by Robin Leaf
As he stared at her over the table, his once questioning expression became unreadable. After taking another sip of his beer, he smiled. “Tell me about your research.”
She smiled slightly. Without realizing, he offered an out: no revealing her past, a past she did not want to revisit. A past she did her best to repress for thirteen years.
“I first immersed myself in the pageant world. I traveled to various pageants as a spectator just observing. Understand that most of the moms are just what you described, loving, supportive mothers. However, some of the things I saw were awful, not quite the to the level I needed for my thesis, though. Moms resorting to bribery and threats to manipulate their daughters. Plus, I have a very hard time with little girls made up to look like vixens. There was this one girl, whose mom had called Bambi, which in and of itself should be considered child abuse…”
“Bambi? Really? How awful of a nickname,” mock horror dripping with sarcasm laced his interruption.
“Not a nickname… her real name was Bambi. And how she spelled it? B-A-M-B-E-E. With that name and that spelling, the kid was destined for air-headedness or a stripper pole.” Riley nearly choked on his drink, but she continued. “I really do believe in naming your kids for success. No girl named Bambee with two E’s at the end of her name will ever become a rocket scientist or win a Nobel prize.”
He guffawed and promptly covered his mouth, looking around to see if anyone noticed. “Wouldn’t know, but go on. Tell me your findings.”
“My research involved just observing the subculture. The moms focused on winning so much that they were willing to do anything to ensure success. I met one family who was in negotiations for a third $20,000 loan in as many years, all for their five year old. She had won one time when she was three, and once her mom got a taste of winning, the mom quit her job to pursue her daughter’s career. She actually believed they could make a go of it full time. The dad joined them on weekends during pageants, but the marriage was obviously strained. The daughter hadn’t won another pageant since her first win. I don’t think the parents spoke directly to each other the whole time I saw them together. I didn’t see them at the last few pageants and heard they were divorcing.”
“Wait,” he interrupted, “You mean they can make a living at this?”
“No. Not at all. If the child wins, usually a check is awarded, depending on the size of the competition. Age is also a factor in determining prize money. And with an average of one pageant per month, the moms delude themselves into believing that it can be a supplemental income. Really it’s barely enough to pay for more pageants.”
Finally the dinner came, but both were too engrossed in their conversation to begin eating right away. Vanessa motioned for a refill of her water glass.
“Wow, I didn’t know they could make money from this,” he said, cutting off a piece of chicken and lifting his fork to his mouth.
“Only if the kid wins. And again, it’s not enough to count on profiting from the wins. Sadly, it’s such a fickle business. It’s not like sports with an obvious measure of success. Kid plays well, kid wins. However, pageantry is based on too many out of control factors – costuming, staging, distractions, even the judges’ moods, it all factors in. And most of the girls don’t ask to do it. Name a three year old who tells her mom, ‘Mommy, I wanna be a pageant queen.’ Nope, it’s the mothers who sign them up for it. The younger ones compete because Mom said so. Sure, they like the dressing up, but the politics and the hours are horrendous. The older ones do it because it’s all they know how to do.
“Plus, the mothers. Ugh. They would make me so angry. I was only there to observe, so I couldn’t say anything, but some were certifiable. I was looking for a certain profile, but what I saw was sad. I saw a couple who were control freaks, never letting their kids rest. Contrast them with the permissive parents, the few who let their kids run all over them. Then there was the one who fed her four-year-old kid only carrots and celery. On the other side, one mother let her four year old snack on Pixy Sticks and Red Bull, then threatened her when the kid ran around crazy on a kiddy-crack high. Another smacked her kid across the face right in front of me just because the kid said she didn’t want to go on stage because her stomach hurt. Another mom physically attacked one of the pageant judges after the crowning of the winner, obviously not her daughter. Oh, and then there was the mom who forgot to put sunscreen on her two-year old. Poor baby blistered, and Mom made her compete anyway in a scratchy dress with a petticoat, kid screaming the whole time.
“The one mother-daughter duo who fit the profile I needed for my dissertation seemingly paraded her daughter around to get herself dates, like she was using the kid as bait. From what I witnessed and learned from interviews, the kid was never touched, but there is a laundry list of other questionable things the mother did. She allowed me to interview her daughter when I offered to pay her. It was very hard to keep my reactions neutral. I won’t bore you with the details. Let’s just say that although she didn’t do anything I could consider worthy of turning her into CPS, none of it was fun to experience. I was happy to end that leg of my research.”
She paused to take her first bite of food, noticing nothing but his curious eyes still glued to her.
Now it was he who reached for the drink to pause, as if carefully measuring his next move. “So what was it?” he asked.
Her fork froze midway to her mouth, and she stared, thrown off by his question.
She must have looked confused, so he asked, “Cheerleading? Acting? Cello?”
She replayed the last few sentences of her speech in her mind to see if she could figure out what he was asking. “Wait… what?”
“For you? What was it?” he repeated softly, eyes questioning again.
She steeled herself. “I don’t think I know what you’re asking.” Liar.
“Doesn’t take Bambee, the Nobel-prize-winning rocket scientist, to figure out you had a close, personal experience with a stage mom,” he gently explained. His eyes grew softer. “I’m guessing yours.” He paused, waiting for an answer. When she didn’t, he continued. “I mean, you mentioned an older brother, but, based on your passionate dedication to the topic, I doubt he was the object of your mother’s, to use your word, abuse?” He took a bite and chewed slowly, never taking his studying eyes off of her. “So, tell me, Vanessa, what was it?”
Rattled, she maintained eye contact with her plate, cutting her chicken into smaller and smaller pieces. “Again, Mr. Tate, we are crossing the lines set forth in our agreement.” She kept cutting, smaller and smaller pieces. “I deem this topic of conversation over. I more than adequately answered your question. Let’s finish our meal, please.”
She concentrated on eating, breathing between bites to keep from running from the table. She dared to peek at Riley. Just as she feared, he was watching her eat. A semi-smug smile crept up on his mouth and his eyes danced. Jackass knew he hit a sore spot. He was enjoying himself. He sat back in his seat with his glass, as his plate was already empty, and just watched her. She kept eating, but she felt him analyze her.
Abruptly, he leaned forward on his elbows, his expression turning serious. “I asked you to call me Riley. If we were really dating, we would be calling each other by our first names. All this ‘Dr. Taylor’ and ‘Mr. Tate’ stuff will give us away. At least when we are in public, could we please skip formalities and use our first names, Vanessa?”
She paused her fork halfway to her mouth and looked at Riley. The sound of her first name in his soothing, deeply rich voice softened her mounting panic. He held her gaze with his sparkling green eyes, so clear and seductive. All of a sudden, her desire to tell him about her past came to the surface again, but she knew that it was not an option. In order to maintain the professionalism she had promised herself she would keep, she could not, would not let her guard down. She was to uphold her strictly professional policy, no matter how charming or cute or sexy the man sitting across from her was. Not your type, Nessa. Not
your type. Damn, only the second day and I’m already threatening to blow this. Again. Dammit. Shame on me.
“Fine, Riley,” she responded, her voice a throaty whisper. Unrecognizable emotion flashed across his face. She cleared her throat and continued. “I think we should return to focusing on you. I can’t very well help you if I don’t know why you need me.”
“That’s the thing. I still don’t think I need you. I only agreed to this whole idea as a favor to Charles.”
“But Mr…” she smiled, “Riley.” He winked, but she continued. “Starting fights with people on the set? And leaving for three days with no word where you were? Showing up to the set drunk? Each one is a textbook cry for help. Charles described your behavior for the last month as ‘increasingly erratic.’”
His gaze broke hers, directing his line of vision to his plate. “I have never claimed to be the poster boy for normal behavior.”
“According to Charles, you never did any of these things before. So,” she reached across the table to lay her hand across his, restraining her reaction to the warm surge that shot up her arm at the contact with him. “That’s why I’m here. To see what IS normal for Riley Tate and return him to it.” She squeezed his hand to get his attention. His eyes slowly raised to hers. His expression was pained.
“There is no normal anymore.” His eyes clouded. Both the statement and his expression grabbed at her heart. She had to stop herself from jumping up from her seat to run around to his side of the table to wrap her arms around him in comfort. She also knew that this very public restaurant was not the place to continue this line of questioning.
“Dancing.” The word surprised her as much as it did him.
“Huh?” He asked after a few seconds of silence. “You want to go…”
“That’s what it was. With me. Growing up. Dancing.”
His eyes crinkled at the edges. “Glad it wasn’t the cello.” He smiled. “Always hated those cello-playing skanks.” He winked again. Damn the Devil and his wicked trick to put dimples on this sexy, hunk of burning stud!
NINE
They left the restaurant amid a flurry of camera flashes and calls of Riley’s name. Word apparently had leaked that he and a couple of B-listers were there, so the vultures, as Riley called them, seemed to be out in full force. Vanessa was not sure what to do, until Riley slid his hand into hers and led her calmly to the car already pulled up to the valet’s station. She kept her head down and her eyes toward Riley. He looked quickly in her direction and smiled shyly. His hand was warm, gentle and strong, and it became a little sweaty on the short trek from the restaurant’s entrance to the car. Those twenty seconds holding his hand felt very easy and natural, and they thrilled her and terrified her all at once. He helped her in the car, shut the door, and walked around the front to the driver’s side. She felt a little dizzy from the experience, knowing full well that it had everything to do with holding Riley’s hand.
As they drove away, she caught her breath. “You have to endure that every time you are out in public?” she asked, feeling quite overwhelmed, not acknowledging that it wasn’t solely because of the paparazzi.
He glanced toward her, serious expression on his face. “It’s part of the job. Are you okay?”
She studied his profile and noticed his jaw clench and release three or four times. “Yeah, but you aren’t.” She reached out with the intent to touch him and quickly retreated. “If you hate this so much, why do you go out?”
“I promised Charles. He says an actor needs to stay in the public’s mind to stay current.” He shot another glance her direction with slight smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Why do you feel so indebted to Charles?”
“He’s my friend.” Something in his quiet answer made her doubt his sincerity.
“Is he really? A friend would see how much you don’t enjoy this and wouldn’t ask you to torture yourself on a weekly basis.” She finally resorted to tucking her hands under her legs so it was easier to resist touching him.
“I love what I do.” He looked in her eyes briefly to punctuate his honesty. “The unpleasantness comes with the territory.”
“But does he really think that you have to do all this so often? Remember, he is not completely selfless in keeping you in the limelight. Because of you, he makes a lot of money.”
“Okay,” Riley said after a long moment’s silence, “here’s his reasoning. If a celebrity hides from the press and gets all ‘don’t invade my privacy,’ the vultures hound him more. Many celebrities get followed everywhere they go. Luckily, I am not stalked like some of my co-stars. Charles insists that staying visible lessens the chance of them digging through my garbage or hanging out at the end of my driveway. ”
“So Charles says.” Vanessa turned to look at Riley. “I’m just not so sure he has your absolute best interests at heart. I know he seems to care, but bottom line is he is protecting his investment.”
He stopped at a red light and faced her, gaze piercing through to her soul. “Well if protecting his investment led him to care enough to bring you to me, then I’m okay with it.”
She froze, confused, captured by his gaze, not sure if he was agreeing to therapy or suggesting something more.
She was vaguely aware of the buzz emanating from her purse, but she ignored it.
“So does that mean you are agreeing to therapy, Mr. Tate?” Awaiting his answer made her nervous. Wait, Nessa, are you nervous because you want him to say yes, or are you hoping he says no so you can be with him? Holy hell! She wanted to close her eyes to avoid the panic, but his eyes urged hers not to break contact.
Her phone signaled again. And a third time.
“I think you are wanted,” he said with a glint in his eye, and panic curled at her insides. Wait, you want me?
On cue, the phone sounded again. “Oh,” she smiled at herself. “I’m sorry, I know I said this is rude, but apparently this is urgent.” She dug for her phone and searched for the texts. “It might be my dad, or…” She read the first text. “Oh. My. God.” She read the second. “What the HELL?”
“Vanessa?” Riley questioned.
Ignoring his questioning with anger boiling, she read the third and fourth. “What the FUCK am I supposed to do now?”
“What’s wrong?” He pulled over the car and threw it in park, concern flooding his face.
“If he thinks he can just push me out . . . Where am I supposed to go? That lying sack of…”
“Vanessa!” he grabbed her hands. “Look at me.” She slowly focused on his face, breathing heavily. “Now, deep breaths like you do.” She followed his advice, not too panicked that she could not make note that he had noticed her habits. “There you go. Now, tell me, what is wrong.”
“What’s wrong? I’m homeless! That’s what’s wrong.” Anger welled. “Your FRIEND just kicked ME out of MY apartment. Says he needs to know WHERE to send MY stuff. Says you told him I wasn’t going to treat you and that he needs the place for an ‘important executive’ and I’m just being dismissed. Just like that. No discussion. No asking. No warning. Just takes it upon himself to box up my shit and kick me to the curb.”
“Wait, Charles? How can he kick you out of your apartment?” Riley’s calm tone and his gentle thumbs rubbing lazy circles on her hands were working to settle her down.
“I wasn’t supposed to tell you. He let me stay in the apartment his agency owns until our business was complete.”
A strange look flashed on Riley’s face. “You don’t have your own place?” His thumbs stopped and his hands went slack.
“I did, but I am scheduled on a flight back to Texas on Friday. I moved into his company apartment Monday so I could stay here for the month, and if you agreed to this whole setup, I would delay my flight until next month.” Anger filled her again. “Until HE found a more important tenant.” She pulled her hands away from his. “Dammit, that son of a bitch! What the hell do I do now? He says my stuff is already out of the apartment.” She han
ded him her phone so he could read the texts for himself.
She closed her eyes and breathed against the headrest as he read the texts on her phone and resorted to counting her breaths. After a few minutes, he placed the phone on her lap, careful not to touch her. She opened one eye to see his arms folded over the steering wheel and his head resting on his forearms. She rested her head back and closed her eyes again, trying to clear her mind.
Wordlessly, he put the car in drive and started down the street. She risked peeking at him occasionally, but his face revealed nothing. After about five minutes, he spoke. “Relax, it’ll all be handled when we get to the house. Don’t worry.”
“Easy to say when you’re not homeless.”
***
Once at Riley’s, he led her through the house out to the back patio and settled her in a lounge chair with a bottle of water, laying her purse and cell within arm’s reach. “Listening to the waves always relaxes me. Will you be okay for a few minutes while I change? We’ll figure something out when you’re calmer.”