The Wedding Band
Page 27
The parasites were already staking her out.
Banging on her door wouldn’t help the situation. The fast talking required to convince her to open it wasn’t something he wanted broadcast to millions of viewers, especially since it would drag her further into the limelight.
So he kept driving, circling back to his house, where he paced the library, scraping his hands through his hair until his scalp stung, rewatching the video until it was burned into his brain.
Em found him there at six. “What the hell? Have you been up all night?”
“Did you see it?” He charged at her.
She leaped back. “See what?”
“The thing. The video.” He sounded deranged even to himself. Over-caffeinated and strung out like a wire.
He made himself take a deep breath. “I went on a date with Christy, and it went sideways. Some idiot from TMZ showed up, and I assumed she called him—”
“Why would you assume that?”
“Because I’m an asshole,” he said, as if it needed explaining. “Her batshit roommate must’ve called them, but I didn’t think it through. I jumped the gun like I always do. And I left Christy on the sidewalk and drove away.”
Em nodded. “Okay, that’s bad. But it’s not stay-up-all-night bad. Just apologize, and she’ll get over it.”
“I don’t think so.” He dragged her to his desk and pushed her down in the chair. Then he hit Play.
“Oh,” she said. Then, “Oh shit, not her purse.” She sat back. “You are an asshole.”
“You gotta help me, Em. Her phone’s turned off. Or maybe it’s broken.” It had hit the street like everything else. “You gotta go to her house.”
“You go to her house. You’re the asshole.”
“I tried, but they’re staking her out.”
“Wait a while. By the time you’re done at the studio, they’ll have moved on.”
He shook his head. “I’m not going to the studio till I know she’s okay.”
“You’re going.” She stood up. “It’s hair and wardrobe today.”
“I don’t care.” He leaned his palms on the desk. “This is bad, Em. What if she . . . does something?”
Sympathy swam into Em’s eyes. “Kota, this is nothing like Charlie. Christy isn’t going to hurt herself over some stupid video on TMZ.”
“Are you sure? A hundred percent sure?”
“Ninety-nine point nine. But I’ll go, okay? If you promise to shower and get to the studio by seven, I’ll go.”
“Done.” He straightened. “Call me the minute you lay eyes on her.”
A SHARP RAP on the door startled Chris out of a doze on the couch and set off Tri’s big-dog bark.
“Shut up, Tri, it’s me,” Em yelled.
He hopped off the couch and made for the door. Chris followed, none too happy.
Pulling it open six inches, she started to tell Em to take a hike, but the pushy bitch bulldozed in, saying into her phone, “I’m eyeballing her right now. She’s fine. Get to work.” Then she hung up and shoved the phone in her pocket.
Chris raised her brows to her hairline.
“Kota’s been up all night,” said Em. “Agonizing. Watching that stupid video a thousand times.”
“What video?”
Em snorted a laugh. “He was afraid you offed yourself over it, but you haven’t even seen it.”
“Offed myself? It’s that bad?”
“You can imagine.”
Could she ever. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll skip it. Bye, now.”
“Since I’m here.”
Chris held up a hand. “Spare me, please. I haven’t had coffee yet.”
“Me either.”
“For Pete’s sake.” Chris stumped over to the pot and got busy. “If he was so worried,” she said over her shoulder, “why didn’t he come himself?”
“He did, but the paparazzi scared him away.”
“So they’re good for something.”
“He’s torturing himself.”
“He shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. If he’d waited five seconds, I would’ve told him it must’ve been Ray.”
Chris rested her forehead on the cabinet, tired and sad. But no longer mad. Anger had drained out overnight, leaving her empty.
Her heart, so full the day before, was hollow as a drum.
“Tell him I get it now,” she said. “I get why he can’t forgive me. Once someone proves they can’t be trusted with your heart . . .” She shook her head, forlorn. “It’s too late for Kota and me. We both screwed up, and it’s too late.”
“It’s not too late,” Em said. “What it is, is October. Kota always goes off the rails in October. Just wait till next week to make any big decisions, okay?”
Chris smiled, sadly. “You’re very loyal, Em. He’s lucky to have you. But Kota and me . . . we’re not the other half of each other’s happy couple.”
KOTA SCRATCHED HIS head. “She said what?”
“That you’re not the other half of each other’s happy couple.” Em plopped in his desk chair. “I’m just the messenger. If you don’t get it, ask her yourself.”
He threw up his hands. “I’m gonna have to, because you screwed everything up.”
She pointed a finger at him. “You’re getting a pass on that because you’ve been awake for two days.”
That was true. And ten hours in costume and makeup had only made him crankier.
He dragged a hand down his face. The knot in his stomach tied itself tighter. “I called, texted, e-mailed. She won’t answer. What am I gonna do?”
“Go to her house. Fuck TMZ.”
He laughed miserably. “If only it was just TMZ. You’re out of the loop.” He reached over and woke up his computer. “The whole story’s out. The wedding, the island, every-fucking-thing.”
Em clicked through half a dozen websites, making a face. “You’ve gotta admit this story has it all.”
Did it ever. A wrongly accused senator, an undercover reporter, a celebrity wedding, a private island, and a steamy affair involving a mega–movie star. Not to mention a messy breakup on the tarmac, a rapprochement, and, best of all, a public shaming.
But wait, there was more, because the woman at the center of the tale was the illegitimate daughter of a world-renowned journalist and a legendary entertainer.
Politics, sex, celebrity, depravity. There was something for everybody. The angles were infinite.
An alien spaceship landing in Times Square wouldn’t have the legs of this story.
“The irony is,” Em said, “if you hadn’t locked down Tana’s wedding, the Sentinel wouldn’t have snuck Christy inside in the first place, and this whole shit storm would never have hit.”
True enough. But the other side of the coin was that he’d never have met her. And nothing—certainly none of this bullshit—would ever make him regret that. Christy was the best thing to happen to him since Roy and Verna gave two troublemaking wiseasses a home.
He loved her, and if she slipped through his fingers, he’d regret it for the rest of his life.
There was only one thing to do.
“Call Tony,” he said. “Tell him to bring the Rover around.”
“Whoa, wait. She’ll be surrounded by now. You won’t be able to drive down her street.”
“Then I’ll walk.”
“They’ll mob you.”
“No, they won’t.” He smiled grimly. “I’ve got a secret weapon.”
KOTA PULLED OVER half a mile from Christy’s house, blocking a driveway. The Range Rover would probably get towed, but there was nowhere else to park. The media assholes had consumed every available inch.
As he stepped out, a TV van cruised past. The driver spotted him and hit the brakes, then a reporter leaped from the ba
ck, mic at the ready.
Kota gave him a come-on-over wave. Then he opened the back door and Cy hopped out, tail wagging, ready to buddy up to the guy.
Kota said, “Smile,” and Cy smiled. “Bark,” and Cy barked.
The reporter flung himself back into the van. The van patched out.
Kota scratched Cy’s ears. “Good job, buddy. I think the dude wet his pants.”
And he set out for Christy’s, his bodyguard trotting happily beside him.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
WITH THE SOUND-DEADENING headphones blocking out the commotion in the street, Chris felt strangely peaceful. Like she was underwater, or suspended in another dimension where no one could reach her and no problems could touch her.
Secluded in the bubble, it was easier not to think about Kota, about the plans she’d begun to make. Not big plans, not forever plans. But plans nonetheless.
And it was easier not to fume at Ray. She’d obviously spilled her guts for money and revenge. The resulting media blitz had plugged up Chris’s narrow road so completely that the cops had given up trying to disperse the crowd and begun diverting traffic.
But safe in the bubble, she could remind herself that it was only temporary. Kota wouldn’t feed the media frenzy. Neither would she. With a freezer full of frozen pizza, she wouldn’t have to open her door for a month.
By then, the press would have moved on to the next big scandal.
And she’d move on too, out of Cali-fucking-fornia. Maybe to Maine. Yes, Maine should be far enough away.
She’d find a nice place for Emma out in the countryside and buy a dilapidated farmhouse nearby. Once she restored it, she’d fill it with animals no one else wanted. The rejects. The halt and the lame.
And she’d live in peace and tranquility, with no chance of bumping into Kota at a traffic light.
Until then, she was stuck. She needed something to do besides nurse her broken heart. Something absorbing. Something meaningful.
Opening her laptop, she faced the document already up on her screen: Reporting Live from the War Zone, This Is Emma Case.
She deleted it.
Then she flinched, waiting for guilt to crush her like an anvil. Her finger hovered over Undo.
But seconds passed, and . . . no guilt. In fact, she felt lighter. As if a weight she’d borne for years had floated off her shoulders.
She closed her eyes, releasing the breath she’d held pinched in her lungs.
Someone else would write Emma’s story, someone more objective. Maybe Reed. He’d loved her—he still did—but he was a journalist to the marrow. He’d be evenhanded, analytical, while Chris could be neither where her mother was concerned.
She drew a deep, steady breath and opened her eyes. The screen before her was blank. Hers to fill with whatever moved her.
For a long, pregnant moment, she stared at the blinking cursor.
Then she began to type.
CHRISTY’S STREET WAS a scene from Kota’s own personal nightmare. News crews, spotlights, TV trucks with satellite dishes poking up like periscopes.
He paused in the shadow of a palm tree, taking in the chaos, and his blood ran cold. Charlie had lived just a few streets away, and Kota had seen his house surrounded just like this.
The memory turned his stomach.
Charlie was dead by then, beyond Kota’s help, but the press was stalking his aunt, who’d come from Vermont to pack up his things. She’d forgiven Charlie years before, the only family member who had, and for her kindness and grace, she’d been hounded by the press.
He’d seen the stark fear on her face that day, and fury had lit a fire in his breast that still burned bright.
He’d shouldered through the idiots and hustled her out of the house, driven her to the airport, and watched her leave L.A. in tears. Then he’d cleaned out Charlie’s house himself, a lonely, heartrending task. Penance for his own arrogance, and for the foolish pride that had set off the fatal chain of events.
Sure, he’d taken a stand against haters who wanted to divide the world into straights and gays, but he should have considered that others might pay the price for his actions.
Now Christy was paying for his latest blunder. Pinned down, probably scared shitless, she needed rescuing too.
So Kota did the one thing he never imagined he’d willingly do.
He stepped into the center ring of a full-blown media circus.
Sweat beaded his hairline and prickled his armpits. But his muscles responded to stress as they always did, going loose and limber, primed to react as required, to lift or carry or punch anybody who asked for it.
He’d rather not hit anyone tonight. It would only fuel the flame. But if that’s what it took to get to Christy, somebody was going down.
He arrowed straight for her house, and at first, no one noticed him. He was just another body in motion.
Then someone shouted, “Dakota!” Others took up the call. Every head swung his way, and the whole horde surged toward him.
This was no red-carpet event, where the media was leashed and fenced. It was a bloodthirsty battle for ratings and revenue, a full-on feeding frenzy.
They were the sharks; he was the meat.
But he wasn’t in it alone. As they closed in, waving their mics in his face, he said, “Smile,” and Cy smiled. “Bark,” and Cy barked.
Miraculously, a path opened before them, and Kota marched to the door unimpeded.
CHRIS FELT, MORE than heard, the fist pounding her door. It rattled the china like a minor earthquake, 3.1 on the Richter scale.
Tri blasted off the couch like he was shot from a cannon, barking insanely, scratching at the door. Chris pulled off her headphones.
It couldn’t be.
“Christy, open up!”
It was.
She tiptoed to the kitchen window, as if Kota could hear her sock feet over the pandemonium outside. She peeped through the curtain. Reporters formed a semicircle ten feet from her front door, shouting questions at Kota where he stood with Cy on the stoop.
One daring soul stepped forward. Kota said, “Bark,” and Cy barked. Chris smothered a laugh as the woman leaped back into line.
Then bam bam bam. “Christy, open the door!”
She opened it, but before he could steamroll her, she stepped outside and closed it behind her.
“Hello, Kota.” It felt like she was pushing her voice over gravel. Like she hadn’t spoken in a week.
He locked onto her eyes, dropped his voice ten decibels, from a roar to a murmur. “Let’s take this inside.”
Sweat dampened her neck under the mass of her hair, but she crossed her arms and said coolly, “I’m good right here.” If he had something to say, let him say it in front of the cameras. That would keep it short and sweet.
He glowered down at her, all squints and hard angles. Lesser mortals would pee themselves.
But Chris was unmoved. “Did you want something, Kota? Or were you just out walking Cy?”
“We need to talk,” he muttered for her ears alone.
“I have nothing to say to you,” she said loud and clear. “But if you’re compelled to unburden yourself, I’m all ears.” She propped her shoulders against the door as if she had all night.
His jaw ticked. Flattening one palm beside her head, he dropped his voice even lower. “I’m sorry—”
“You’re sorry?” she repeated loudly. “For what?”
His eyes seared her. “You’re gonna make me do this out here?”
“You mean out here in front of the cameras? So TMZ can run the clip backwards and forwards, with their pithy asides?” She cocked her head. “Yeah, that’s what I mean.”
Color climbed his neck, then his face, all the way to his hairline.
That was a good start, but it was far from enough.
“I thought . . .” He paused and threw a glance over his shoulder at the mob. As one, they leaned forward, hanging on every word. He turned back to her, visibly girding his loins. “You know what I thought. I was wrong. And stupid, and cruel.”
She waited, not nearly satisfied.
“I’m sorry I left you. And I’m sorry about your purse. I didn’t know it would . . .” He did an exploding fist.
She waited.
He pushed his fingers through his hair. The torment on his face plucked at her heartstrings.
She ignored their sad song.
“Ma tore me a new one,” he went on. “Even Pops got into it. Sasha too. And Maddie.” He winced. “She’s got a tongue like a buzz saw.”
Chris smirked, recalling their conversation on the plane. “Still think you can have her whenever you want?”
He went redder, probably picturing Adam’s reaction when he heard that on TV. “The point is,” he said quickly, “I know I was an asshole, and I’m sorry. I’ll never do it again.”
She waited.
“Forgive me?” He tried to sell it with a charming smile.
She wasn’t buying. “Forgive you for ditching me? Or for doubting me?”
“For ditching you. I’m not apologizing for doubting you. It’s not like I don’t have reason.”
Her heart sank. “Then I guess we’re done here.” She put her hand on the knob.
He covered it with his. “Not so fast.” His eyes glinted. “You wanted to do this out here. Let’s do it. Let’s talk about trust. Let’s talk about lies.”
She faced him. “I paid the price. I apologized. You forgave me.”
“No, I fucked you.”
She gasped. Heat swept her skin like a blowtorch. She tried to flee inside, but he held the knob fast.
“I fucked you because I couldn’t help myself.” He crowded her, invading her space. “I couldn’t help myself because I love you.”
She gasped again.
“Is that what you want?” he said. “A public declaration? You’ve got it. I love you.” He said it loud and clear.