Say It Sexy

by Virna DePaul

  She balked. “Kissing someone? Who?” While she turned to glower at Tyler, I flashed Shane a questioning look. Wide eyed with alarm, he shook his head vigorously.

  “L—Logan,” I lied. “You guys were in the corner. And, hell, I thought you were a pretty good kisser. Or, you looked it anyway.” Trying to be convincing, I shrugged.

  “Oh!” Erica replied, seemingly satisfied and smiling again. “We’ve kissed before. It doesn’t mean anything. Just something we both tend to do when we drink. I had a blast that night.” She rounded on Shane, beaming. “You had fun too. Right, Shane?”

  He lifted his eyes, landed his gaze on her, and I knew. The guy had it bad.

  “Yeah,” he answered softly. “Totally.”

  After a sincere but oblivious smile at him, Erica’s attention snapped back to me. “So are you going to tell the world about you and Gwen?”

  I shook my head. “We’re going to wait awhile longer for that.” It occurred to me that in my struggle to keep my private life to myself, I had excluded the opinions of the people who had become my only friends. “How do you guys feel about that, by the way? Me and Gwen?”

  “I think it’s marvelous,” Erica stated smugly. “I predicted it long before it happened.”

  It floored me that she could be so intuitive about my love life, yet be completely in the dark when it came to her own.

  “If you’re happy, I’m happy, man.” Shane grinned.

  “Thanks, you two,” I said. “Tyler? What about you?”

  “As long as it means you’re not butchering your craft, drowning my ears in the tedium of your problems, and acting like a bunch of lovelorn morons off screen anymore, then I approve.”

  I laughed.

  * * *

  I stepped out from behind the curtain and made my way across the stage. The audience, hidden partially by the blinding lights that haloed the catwalk, burst into a chorus of cheering. I waved graciously. Tonight was my individual interview—the first I had accepted in months.

  Carl, whose real name was Carlos, Marsh surged to his feet and met me by the overly cushioned armchair, still standing on the other side of his desk, and stuck out his hand. I clasped it and gave it a firm shake. With big, bushy blond eyebrows and beady blue eyes, Carl Marsh cut the figure of a classic Viking—enormous and loud with a laugh to match. What made him so intriguing, if not addicting to listen to, was his Spanish accent, a trait that completely belied his appearance.

  We took our seats.

  “Mr. Garrick Maze,” he greeted. “Thank you for joining us today.”

  “Thank you for having me,” I replied before throwing a coy smirk and a wink at the audience. “Hello, everyone.”

  The studio audience cheered wildly as I waved.

  “Hollywood’s new heartthrob, right here in my studio. What do you think of that, folks?” Throwing opened his arms, he gestured to the fake scenery of the city with the Sandia Mountains at sunset in the background. The audience hooted and hollered. “Now. Before we dive into the juicer part of this interview, how are things?”

  “Things are great, Carl,” I answered honestly for the first time in years. “Things are wonderful.” I couldn’t scrounge up a more appropriate word.

  His eyebrows jumped up, revealing that his eyes weren’t truly so beady. “Wonderful? Well, I think an answer like that merits an explanation, don’t you?” he asked, indicating the audience, who whooped their agreement. I felt a flush come into my face and I shook my head, humoring them. “Now. What about the show, Garrick? What’s it like working on a rom-com? I mean, we all knew you as this big gun-toting action star.”

  “Yeah.” After lifting my hand and turning my smirk into more of a happy cringe, I scratched at the nape of my neck. “As a dear friend of mine once said, my career could be summed up by three things.” I counted on my fingers: “Explosions, gunfire, and ass-shots.”

  Laughter rumbled through the audience.

  “You’d spend hours with the greatest personal trainers learning everything from jujitsu to feng shui—“

  Another bout of laughter.

  “But seriously though, folks, this guy knows many of the mixed martial arts—and here you are, starring in a contemporary television series. What in the world has that been like for you?”

  I shifted, pondering my reply. “You know, I’m going to be honest. When I first got the call and got involved with Straightlaced, I planned to use it as a spring board to branch out and find other gigs, and what I thought would be ‘bigger and better things.’ I wasn’t very passionate about this job.”

  “And are you now?”

  I nodded unreservedly. “Fully. I’m completely committed.”

  People cheered.

  “What changed your mind?”

  Expelling a breath, I brought my ankle up to cross it at the knee. “A series of events, really. I learned a lot from my character. And midway through our season, I finally read the actual book.” I slapped an unapologetic, yet expectant smile on my face.

  More laughter.

  “That’s probably a good career move,” Carl joked. “Can you relate to Payton at all?”

  “I sure can. The thing about Payton is that he has so much potential, but he doesn’t want to put out the effort to display that. He’s trapped in a routine, and a stereotype, that he doesn’t want to break. He feels that focusing too much on school will inhibit his growth in music, yet at the same time, he’s terrified that if he focuses solely and seriously on his music that they’ll get noticed.”

  “So it’s all about personal fears,” Carl inferred.

  “Exactly. He wants the fame, but not the responsibility. He wants the success, but not the strings attached. And as a college bum, who plays bars on the weekends, he’s pretty much living his dream, or deludes himself to believing that… until he meets Lacey.”

  I too had been deluding myself, convinced I was living my fantasy, when in actuality, I had turned my life into a personalized torture chamber.

  Carl sat forward with interest sparkling in his blue eyes and folded his enormous hands. “Ah, Lacey. Miss Gwendolyn Vickers, isn’t she?”

  “Yes. Lacey has such drive and dedication. She wants to be a veterinarian so badly that it really throws a mirror up in Payton’s face and forces him to look at his life choices, and lack thereof. “

  “Interesting. And I hear that Payton rubs off a bit on Lacey too.”

  I grinned sheepishly. “He does, eventually. Lacey actually starts accidentally hanging out with Payton, Benny, and Mitch while she’s trying to get them evicted from their house.”

  Carl sat back, feigning offense. “That’s not very nice.”

  “Well, their constant ruckus interfering with her studying isn’t all that cordial either. And she doesn’t realize how much she enjoys being with them, and how much fun she’s having with such free-spirited people, until about halfway through the book.”

  “That really does sound like a fascinating romance dynamic.”

  “Yeah. And that’s really all I can tell you in terms of the show itself.” Grinning, I had to stifle a laugh when I imagined Lyle sitting at home with his eyes glued to the television, constantly cleaning his glasses, and Alice standing just behind him to take notes. Luckily, Carl took my hint and ran with it, leaping headfirst into the questions I had been truly anticipating.

  “Let’s get personal,” Carl stated, sitting forward and scooting closer to me. The audience laughed.

  “Okay,” I agreed, pretending to be somewhat apprehensive. “Let’s get personal.”

  He squinted, eyeing me with every ounce of theatrical skepticism he had. “How’s the dating life going? Are you still playing the field?”

  “Actually.” I took a breath and shook my head. “No. I’m not.”

  A collective gasp and a myriad of feminine whines shot up from the crowd, followed by a series of clapping.

  I adjusted my cufflink. “It’s probably safe to say that I’ve restricted myself to one p
articular person’s yard.”

  The women aww’d, though I knew internally, most of them sat fuming.

  “Well, this is a surprise! Can you tell us who this special lady is?” He waggled his brows, trying to charm me into telling. But I had made up my mind beforehand, and prepared my answer ahead of time in case it came up. Gwen did not want us to be an item in public yet. She wanted to tell her parents first, and give them time to process it. And I wouldn’t force my desperation on her.

  “I won’t be telling you that, Carl. I’m sorry. I want to. However, our relationship is still in its infancy, and I’m extremely protective of it. We feel that it’s still a little early to go public. It’s the most precious area of my life, and the most precious person in my world. So I’m going to take my time, if that’s okay with you.”

  More awws and claps.

  “Of course, of course.” Carl, however, wasn’t quite placated. “Rumors have just been swirling like crazy about you and Gwen out of character and off set. Can you substantiate any of these rumors? Is Gwen the Juliet to your Romeo?”

  I settled back into my chair comfortably, donning my broadest grin before I got real with him. “No. I can’t substantiate those. I really enjoy working with Gwen. Her passion for her own craft, coming from an actress who was trained and talented in the world of soap operas, provides a stark contrast to my own background. And I won’t deny that, like Payton and Lacey, she throws her own mirror in my face from time to time, and I too questioned my decisions. She’s a wonderful influence and a fantastic young woman. And I look forward to finishing up the season, and the many, many more seasons to come.”

  After my interview, I strolled backstage, loosening my tie. Dying to know how it went for Gwen, I yanked my phone out of my pocket and checked my messages. I had one text from her, telling me she hadn’t called her father yet but she was going to. Though I worried for her, I nodded to myself. Scrolling down I noticed I had three other texts and two missed calls.

  Dominic.

  Cold around the collar, I bit my lip. I hadn’t talked to Dominic since the night it happened. He had tried to call me more than a lot, but the attempts had dwindled during the last five months. It occurred in bouts and spurts now. He had probably seen the interview and got the guilty urge.

  I had never listened to his voicemails, deleting them before they played. His texts repeated the same spiel I had read a thousand times, the message he had been trying to convey since that terrible night.

  He was so sorry. He was stupid. Hurting me had been the last thing he had ever wanted to do, and it would never happen again.

  He was damn right about the stupid part. In the past, I would have deleted his messages and ignored him completely. However, seeing Gwen’s courage to amend the rift between her and her parents made me think twice. And as I was leaving the studio and his third call came through… I took it.

  Chapter Thirty

  Gwen

  Garrick had left for Carl Marsh’s late show a few hours ago. I stood at the foot of my bed, staring down at my cell phone—the same position I had held for the last five minutes. Before that, I had paced my room probably fifty times, having full length, elaborate conversations with myself in preparation for calling my father. Finally mustering all of the courage I could weld together, I picked up the device and dialed. Dad answered after the second ring. That was curious, being that it usually rang five or six times, especially when he wasn’t expecting my call.

  “Dad,” I said quickly, my free hand fisted at my side as a cold sweat beaded across my forehead. “There is something I need to—”

  “Gwen,” he interrupted. The gravelly, weary sound of his voice gave me paused. “Before you say anything, I’d like to invite you home for the weekend.”

  Shock ascended from my toes to the top of my head. “Th-this weekend?” I stammered. Though, to be fair, the anger I had assumed would lace his voice wasn’t there. And it was more genuine surprise than fear of the reason or his rage that caused me to flounder.

  “Yes. I know we need to talk. Your mother and I will pay for your ticket.”

  “Mom will be there?” I said softly.

  “Yes.” He took a deep breath. “I’ll understand, or try to, if you’d rather talk over the phone. But we have some things we want to say in person. And I hope you’ll come.”

  A lump formed and lodged in my throat, swelling with each passing second. I could either decline and draw a line in wet cement that, once dried, could never be erased, or I could cross over, one more time. I took a deep breath, stared out of my hotel window above the cityscape draped with a starry tarp, and said, “I’ll be there.”

  * * *

  Twenty one hours later, we sat together in the parlor—Dad and Mom on the loveseat, and me in the arm chair. My father slumped, hunched forward, as though someone had let all the air out of his shoulders. The skin around his eyes hung lined and dark, as though he had not slept in days, if not weeks.

  “Two days ago,” Dad began, “I read a follow-up article about an incident that had occurred years ago. It mentioned an actor whose sister was in a coma, because she had tried to run away from her living situation—from her father—and got in a car accident. It made me realize—as did you pushing me away in New Mexico—that in my burning quest to keep you close, I have only succeeded in pushing you away, and in so doing, I almost lost you too.”

  Breathlessly, I watched Mom reach over and take Dad’s hand. She held it between hers, lending support I did not know she could show. “Your father felt so gutted and horrible when he returned from Albuquerque. I’ve never seen him so unhappy.”

  “Unhappy?” I echoed, riddled with vexation. “I thought you were enraged.”

  “I was,” he confessed. “At first with you. Then myself. I was also terrified.”

  I balked. “Terrified? But you’re not scared of anything.”

  “Ooohh, yes I am,” he breathed with a guilty nod. “Mostly of losing you.”

  “He sat in your room for an entire day and he found the picture of Sean in your bedside drawer,” Mom added softly.

  Dad shook his head somberly. “Looking back, there is no excuse for me losing my temper that night, or any of the other nights. I know I ruined your prom—something like a rite of passage, and one of the most important magical evenings in a teenager’s life. And there is no excuse for me exploding at you the way I do when you enjoy alcohol. But there is a reason. Several, in fact.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Surely, this had to be one of my dreams. Any moment, things would turn black and broken again.

  “How do you see us, Gwen?” asked Mom.

  “Honestly?” I questioned.

  “Honestly.” She managed a strangled smile. I hadn’t heard my mother talk this much in one sitting in ages.

  “I don’t think either of you are happy,” I blurted out. “I think you’re especially unhappy, Mom. I think you’re afraid. And Dad, I… I think you’re scary and, moreover, what’s scaring her. Before this year, I always saw you as the perfect couple. I measured my future by you. I love you both, but… It’s hard sometimes. You’re so rigid and… Mom, you haven’t talked to me like this in so long.”

  A pained look came into my mother’s face, tears welling up in her eyes. “We’re terribly sorry, sweetie. We’ve raised you to believe that we’ve never made mistakes—never stepped outside the box—that we’ve always been perfect, and the cookie cutter family. And I think, to some degree, you’ve finally realized that’s not the case at all.” She squeezed Dad’s larger hand.

  “Your mother and I have kept some very important things from you,” Dad told me wearily. “We did it partially to conceal our mistakes and partially to withhold what could have been influential over some of your decisions. We have talked it over and we feel that we have hidden our past from you long enough, and you need to know why I do what I do, and I am the way I am. Assumptions can make or break families, and we know now that we should have told you soon
er.”

  “I told you that I graduated college, honey,” Mom said. “That’s not true. In my sophomore year, I delved into the drug scene. And dropped out. I had a trust from my grandparents of fifty thousand dollars. And I spent it all within three years… on heroin.”

  Cold with shock, I sat rooted to my chair.

  “Meanwhile, as a member of the elite football team at my college, I was heavy into steroids and alcohol,” Dad added, grey with guilt.

  Her lower lip trembling, struggling to maintain her small smile, Mom shook her head. “We didn’t meet on an island vacation, Gwen.”

  Finally, Dad met my eyes, surrender dimming his own. “We met at a treatment facility for addiction in Hawaii.”

  My mouth fell open.

  “Your mother and I fell in love, married, and worked ourselves to the bone to turn our lives around. It was torture. Every day.”

  Mom nodded, sniffling and dabbing her nose with a handkerchief. “I was never very strong, and I had several brutal slides backward. My therapist found that I had internal triggers. Certain clothing, or foods would flip a switch in my brain, and I’d crave the high. I couldn’t hold down a job for years.”

  Something clicked and kicked on inside me—the first spark that would illuminate some deeply guarded secret.

  “That’s why we live the way we do, honey. Your father is so strict because he lives in fear—of me and of you going down wrong paths that we can’t reverse.” She flashed a teary, fond smile at him. “But our love for each other has never wavered.”

  “But I never see you holding hands, or expressing any affection to each other. Why?”

  Mom adjusted her hold on Dad’s hand, weaving her arms around his bicep. He placed his hand on her elbow. “We told you that you’re an only child. That too is somewhat of a lie.” Her voice cracked.

  “You’re our only living child,” Dad stated gravely.

  “What?” I croaked, my hands clutching the armrests hard enough to whiten my knuckles.