by Emily Bishop
There it is…
I snatch it up and hold it closer, squinting. Why are these things always so dim, whether they’re positive or they’re negative? It’s never fast enough, and it’s never immediately clear… and it’s a plus sign. It’s definitely a plus sign.
I’m pregnant.
With the heir to seventeen billion pounds.
With the child of the sixth bachelor.
Holy shit.
***
I want to text him, but I know for a fact that Candace takes all the contestants’ cell phones at the door of the LA mansion. When the set was Blake’s property, of course, he could keep his phone. But this isn’t his property. She says it’s a security issue and that it’s mandatory, but Candace thinks everything is mandatory.
She told me not to come to the set for a while.
And I can’t call anyone with this message for him.
I’ll just have to wait and pray that he gets in touch with me first, then. Or I’ll snap and go to the studio. Because fuck Jared.
Even as I think it, I feel sick.
I comfort myself with endlessly searching for Blake Berringer and rifling through every blog, every picture, and every cheesy, virus-riddled article I find.
I learn from my efforts that Blake Berringer went to college at Oxford for anthropology. Just because, apparently.
He lived in Japan throughout his early-thirties, harnessing a temper problem that these articles seem to relish. He learned forms of martial arts which rely on harnessing chi and mimicking the flow of water. I get wet reading about it, imagining him as water between my thighs, spraying down on me. So soothing and strong. So Blake.
Then I find one called The Truth about Blake Berringer: Pregnancy Shocker, and I have to click it.
“Nina Klasky is no household name. But after dating billionaire heir Blake Berringer in 1998, she claimed to be pregnant and created a small blip in the media—because she immediately detracted the statement, which was disclosed to paparazzi outside of a nightclub in London. Klasky immediately—the next day—held a press conference, clarifying that she was not pregnant with the party boy Englishman’s child.
“When reached for comment, Blake Berringer replied, according to the UK Star, with: ‘What do I care if she’s pregnant? What does she want from me? I’m just over here, living.’ When followed by the question, ‘Do you want children?’ Berringer replied, ‘You mean, do I want some fat, crying sack bouncing on my lap? If I wanted that, I would’ve stayed with Nina.’”
I scoff and lightly shove the keyboard away from me.
I cannot believe him.
Calling children fat, crying sacks. Hell, calling his supermodel ex-girlfriend a fat, crying sack.
I mean, it was 1998, so he was all of eighteen years old. Every bit of the temperamental bad boy of Britain, the one who went off to Japan for reformation, he was so bad.
Then he came back and started building houses.
And pummeling paparazzi.
And fucking me.
What’s he going to do when I tell him I’m pregnant?
What will I do now that I’m pregnant?
***
I call the studio and ask if I can speak directly to Blake. When they laugh and ask me for my name before transferring me—followed by more laughter—I panic and hang up. I don’t want Candace to find out how desperate I am, and that’s all that would happen. They’d never let an outsider talk to a member of the cast. All the calls go through Candace. That’s the whole reason they confiscate phones.
She’d just end up calling me back personally and haranguing me, pestering me for being desperate and dick drunk. God forbid I actually tell her the reason I’m calling him.
I hang up the phone and stare down at it remorsefully.
Shouldn’t have called the studio.
Should’ve known better.
It lights up and vibrates in my hand. I scowl down at it.
PRIVATE CALLER.
I swipe and bring it to my ear. “It was just a prank call,” I explain.
“There’s my girl,” a familiar grating voice coos across the line.
My blood drains through the floorboards, I’m so cold and pale. My hand spasms and involuntarily pitches the phone onto the floor like it’s a shoe with a spider in it. My survival instinct is still so strong, and it knows that voice.
I can hear him talking through the receiver from here, but it’s slightly less terrifying, like there is a tiny man on my carpet. I creep over to it and fish the phone from the floor with two fingers and a crinkled nose.
He’s back in my life. After five fucking years, he’s back.
The last thing I hear, before forcefully pressing END CALL, is, “If I see you slutting it up with that limey cocksucker one more time, I will delight in stringing him up right in front—”
I don’t know how long I stare down at my phone.
The lock on the apartment door twists.
I unleash a bloodcurdling scream as the door falls away and Iggy emerges on the other side.
“Oh, my god,” Iggy breathes, just from looking at me. “What happened? Are you all right?”
The phone clatters down onto the ground. Iggy rushes forward and hugs me tight. My arms slowly fold around her, and I don’t cry. I just hyperventilate and tremble.
How did he get this number? How the hell did he get this number?
Chapter 9
Blake
My hand scoops up to cup her cheek, but she cringes away from me like I might hit her or something…
It’s long past two in the morning, and the entire LA mansion is dark and still, but I can’t sleep. I close my eyes, and Roxanne flutters to me in a soft blur, almost more personality than physique now. Yeah, I want to touch her. I want to wrap my arms around her and spoon her hard on the bed, occasionally pressing my erection between her ass cheeks to remind her that it’s there.
But I really just want to tell her about the past few days. I haven’t seen her in almost three weeks. Candace claims she’s still an employee, but I think I did get her fired. If she isn’t fired, then where is she?
And I’m bloody bored, too. Roxanne doesn’t know any of my stories from the past few weeks. How Miles already purchased a ticket to return to England because it’s “so loud here.” How I fell asleep during a conversation with Candace, and she slapped me awake. Roxanne was the only reason—
Silent, bright red lights start to flash in my room, and I jerk up into a sitting position, scowling. “If this is some plotted bullshit…” I mutter, tightening a sheet around my waist and lunging out of the bed.
I shuffle through the dark, push open my bedroom door, and charge out into the hall, which is also blinking red. So is the massive foyer ahead of me.
“What the bloody hell is going on?” I yell into the red-strobing darkness. “Is anyone even here right now?”
I hate the Billionaire Mansion, as everyone calls it. It’s too small, and I have no sense of space here, of privacy. There are always cameramen breathing down my throat, always producers wiggling through here like worker bees. So where is everyone now that the whole place is on the fritz?
“Hello?”
The front doors shove open, and Candace Madden enters with several men I don’t recognize. She’s wearing pajamas, even though I was led to believe she owned her own home and didn’t just perpetually live on-site. But I wonder. “Sweep the place,” Candace barks, and they go on her order.
“Candace,” I greet her, spreading my hands and tilting my head, like we’re seeing each other at a high school reunion. “You were right about loving America.”
“Stuff it, Blake,” Candace snaps, and I feign a wound. “You won’t think it’s funny if he…” She freezes and swallows, then shakes her head and forges on in a new direction. “There’s been a security breach. We’re going to have to…” She pulls a deep breath and steadies herself. “…put the set on lockdown until we can get an assessment of what exactly has been compromise
d.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I bellow. “What happened?”
“The building outside of the mansion—production over there, yoohoo, hello—” She waves toward the small nearby building through a shuttered window. “—had a, um, break-in. We’re still figuring it all out.”
The security detail return with no information, and they cross back to the other building, still scouring.
Leaving me standing, wearing nothing but a white sheet, in the red-blinking foyer.
Break-in.
Lockdown.
I scoff and shake my head.
There’s no way they’re keeping me here. Don’t they know anything about me?
***
After slipping on gray sweatpants and a white shirt, I exit Billionaire Mansion and stalk the fifty feet to the production area, which was originally probably intended as a large pool house. It’s easy to find Candace and the security team inside: I just have to follow the flurry of hysterical voices. “I don’t know,” Candace is repeatedly saying. “I don’t know. We’re going to have to call—”
I see them all standing in her office together. Several files paper her desk.
“Oh,” I say, almost laughing, “I thought you meant a real security breach.”
Candace glowers. “Hard copies are just as sensitive as our online records.” She grimaces then, glancing down at them. “Maybe even more so. Some of our files only exist in hard copy.”
I frown, uncertain about what she’s trying to tell me.
“So, what is all this stuff?”
Candace looks at one of the security men, then back at me. “Employee records,” she confesses. “Addresses, emergency contacts, bank accounts. And…uh…” Her voice trembles a little, and she clears her throat, righting it. “And Roxy’s ex-husband, Jared, has been calling the studio and threatening to do something like this.”
At first, I wonder if he has seen her file. The question goes through me without a sound, more like an instinct to fight than an actual thought, and all the blood rushes up into my head. I feel a little dizzy at the thought of Roxanne in danger. Where has she been these three weeks? The vertigo passes and clarity settles over me. I have to go to her now. She’ll stay here, close to me, and Candace will see the reason in it, because Candace does love Roxanne, deep down, doesn’t she?
I pluck her file up from the desk and scan for its address, but Candace snatches it from my hands before my eyes can find the line.
“No,” she snaps. “You’re not leaving here, and she’s not coming here.”
“You owe her that much,” I sneer. “It was your security staff that failed to protect her confidential information. Jared threatened to do this, and you didn’t think to increase security? Didn’t you take it seriously?”
“Me?!” Candace bellows at me. The security flanking her sides shrinks back. “You were the one who pulled her onto national television with you! After I told you that she had an abusive ex, a man she was running from. You knew that.”
I seethe, but no words come to mind. I can’t defend my decision. It was stupid. It was reckless and cocky, like the old me.
“Now we have to deal with this,” Candace continues as I simmer at her. “Put the set on lock-down. Air another stupid retrospective in its place. Extend our deadline another week or so. Jesus Christ, we’re so over budget.”
My brow furrows at the words. “How long am I going to be trapped, phoneless, fucking choking on cameramen and boom mics, in an LA McMansion?” I demand to know. “You sold me on the idea of an eight-week deadline! I’ve been here almost three weeks, and we’ve only covered one episode! It’s been seven bloody weeks!”
“Eight to twelve weeks,” she reminds me coyly. “A possibility of sixteen. Those were the details in the contract. Check the fine print. We pay you a bonus for it, Blake.”
“Pay me,” I scoff. I don’t give a shit about the money. “This is bullshit, Candace. What does filming have to do with Roxanne’s safety? Just bring her here!”
“This isn’t all about Roxanne,” she explains. “We have no idea which files were compromised.”
“We’ll need to completely reconfigure certain points of entry and passcodes,” one of the security men offer in Candace’s defense. I glower at him.
“And we’re going to contact all the employees, naturally, and confirm that they protect their identities,” another offers.
“Isn’t there an alarm going off in that giant camera lens you people call a mansion?” I demand of the security men, forming their little shield of stoic masculinity behind Candace. “Isn’t there anything else you need to be doing right now?”
Candace smirks, knowing I’m infuriated because I’m beat, and nods to the men, allowing them to address the alarm in the mansion. Even now, in this situation, she can’t help but be thrilled to be right.
After her security team has cleared from the office, and it’s just the two of us, she continues, “Look, Blake, it’s a process. You’re worried about Roxy. I’m worried about Roxy. We’re all worried about Roxy.”
“Just not enough to do anything.” I tuck my arms around my chest and exhale powerfully. “She’s just a makeup artist to you.”
Candace’s eyes lock to mine, and she slowly saunters around her desk, until we’re standing close enough to kiss. I’ve never noticed the blueness of her eyes until now.
“When I first met Roxanne, she was at the Second Chances women’s shelter, after running almost three hundred miles from Jared Epstein.” Candace’s voice is unusually gentle as she recalls meeting Roxanne. “She came to LA because she had one old friend—a girl named Pepper—who actually believed her story, and that was it. Her whole support network was a woman named Pepper. Everyone else was brainwashed by her husband. He was charming and strong at first, just like you. Almost intoxicating.”
I want to interject that I’m nothing like that man, because I know Candace believes me to be threatening, another alpha ready to peck Roxanne into place, but I don’t. I don’t say anything, because I know this story isn’t supposed to be about me. I let her finish.
“But it was because this high-power narcissist always needed everything—even his woman—to be perfect. He convinced her family and friends that she was mentally imbalanced whenever she displeased him. Painted her to be a total nymphomaniac and pathological liar. Even her parents, back in Ohio, still believe to this day that Jared Epstein is a loving husband, the victim of Roxy’s abandonment. Roxy’s. They believe Jared over their own daughter. And the Roxanne you know didn’t even exist yet. The Roxanne I first met was terrified of the world around her. She treated every man like a potential rapist. She cried constantly. Panic attacks. And I was there. I was there for that, before she was strong and stable Roxy.”
I nod, seeing Candace in a new light.
“I wasn’t hosting any shows back then. Roxy hadn’t even been certified to work in cosmetology. I took her into my home—my own personal home—for a year!” Her blue eyes go flat and ruthless again, and the Candace I’ve always seen first comes back out. “So, don’t tell me I don’t fucking care. I do. You don’t know me. You don’t even really know Roxanne. You just got here, Prince Charming.”
A begrudging respect for Candace dawns inside me, and I nod. “All right,” I give her. “All right, Candace. Of course you care.”
“But,” she continues, “Roxy isn’t the only thing I need to worry about. My job is at stake. I have a production team to answer to here. I can’t justify letting her live in this mansion, on set. Not in the middle of this gossip storm you two created. And it’s not just your girlfriend; it’s everything. We might totally shut down. I don’t know. The integrity of the entire show has been compromised.”
“Integrity of the show,” I repeat. “You think there is a chance that this isn’t Jared, specifically hunting for Roxanne’s home address?”
“That doesn’t matter,” Candace says, scooping the files into her hands and slowly reorganizing them. I kno
w she’s not focusing on that. She just wants me to get out of here, because I’m asking damn fine questions. “The producers actually don’t care about Roxanne. I’ll warn her. But that’s all I can do.”
“Where the hell is she?” I demand. “That’s all I need to know. The only makeup girl I’ve seen is the other one. Cindy.”
“Mandy,” Candace corrects me. She rolls her eyes, but then she mutters, “She’s had some time off coming her way for a while, and she took it.” She hesitates and leans closer. Before she speaks, she winces. “All right, asshole. She’s in an apartment in Hollywood called The Lofts at Sunset. Unit number two.” Candace swallows and nods at me, then looks away. “But you didn’t hear it from me. And if anyone catches you out, I don’t know anything about it. I’ll let you dangle in court.”
“The Lofts at Sunset, unit number two,” I echo softly, placing a hand on Candace’s shoulder and giving it a pat. “Never heard of it.”
I head to the door and slip out, then pause and glance back at Candace, now reorganizing her files in earnest, probably thankful to be rid of me. “And Candace?” I call to her.
“What?” she grunts, refusing to look.
“Thanks.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she grumbles.
***
The Lofts at Sunset sounds swanky, doesn’t it? I think of sunset and lofts, and I think of palm trees and kidney-shaped pools, flanked by talented actresses and screenwriters. But I’m wrong. The Lofts at Sunset is composed of cracked, lackluster cement, and the only plants are dying in the window boxes of the residents. Sirens echo from the north and the south, and I cringe as I consider the kind of security a place like this must have. I wonder if Jared did see her file. I wonder if the lock on Roxanne’s door even works, how quickly it might snap against brute force.
I gaze up at the lighted windows of The Lofts and then advance through the swinging glass door.
The Lofts have such low security that the front door doesn’t even have a doorknob. The lobby is nothing more than a couch and a set of stairs. It practically screams, “Come rob somebody!” There’s a thin wooden door on the first floor with a brass numeral 1.