by Reber, Tina
We drove down the alley and crossed over Mulberry Street into the open parking lot. We were just about parked when Ryan abruptly slammed on the brakes and put the car in reverse.
“Ryan? What’s wrong?”
It took me no time at all to follow his stare. There she was – Angelica – sitting in her freaking blue Plymouth parked cattycorner to the lot on Mulberry Street. Ryan gunned the engine and drove back out onto the street.
“Blue Gran Fury. We’re going to take care of this shit right now. Which way to the police station?”
Ten minutes later we walked into the Seaport Police Station. The officer informed us that they would investigate the matter, but we had to go to the county courthouse to apply for a protection from abuse order. That was not handled by the police.
We walked swiftly down the sidewalk to the courthouse doors. Ryan was wearing dark sunglasses and tried to look inconspicuous but he couldn’t go anywhere without being recognized. Two flustered women stopped us on the sidewalk and asked him for his autograph. Ryan momentarily slipped into his people-pleasing mode and even stood and waited for these two annoyances to find something for him to write on. He was so gracious.
We took the elevator up to the third floor of the courthouse and found the office that was supposed to help us. Fortunately the office was empty – all except for the two women who worked there. There was an older woman with bleached blond hair sitting at a tan metal desk busy typing away on a computer. She looked up at us for a second and then quickly returned to what she was doing. We didn’t even qualify as a distraction for her.
The other woman sitting behind the counter however, who was younger than the first, recognized Ryan immediately. I could tell – she looked up and blinked rapidly in astonishment. Her mouth popped open and for a moment I thought she was going to scream.
It’s amazing how quickly people jump for you when you’re a celebrity. I never knew the power that came with it until moments like these happened. Ryan could have asked the lady behind the counter to eat road kill and she probably would have obliged. If you could bottle Ryan’s fame and charm into one container, you’d have the recipe for a lethal weapon. We completed the paperwork in no time and within minutes we met with the judge.
“I had her investigated,” I informed the judge. Ryan was surprised by this revelation, but maintained his composure. I squeezed his hand.
“There’s a restraining order against her in the state of California for stalking another celebrity. She was also charged with breaking and entering into the celebrity’s home. She has physically placed her hands on Mr. Christensen on our way into our home, and she has been sleeping in her car outside our place of business, which is also where our home is. She has followed me all the way to South Hampton and repeatedly leaves messages for him on our vehicle and in our mail.”
A temporary Restraining Order was granted immediately, and, after one brief three minute telephone conversation between Ryan and the judge’s fourteen year old daughter (who happens to be a huge Ryan Christensen fan), we received the rest of the royal treatment.
We were informed that a Deputy Sheriff would serve the order to Angelica. A hearing for the permanent restraining order was scheduled for next Wednesday. Ryan and I would both have to appear for the hearing. We left the courthouse armed with two copies of the order - one for each of us, and we even received a police escort home.
Ryan parked my car in the lot and we sat and watched as two police cruisers descended on Angelica, blocking her from leaving the spot where she was parked, while the Deputy served her the order.
“What’s happening?” I asked out loud. One police officer had removed her from her car and she was being handcuffed.
“I don’t know,” Ryan answered. “Looks like she is getting arrested.”
The paparazzi had a field day taking her picture and ours as we waited in the car. She was placed in the back seat of one of the police cars while two officers searched her Plymouth.
The photographers, autographers, filmers, and fans swarmed around us. Ryan and I hurried for the back door of the pub.
I just didn’t get it anymore. What was the purpose of all of this attention? Ryan didn’t stop to give out any autographs and it wasn’t like our appearance changed one bit from when we had our picture taken unloading the car earlier. It was getting ridiculous and downright annoying. Is this the way our life would be forever?
I closed the steel kitchen door behind us and punched in the security code. Ryan had turned the light on, illuminating the new wall and door that spanned the length of the kitchen.
“Wow!” I breathed out. The new thirty foot wall was definitely a distraction for my thoughts. I noticed Pete had even painted the new wall white.
“This looks really good!” Ryan beamed.
I was glad to see that the new interior door had a lock on it, but Ryan was able to open it. Mounted on the wall inside the hallway was a new light switch. Next to it a keypad for the new security system glowed in the dark. Pete had even installed an ornate wooden railing where the original wall used to be.
Ryan pulled the note that was taped next to the keypad off the wall. “Call security co. to program new code – new keys are on kitchen counter upstairs,” he read aloud.
“It’s one o’clock out on the West Coast. Don’t forget you have to call Follweiler’s office today.” I tossed my car keys onto the kitchen table.
“Thanks for reminding me. What would I do without you?” He kissed me quickly.
“I don’t know? Forget shit?” I teased him.
He gave me a light shove. “Call the security company, get us hooked up. I’ll call Follweiler.”
We went our separate ways to make our phone calls. I programmed the new code into the panel to activate it. Ryan had made our dinner plans with Mr. Follweiler’s assistant and when he came back into the kitchen he was on the phone with his agent.
It was almost humorous how many phone calls we both made. Ryan was due back on set first thing in the morning; he called Mike to arrange safe transportation. I called Marie to check in on how they were holding up. They had just gotten home a half-hour ago and cancelled on playing poker tonight.
Ryan was on the phone with Pete, yapping away on everything from construction to fishing.
My last call was to Cory to see if he’d be able to start at four, since I had no valid reason not to be open tomorrow. I was glad that he was willing to work any hours I was able to give him. I even hired his roommate, Trevor, over the phone. I needed someone to card people at the door during the week. I wasn’t going to allow what happened last Tuesday to repeat itself.
I ran downstairs to the get the mail and removed my makeshift cardboard closed sign from the window. There was a huge pile of mail on my pub floor. There was also a FedEx package and several boxes sitting on the bar. I opened a garbage bag and stuffed it with all the mail and deliveries so I could carry it upstairs.
“Ryan?” I called out, setting the bag on the floor.
“Bathroom,” he yelled. I knew him and his daily routine well enough to know that at this time of the day, he’d be gone for a while.
I grabbed his cell phone off the kitchen table and quickly toggled through his stored numbers looking for listings for Matt and Scott. He had quite a few girls’ names in his phone, which bothered me to see. Amy, Brandy, Cheryl, Gina, Heather; the list went on and on. The twinge of jealously worsened when I passed Lauren Delaney’s cell number.
I was hoping that he’d never want or need to call any of those numbers ever again. It would be so easy for me to delete them all, but that would be wrong. Back to the task at hand… there were a few choices for the name Scott but only one listing for Matt. I quickly wrote his number down on a piece of paper and shoved it in my purse.
I looked at the FedEx package. It was overnighted from California and addressed to William Bailey, c/o Mitchell’s Pub. I noticed that Pete wrote a note on the back to let us know he signed for the package.
“Do you know a William Bailey?” I asked, handing the package to Ryan.
“Yep. That’s me.”
I must have looked confused.
“What’s my middle name?” he asked.
“William.”
“What was my dog’s name?”
“Bailey.” It made sense now. “Okay, I get the connection but why the alias? What’s that about?”
“It’s my secret name. Well, one of them,” he admitted. “I can’t use my real name on anything. If fans or whoever see Ryan Christensen printed on things - it disappears or becomes public knowledge. It’s also one of the names I use when I check into hotels and stuff.”
“I noticed your luggage had ‘Shell-B Enterprises’ on it. Is that an alias too?”
“Yeah, well, that’s my company name,” he sighed, scratching his forehead. “You have no idea the lengths people go through to dig up private information.” He pulled out his wallet and showed me his credit card.
“This has my real name on it ‘cause that’s who I am, but see – underneath my name – there’s my company name. My credit card bills, my cell phone number, are all listed under my company name. It’s the way things have to be to keep records private. If my luggage gets lost, no one knows it’s mine. My bags would get shipped to California to my manager.”
“Oh, that makes sense,” I said, but still curious. “Shell-B? Where did that come from?”
He laughed. “That’s a mixture of a couple of things. First of all it was my dream car, which I now own. Sitting in my dad’s garage is a 2008 Shelby GT500 KR. Blue with silver stripes. Two hundred and eight original miles on her. The other reason for the name, well, do you remember our conversation about the shell game?”
I nodded, remembering that time in the shower fondly.
“Why not make finding me a shell game too?” His face glowed with his secret. “Whenever you travel now, you’ll have a fake name on your luggage. We’ll have to take a look at what you have your name on. People can hack into shit on the Internet like you wouldn’t believe.”
I was twirling my cell phone under my fingers while we were talking. I was curious about something completely different from what we were talking about. I punched a few buttons and waited.
Ryan’s phone started to play. The music was familiar, but I didn’t know the artist.
“Why are you calling me?” He laughed.
“Just curious,” I admitted. “That’s my ringtone? Who is that?”
He twitched his lips and smiled. “It’s an oldie. Did you ever hear of Cream?”
I nodded. He picked his phone up but I stopped him.
“No, wait! Just let it play. I want to hear it! Sunshine of your love? Is that the name of the song?”
“Yep. It’s a cool song, but I never get to hear it ‘cause somebody you and I know has issues about calling me.” He gently kicked my foot under the table.
Ryan ripped open the tab on the FedEx package and pulled out three packs of paper. Each pack was an inch or two thick.
“What’s all that?” I asked while I dumped the mail out of the garbage bag onto the table.
“Scripts. More scripts. What the hell is all of that?” he yelled.
I gasped when I saw multiple 4x6 glossy pictures of Ryan and our stalker, Angelica, from the day that he posed with her in my pub. There were also glossy pictures of Ryan alone; mostly side shots of him entering through the back door of the pub. The scariest of all the photos was a picture of Ryan and me walking down the sidewalk. Angel had scribbled out my face with a black magic marker and drew a target on my chest. I almost passed out at the table.
I flipped one of the pictures over and read the back.
I desperately separated all the pictures from the pile of mail. Ryan’s eyes grew wider and his face turned white. Each picture had a handwritten message:
And the picture of me with the bullseye had three words written on the back…
Ryan’s face still showed his horror and his fingers were unsteady as he started to open up one of the boxes addressed to him. I heard him gasp in shock again. Inside the box was a brown plush teddy bear that had a big gash down the front of its chest and some of the white stuffing was sticking out. There was tape across the opening. The note inside the box read “I’m broken-hearted without you.”
The other boxes had the same handwriting on them. Ryan didn’t touch them. He shoved it all back into the garbage bag.
I was shaking but I still had my mental faculties. “Ryan, don’t throw any of that away. We’ll need all of that for court.”
In total there were four packages, seventeen pictures, three threatening letters, and nine greeting cards from her. She even included what appeared to be drops of blood in one of the cards.
Ryan quickly called his manager. “David, I want private security immediately for Taryn. I want someone posted inside her business during working hours and I want someone to escort her anywhere she has to go when I’m not with her. I’ll also be hiring a lawyer out here in Rhode Island.”
The only thing preventing us from both screaming was the knowledge that she was in police custody at that very moment.
The next morning, our schedule quickly shifted back to our normal routine, and I promised Ryan that I wouldn’t leave the building. I handed him a to-go cup of coffee and kissed him goodbye in the hallway. Mike shielded Ryan as he climbed into the back seat of the car sent to deliver him safely to the set, and the paparazzi were waiting to take his picture the minute he stepped out the door.
I was mentally preparing to open the pub back up for business and reviewing the precautions I needed to get in place before I unlocked the front door. Despite all the terrifying circumstances from yesterday, I also had a top-secret birthday party to plan.
“Hi, is this Matt?” I asked hesitantly, staring at the piece of paper that contained the phone number I stole from Ryan’s cell.
“Yeah? Who’s this?” he replied.
“My name is Taryn. Taryn Mitchell. Do you know who I am?” I didn’t know if Ryan’s friends kept tabs on the news.
“No. Should I?” he asked defensively.
“How can I say this without you hanging up on me. Are you near a computer?”
“What?” Matt questioned.
“Do you have access to a computer?” I asked again.
“Yeah. I’m sitting in front of one. Why?” he asked.
“Please go on the Internet and search my name.” I spelled my full name for him so he’d get it right.
“Awe, come on! Can’t you people just leave him alone?” Matt groaned.
I knew by his response that he found me.
“Matt, please, just listen to me. It’s really Taryn Mitchell calling you. Your long time friend Ryan is living with me in Rhode Island.”
“Bullshit!” he replied.
“No, for real. I am telling you the truth.”
“I’m not convinced, but I’m glad to see Ry’s got a smoking-hot girlfriend.”
“Thanks. I’ll take that as a compliment.”
I remembered a funny story Ryan told me about Matt. “Okay, how is this for convincing? Sitting under a car cover in his dad’s garage is a 2008 Shelby GT500, blue with silver stripes. You beg him every time you see him to let you drive it but he won’t let you because you have a habit of flipping cars. You’re the only guy he knows that could flip their mom’s station wagon.”
“Hah!” He laughed out loud. “Is he there? Let me talk to him!”
“You believe me now?” I chuckled. “No, he’s not. He is on set.” I explained that I wanted him and Scott to come to the surprise party.
I called Kelly next. I needed a devious plan to get the entire cast to my place for Ryan’s birthday. She said she’d get word to the director through Cal.
The last call I made, which I purposely saved for last, was to a lawyer in Providence.
“I have to be on set at that time, Honey, so you’ll have to go to the lawyer without me,” Ryan said w
hen he called me at lunchtime. “Unless you can change the appointment to another time when I can go?”
“No, that’s okay. I can go by myself. I’ll take care of it. The lawyer said that both of us don’t need to be there.”
“You won’t be going anywhere by yourself,” he stated with authority. “The Security Company is sending someone over now. They told me somebody should be there this afternoon. I’ll see you tonight.”
A few moments later the pub doorbell rang. I ran downstairs expecting to find an older, father type bodyguard, but instead there was a FedEx deliveryman at my door. He handed me a letter-size package addressed to Taryn L. Mitchell. It was from a bank in Sioux Falls, South Dakota.
I tore open the zip tape; inside was another envelope that contained a new platinum credit card with Taryn L. Mitchell, Shell-B Enterprises embossed on it. My face twisted in anger as I tossed the package onto the kitchen table. Ryan and I would definitely have a discussion about this one when he got home.
It was almost two o’clock when my doorbell rang again. This time there was an unbelievably gorgeous young man standing at my door. He was wearing a black leather jacket, blue jeans, and silver-rimmed Oakley sunglasses. He had Heath Ledger’s face and Vin Diesel’s body, with sandy blond hair. I was tempted to rub my eyes. Part of my brain was already burning in Hell.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Mitchell? I’m Kyle Trent, Protection Services.” He held his hand out to greet me.
“Hi. It’s nice to meet you. Come in. Please, call me Taryn.” I swallowed hard when he unzipped his jacket. The scent of his leather jacket and cologne permeated the air. I noticed that his chest was chiseled underneath his fitted black T-shirt and he was wearing a concealed pistol under his right armpit. Why couldn’t the Security Company send me an old guy? Holy shit, he’s young and gorgeous. This is not good.
We sat at the large table in the middle of the pub to have our first meeting. Kyle told me that he was a third degree black belt, a weapons specialist, and a trainer within his agency. I tried to stay engaged in the conversation, but my mind kept on wandering. I found myself staring at his lips.