None of this was helping. The main question still remained unanswered: Who would Mercedes boss around slash terrify, when and if RWTR wrapped?
Who besides the three of us?
Porsche’s future was no clearer. How would she promote Lippies by Porsche without the show? (Originally, she had wanted to call the line Lippsche by Porsche, pronounced Lipp-Shh!, but nobody could pronounce it. Other products they couldn’t pronounce? Clothesche by Porsche, her ready-to-wear line, and Yogsche by Porsche, her ready-to-sweat line.)
And Bach? Without the show to distract him, how long would it take her brother to get his butt kicked at every casino in North America, including all 479 Indian gaming operations? (Bent had googled it, just to be certain.)
To be honest, it was all so horrific to imagine that Bentley (like everyone else in her family) now tried to avoid doing so at any cost. Between Mercedes’s love of the spotlight and Porsche’s love of her product lines and Bach’s love of the poker table, free time was not something anyone in her family needed.
What they needed was a season-six renewal.
But as Bentley sat in the lobby of the Lifespan building—humiliated and rebuffed—in the back of her mind she was already starting to unravel.
She clicked her iPad off, hiding away the USC website, and shoved it deep into her bag. She was embarrassed that she’d even thought about it. Not to mention that she’d gone and told her crazy college escape plan to a perfect stranger.
No matter how perfect he seemed at the time.
She tried not to think about it again.
It—or him.
With everything going on, meeting a boy in the darkness of the Chateau Marmont seemed like something that had happened a whole lifetime ago. Asa was now even more out of reach than the dreams she had confessed to him.
And she couldn’t even think about college now. The family was in crisis, and as much as Bentley might personally want the family reality show to end, she did not want the family to end in reality.
Which is why it was so maddening to just sit here in the lobby while their future was being decided in the next room: Whether or not they would be canceled, after five straight seasons. Whether or not they would go off the air for the first time since Bentley was twelve and Bach was eleven. Whether or not their entire family was about to be fired . . .
She glanced at the door.
“Don’t even think about it,” a voice said. Dirk from Development31 (also known as the Dirk, in Bentley and Bach–speak) spoke without even looking up from his phone, on the other side of his desk. “Strict orders. No one in or out.”
The Dirk was blond and tanned and so healthy-looking, it was creepy.32 His eyes followed Jeff Grunburg desperately, at all times—as if the Dirk was somehow trapped underwater and Jeff was his only air tank. He seemed more enslaved-blond-robot-race than human,33 Bentley thought, and she tried not to look at it—er, him—when she didn’t have to.
Instead, Bent looked at Bach. “We have to do something,” Bent said again, as she had for days now.
“Yeah, well, you let me know when you come up with it.” As usual, Bach had his cards out, and his fingers were flying faster and faster as he shuffled. He’d dressed up for Lifespan just like his sisters, as much as he could, per Mercedes’s instructions. It was hard to know exactly what to wear to their first you’re-all-probably-fired meeting. Bent could see he’d gone with hipster layers—and a T-shirt that said LIBERATED. (Ha-ha. Very funny.)
She wished for the thousandth time that Lifespan had never decided to expand her brother’s appeal to the straight-teen-boy demographic (not to mention, to launch the RWTR line of branded card decks) by giving her brother poker for a hobby. If only they could have stuck with the whole MEET A CUTE BOY AT PRIDE arc . . .
If Bent could, she would roll back the tape and erase the day Bach had come home from school to find The Beginner’s Guide to Texas Hold’em left waiting on his bed. Jerks. It had taken only days for the Mulholland Hall Poker Club to spring to life at school. Now it was his fixed place in the social scene; all his friends played—gay or straight, cis or trans, hipster or hipless. That wasn’t the problem. The problems were the people he played against who were definitely not his friends—and the degree to which his fingers almost seemed to itch when they weren’t touching his cards.
As Bent watched her brother now, she tried not to think about those 479 Indian gaming facilities he had yet to play. And three times that many, if you count the whole country. . . . But that problem would have to wait, at least until she solved this one. Bent could tackle only one family crisis at a time.
I’m no Joelynne Wabash, she thought grimly.
“What?” Bach looked at her. “Why are you staring at me?”
“I’m not. It’s nothing. Just—they should have let us go in with them. That’s all.” Bent strained to see over the thick wall of frosted glass that separated the two rooms.
So Jeff Grunburg was in there. And the silver-haired man she recognized as Fred Tinker, chairman of the Lifespan board. And then Porsche, and Mercedes. Bent couldn’t make out the other heads, which was frustrating. Who are they, the ones deciding our fate? Who gave them that power? Why can’t it be us?
“That was never going to happen, you know that,” Bach said. His fingers paused. “You think we’re really going to get the ax?” For the first time, he actually sounded worried.
“Who’s getting the ax?” An old man, bent at the shoulders and slightly swarthy-looking, sat down in the white chair-cube next to them. He seemed to have come out of nowhere. Though the man’s face was as lined as an old stone, his shirt was white and crisp, and his tan linen jacket was pressed and neat. Above his jacket, his eyes were an improbable light blue, and his thin-lipped smile was encouraging. He looked friendly, almost familiar. Still, she cursed herself. Every alarm in her head was ringing. She should have known better than to have this conversation—any conversation, really—in the lobby of Lifespan.
“I’m sorry. Never mind. You two were talking. Don’t let me interrupt,” the man said. He pulled a pink ticket out of his pocket. His hand was shaking, and the ticket wagged in the air. “I’m just here looking for the fellow, you know . . .” He made a fist on top of his head, the universal sign for Dirk’s man-bun.34
“The Dirk.” Bent laughed in spite of herself. She looked up to find the lobby desk empty. The Dirk must have gone outside to tend to one of his many Twitter accounts.35
“He forgot to stamp this, and then the valet wanted thirty-eight dollars. Can you believe it? Thirty-eight US dollars. For parking a car.” The old man scoffed.
“He didn’t forget. The Dirk never stamps anyone. You have to be Tom Cruise to get a validation from him. Literally.” Bentley shook her head.36
“Oh yeah?” Bach grinned and slipped a book of validations out of his jacket pocket. “How many do you need?”
“Bach,” Bentley hissed.
“Where did you get that?” The man looked surprised.
Bach shrugged and tossed it to him. “I lifted it from the counter when Dirk was on the phone.”
The man looked interested. “So you’re a thief by profession?”
“More like a professional idiot,” Bent said.
“I was only messing with him,” Bach said. “The Dirk guards these things like they’re gold.”37
“Yes, I imagine so. Thirty-eight dollars’ worth of gold. I am forever in your debt,” the man said, counting out his stickers as he shook his head. His teeth were as white as his shirt when he smiled.
“No problem,” Bach said.
The old man stood to go. “You’ve missed one. An easy one. Black jack to red queen. There.” He pointed at Bach’s solitaire game. “It’s staring you right in the face.”
“You like cards?” Bach moved the jack of clubs to the queen of diamonds.
The man smiled. “I dabble in the occasional game of strategy. A poker man, myself.”
“Me too,” Bach said, dealing another ca
rd.
He nodded. “Then I have one piece of advice for you, my young friends. Never bet on the obvious.”
Bentley raised an eyebrow. “What do you bet on?”
The old man put his hat back on his head. She hadn’t realized he’d had one. “The inevitable,” he said.
“Which is?” Bent looked at him.
“It’s not about what’s already on the table. Anything but that. Those cards are already played.” His eyes glinted. “It’s the opposite. It’s about what’s waiting in the hand. What will be on the table three turns from now. The inevitable.”
“How do you know what’s going to happen three turns from now?” Bach asked.
“Simple. You can’t. Not unless you make it happen.”
Bent frowned. “So you cheat? That’s your advice for winning at cards?”
“Not winning. Playing. Taking control of the game, rather than getting played. Choosing your own cards, rather than accepting the ones you are dealt. It’s not the same thing.”
“Cheating works too,” Bach said with a grin.
“I suppose you’re right.” The man smiled back. “If you’re a scoundrel or a wastrel or a reprobate.” He shrugged. “No judgment. I’ve known a few.”
“I did choose my cards,” Bentley said. “I came up with a whole season’s worth of cards. Great cards—but the people I was playing with wouldn’t even listen to what I had to say.”
“They wouldn’t? Why not? Or should I say, Why, Bentley, Why?” The old man grinned.
Bentley turned red. “Very funny.”
Bach frowned at him. “You watch our show?”
“No. Of course not.” The hunched man smiled unapologetically. “All I care about are Luchadores.”
They stared.
“Mexican wrestling,” he said, trying again.
Bent and Bach exchanged a confused glance.
The man sighed. “Americans. That’s why I’m here. To get Lifespan to distribute more of it. But I know about your show. People talk. I read things. The internet, for example.”
“Right,” Bentley said. “Because the internet is where all the truth is kept.”
“I apologize. You were saying? The cards, in your hand?” The old man looked interested.
She shook her head. “I had ideas. Cards I could have played. But it doesn’t matter anymore. We’re probably getting the ax, remember?”
“You don’t need permission to play your cards, linda. They’re your cards. Nobody gets anything other than the cards they deserve, not by the end of the game,” the old man observed.
“So now you think we deserve to get sacked?” Bach looked depressed.
“That’s not what I said at all. And, speaking of cards . . .”
The old man pulled a worn business card out of his pocket and dropped it on the table. It landed neatly atop Bach’s discard pile. “That’s mine. In case you ever find yourself in need of validated parking. In Mexico City.” He smiled.
The old man picked up his hat. “For what it’s worth, I hope this ax of which you both speak falls on someone else.”
“Or how about, on no one at all?” Bentley asked.
“Nonsense. An ax always falls. And so it should.” He smiled. “Why else would we have axes? But of course, you are both far too young to know that.” He held up his parking ticket. “And too kind.” Then he nodded, straightened his hat, and was gone.
Bentley picked up the old man’s business card, straight out of the discard pile. It was handmade, just a white paper rectangle inked with the old man’s name and a phone number. It looked like he had used some kind of fountain pen. That was it.
“Congratulations, young Jedi,” Bach said. “You just got full-on Yoda’d.”
She thought about what the old man had said. What was the inevitable move, when it came to the Royce family?
Think three moves ahead. Bentley barely knew what was going to happen three episodes from now.
Nobody gets anything but the cards they deserve. Did she even have any cards?
Bent pulled off her jacket and stared more closely at the game in front of her. “Shut up and deal me in.”
Now she reconsidered her RWTR pitch for next season. Why had she thought the truth was the answer? Or the relatable? Since when was real reality anything anyone wanted to watch?
Maybe she had been going about this the wrong way. Maybe she had been trying to play the wrong cards. Maybe she had to rethink her entire strategy. Maybe she had more in her hand than she realized.
Slowly she began to formulate a plan.
Lifespan wanted Bad Bentley? They had no idea how Bad that Bentley could be.
Bent would give Jeff Grunburg the performance of her entire life.
No. More than that.
Bent would give Lifespan the performance of her entire series.
Because Bentley Royce now knew what she had to do. She had one hand around the proverbial Hermès leash, and even though Hope the (dead) Duck was (metaphorically) dangling, she refused to let go.
“You’re sure?” Bach looked at her.
The expression on her face was all the answer he needed.
He began to deal again, this time for both of them. Bent looked down at her freshly dealt hand. The answer suddenly seemed so obvious.
If I play my cards right, I can get my family renewed for another season and get the hell out of here.
Look out, world.
It was time to double down on Being Bentley.38
* * *
24 Jeff prefers the term “direct reports.” —D
25 Per JG: Think of it as an executive parking spot, only for asses. —D
26 Jeff feels this comment is sexist and suggests you replace “taller than he was” with “too tall.” Or similar. —D
27 Do not remind Jeff about his Fatty Liver. He gets really upset and then I have to spend hours rejiggering the proportions in his chia hemp mulberry amaranth mix! —D
28 Jeff seems skeptical that anyone feels differently? Delete as obvious? —D
29 It so is. Even vegan cobbs are the vegan cheesecakes of vegan salads! —D
30 Per JG: Has someone actually pitched this to Original Programming? Promising reboot potential, no? —D
31 I’m here! *Waves* So exciting! —D
32 Thank you! (Boot Camp five mornings a week on the beach! The boots really add to the burn, esp. when they fill with sand!) —D
33 It’s actually my sculpted bone structure—I get “hot robot” a lot. #genetics #thanksmom —D
34 Is that true? Adorable!!! —D
35 Shhhh! Can’t disappoint my fan base! —D
36 *coughs* Lin-Manuel Miranda, and I gave him an extra twenty mins. —D
37 Because they are. —D
38 Per JG: Poker circuit cameo? With Bach Royce limited-edition decks? Talk to Simran in Short-Form. —D
Six
TURNT UP
July 2017
Trousdale Park Gated Community, Beverly Hills
(North of Sunset, off Benedict Canyon)
Bentley hadn’t planned on working during hiatus, but if their renewal was on the line, it was time to #TURNITUP. It had been a month since she had made the decision to go full-on Breaking Bad Bentley, and by the time she got in the car on this particular hot July night, she felt like she was ready for battle.
Maybe it was the war paint plastered all over her face. Maybe it was the stranger-danger adrenaline coursing through her body. Maybe it was the head-to-toe Balenciaga leather armor, or the thigh-high leather stiletto boots. (The filmy pink gauze tutu that some stylist had selected for her to wear over all of the above wouldn’t be much help in the event of battle.) Either way, she had come to fight, and fight she would.
Bent slammed the door of Mercedes’s SUV, sat down on the plush seat, and turned to her perfectly made-up big sister. “Bad Bent, ready to roll.”
“Really? A tutu?” Bach looked at her in the rearview mirror. Driver Dan had the wheel (he was the Royce fam
ily driver; nobody knew his real name), and Bach had insisted on going along for the ride.
“Ask me if I care what’s on my body right now. Go on. Ask me,” Bent said.
Bach smiled and looked away. “That’s my girl.”
Bent turned to Porsche, who was still expertly applying lip liner. “Boi? Really? That’s the name of the club?”
“Yeah. So? What were you expecting?” Porsche looked amused.
“I dunno,” Bent admitted. The Death Star. Waterloo. Normandy Beach, Bentley thought. The Titanic.
Bentley Royce’s Last Stand.
“Hey, what are you looking at?” Porsche craned her neck to try to see what was on Bentley’s phone.
“Nothing,” Bent said, turning her phone facedown in her lap. “Let’s get this party started.”
Bent’s opening salvo came long before they got to the club itself, which was a nondescript building, painted black and white, with the silhouetted photo of a skateboarder stretching three stories high. She checked her watch. “Pull over. We can’t arrive before midnight.”
“Why? This is a vampire hangout?” Porsche, redoing her lip liner, already sounded bored.
“Now that I’ve finally looked at it, I can tell you the Bentley Bible is pretty strict on that point. Bentley Royce never shows her face anywhere until the party is peaking.”
“How does she know?” Bach asked from the front seat, trying not to laugh.
“Apparently she just does,” Bent said, staring out the window. “Maybe it’s a pack-animal thing. Like how wild wolves know wild wolf . . . stuff.”
“Look at you,” Bach said. “Bad Bentley’s a wild thing.”
“I get it.” Porsche nodded. “I like it.”
Ted knocked on the window, holding his handheld camera. Tonight, he and Jojo had followed in their own car. “Give me a count when you’re ready for us, guys.”
“I guess that’s it. Boi,” Porsche called up to the front seat, holding up her phone. “I’ll get the Snap vid.”
Royce Rolls Page 7