug look is gone, replaced by a cold, calculating glare. “And tonight, I say it’s the reappearance of Vincent Dow’s estranged son.”<
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  “I never disappeared. I’ve been here all along. And who says my father and I are estranged?” I take my scotch from the bartender and move away to make room for others at the bar, hoping she won’t follow.

  “So the rumors aren’t true?” She trails after me, dragging the hapless photographer along with her.

  Against my better judgment, I give in to temptation and wheel around to confront her. “What rumors?”

  She whips her smart phone out of her oversized pocketbook, taps on the screen a few times, then holds the end with the microphone up to her mouth. “Word on the street is that your father left your dying mother to have multiple affairs, and that you two haven’t spoken in years. Do you have any comment?”

  She shoves the phone in my face, expecting some sort of response. The one I’d like to give involves smashing the damn thing into a million pieces. Or sticking it where the sun don’t shine.

  I scan the room, looking for Brie. I’m not skilled in dealing with the press like she is. If she were here, she’d know how to shut this down.

  I spot her across the room, in what looks to be an intense conversation with her agent and a hipster-looking guy in a tan suit and matching fedora—seriously, a fedora—who I assume is the director Miriam wanted her to meet. Looks like it’s up to me to handle Irene.

  I stare her down and calmly sip my scotch. “Word on the street is notoriously unreliable.”

  “Your father and stepmother recently announced that they’re expecting.” She pauses, presumably to give me a chance to express my surprise. Or outrage. Or whatever emotion she thinks I should be feeling. When I don’t, she continues, undaunted. “What about your half-sibling? Do you plan on being a part of his or her life?”

  Okay, now she’s treading on dangerous territory. It’s one thing to talk shit about me or my father. We’re big boys. We can take it. I’m not letting her drag my innocent, unborn brother or sister into this.

  “No comment.”

  She sticks her phone right under my nose, like she’s coming in for the kill. “Is that because you’re not even sure this baby is your half-sibling?”

  My fingers tighten around my glass, the condensation making it cool and slippery. “What part of ‘no comment’ don’t you understand?”

  “A source tells me your stepmother was seen coming out of The Pierre with her tennis instructor while your father was in California meeting with studio execs about his screenplay for the Dax Russell movie. Isn’t it true that she’s been having an affair, and this baby is a bastard?”

  My arm coils back to toss my drink in her face, but I’m too late. Irene is already drenched, dark, jagged lines of mascara running down her cheeks, tendrils of wet hair clinging to her neck.

  “You crossed the line, Irene.” Brie stands next to me, an empty glass in her hand and a determined glint in her eyes.

  “I’d say you’re the one who overstepped.” Someone hands Irene a cocktail napkin and she dabs at her face, smearing the mascara even more. It makes her look like a creepy circus clown. “I could sue you. Or better yet, call the police. Have you arrested for assault.”

  Brie doesn’t back down. “I’m sure New York City’s finest have better things to do than referee a catfight.”

  Irene crumples up the now soaked cocktail napkin. Her photographer hands her another, and she shoves the used one at him. “I hope you got pictures. I can have this up on the blog in ten minutes. The headline practically writes itself. Mortal Misfit Attacks Reporter. Your career will be over before it starts.”

  The room’s gone quiet, and I realize it’s because everyone is focused on us. Irene does an overly dramatic flip of her straggly, damp hair and turns on her heel.

  “Come on, Paul. We’ve got work to do.”

  Miriam appears at Brie’s side, her forehead creased with concern. “What the hell just happened here?”

  I step in, drawing her attention from Brie like I’m a human lightning rod. This whole mess is my fault. It’s my job to fix it as best I can. If I can. “Let me explain—”

  She waves a hand, cutting me off. “I’ve changed my mind. Not here. Not with all these people listening. We need to leave. Now.”

  Miriam marches off like a general leading her troops into battle, and we follow her like good little soldiers, stopping briefly at the coat check to grab Miriam’s oversized fur jacket—faux, she assures us—and Brie’s cashmere cape.

  The elevator ride down to the lobby is awkward and silent. Once we’re downstairs, Miriam finds a grouping of uncomfortable looking high-backed chairs in a quiet corner and sits us down.

  “All right. Spill. And don’t leave anything out, or I won’t be able to do damage control.”

  I give her every last, gory detail. Brie chimes in at the end, taking the credit—or the blame—for throwing her glass of sauvignon blanc at Irene. Miriam taps notes into her smart phone, only looking up when we’re done.

  “You.” She points at me. “You should have walked away when you had the chance. And you.”

  She points at Brie. “You know Irene likes to stir up trouble. It’s how she and that gossip rag she works for stay in business. You can’t let her get to you. Especially in a room full of industry power players.”

  “I know.” Brie’s eyes are downcast. “And I’m sorry. But she—”

  Miriam waves her hand again. “No buts. I swear, I have half a mind to drop your sorry ass. I have plenty of clients. I don’t need to be dealing with this shit at 11:00 on a Saturday night.”

  The color drains from Brie’s face. “Please. I—”

  “Don’t worry,” Miriam says, her tone softening slightly. “I’m not going to drop you. Yet. But you have to promise to do exactly what I say, or you can kiss your budding career goodbye.”

  “I promise,” Brie answers solemnly.

  “Me, too,” I throw in for good measure. I feel as responsible for this shit show as Brie. More. Her agent is right. I had the chance to stop things before they started, and I didn’t.

  Miriam stands, tossing her phone into her bag and shrugging into her coat. “I’m going to make some phone calls. Try to head this thing off before it gets out of control. Keep your cell handy. I need to be able to reach you any time, day or night.”

  Brie nods, and Miriam reaches down to pat her hand reassuringly. “Don’t worry. I’ve dealt with a lot worse in my day. Handled correctly, this stuff will blow over. But it can’t happen again. Once is a mistake. The public will forgive you. Twice becomes a habit that gets you anger management counseling and a spot on every producer’s blacklist.”

  “Understood.”

  Brie rises to hug Miriam, who returns the embrace then breezes through the lobby and out the door into the chilly New York night. Brie excuses herself to use the restroom—which I’m almost positive is a cover story so she can have a few minutes to herself—and I call an Uber, figuring it will be easier than flagging down a cab at this hour.

  She’s unnaturally quiet on the ride back to the loft, and so am I. Miriam’s words keep ringing in my head.

  It can’t happen again.

  Twice becomes a habit.

  A spot on every producer’s blacklist.

  If I stay with Brie, odds are it will happen again. Some other bottom-dwelling blogger will bring up my background. And Brie, being Brie, will leap to my defense.

  I love her too much to let her throw away the career she’s worked so hard for and enjoys so much and is so good at. The thought is simultaneously breathtaking and bittersweet.

  I love her. And I have to let her go.

  “Well, that sucked,” she says when we’re finally inside the apartment. “But next time will be different. We’ll be prepared for their questions. I’ll see if Miriam or the studio’s PR person can work with you.”

  “I can’t.” The words stick in my throat. It takes all my inner
strength to push them out.

  “Can’t what?” She brushes past me into the living room, blissfully unaware of the turmoil twisting my insides into knots the size of golf balls, and takes off her cape, tossing it over the back of a chair. “Meet with them? I’m sure we can find a time that works with your schedule.”

  I follow her, each step heavier than the next with the weight of what I’m about to do. “No, I can’t be with you.”

  “You mean you don’t want to accompany me to any more events?” She kicks off her high heels and lifts one foot to massage her toes, painted a deep, rich purple to match her dress. “I can’t say I’m not a little disappointed. But I guess I could live with that.”

  “You shouldn’t have to live with it. You should be with a guy who’s willing to support you one hundred and ten percent. Who’s proud to be by your side every step of the way. And I’m sorry, but that guy’s not me.”

  Tears are welling up in her eyes, each one a tiny knife to my heart. “Look, I know tonight didn’t go well. But we can find a way to make it work.”

  “What if I don’t want to find a way?”

  I mentally cross my fingers behind my back for the lie. But if I tell her the truth—that I’m doing this for her—I’m afraid she won’t let me walk away. That she’ll choose me over her career and grow to resent that choice later. And that’s a chance I’m not willing to take.

  She flinches as if I’ve physically struck her. “Please tell me you’re not saying what I think you’re saying.”

  “I did this once with my father. I can’t do it again. I’m not cut out for the limelight.”

  “If that’s what you really want...”

  Her voice trails off, giving me one last chance to change my mind.

  I don’t. I can’t.

  “You can stay here for as long as you need. But I think it would be best if you started looking for a new place as soon as possible.”

  I turn and head for the sanctuary of my bedroom. No stopping. No looking back, not even when I hear her soft sobs.