“And we are . . . rolling,” Bach said as Porsche swung her phone toward Bent.
Bent smacked her lips and started to open the door, then slammed it shut. “Wait.”
“What’s wrong?” Porsche asked.
“Selfies first,” Bent replied. “Almost forgot.” Bach laughed out loud.
“Excuse me?” Porsche raised an eyebrow. “You’re voluntarily posing for a picture?”
“Hey, I’m all about the follow-through—” Bent held up her phone and stuck out her trademarked tongue, while Porsche did her pout.
“Go you,” Porsche said, picking up her bag. “Leveling up your selfie game.”
“Remind me to give you your RWTR merit badge when we get home,” Bach said from up front.
“Oh, I’m just getting started.” Bent typed into her phone. “Adding location—on. There we go.”
“What?” Bach looked curious.
“Gotta give the paparazzi a chance to catch up.” Bent dropped her phone into her clutch, which was a Vuitton frog so tiny that it barely even held that much. “One more thing,” she said.
“Did you step in something?” Porsche looked concerned as Bentley grabbed one stiletto heel and began yanking on it.
“If that’s a new look, I’m not seeing it,” Bach said. “But it’s disturbing.”
“I’m going for drunken party girl train wreck, right? I mean, she is? Bentley?” Bent yanked harder.
Porsche looked amused. “That’s the general idea. So?”
“So Bentley needs a stagger, but I won’t remember to do it all night, and someone will catch on. Only one way to be certain.” Bent pulled as hard as she could—until the stiletto heel popped off. “There. Now she’ll walk like a drunken sailor.”
Bach was impressed, if still anxious. “Are you nuts?”
“Possibly, but I’m just going by the book here.”
“Who wrote that thing, LiLo herself?” He shook his head.
Even Porsche looked envious. “Yeah, really. The Porsche Bible really just has the color for my highlights, my sizes, and the names of my BT.” Porsche’s BT was her Beauty Team, whom Bentley and Bach privately referred to as the Death Eaters.
“I have to admit, it was all pretty inspired.” Bent reached for Teddy’s jacket, which hung over the seat in front of them. She grabbed a pack of Marlboro Lights.
“Gross,” Bach said.
“It’s not like I’m really going to smoke them. God, that would be so disgusting.” Bent tapped out a cigarette. “Anyways, this is LA, not New York—the Bentley Bible just says to light and hold.”
“This feels like act one of every teen movie ever.” Bach shook his head. “And I predict this will somehow end with me paying you to pretend to be my friend so I can become the most popular gay at John Hughes High.”
Porsche looked her sister up and down. “I almost feel a little queasy seeing this. It’s so not you, B.”
“It is now,” Bent said gamely. “The new me.”
“Next thing you know, you’ll be angling for the up-skirt shot,” Porsche said.
Bent turned red. “What? No. No way. That’s where I draw the line. The underwear stays on.”
Porsche shrugged, pulling a compact out of her bag. “I thought you were going for train wreck?” She checked her lip gloss again.
Bentley stared at her sister. She couldn’t tell if she was teasing or not, and Bent found herself wrestling with the impulse to open the door and run for it, as fast as she could—even with only the one heel. “That’s more like a train pileup.”
“Go big or go home. That’s what Mercedes would say.” Porsche shrugged. Bent knew Porsche was just goading her, but she also knew her sister had a point. Still. There was headline far, and there was headline too far.
Wasn’t there?
No, Mercedes would say. There isn’t.
“Forget it,” Bach said from the front seat. He was already unbuttoning his pants. “I’m wearing clean boxers. I’ll do it.”
Bentley and Porsche looked at him like he was insane.
“Not you! You’re the good one. The CGB! Don’t let her take you down with her!” Porsche looked at Bent. “No offense.”
“None taken.” Bent sighed, because her sister was right. “But, Bach, I think that’s the nicest bullet anyone’s ever almost taken for me.”
“You’re welcome.” Bach threw his jeans over his left shoulder, and then there he was. Sitting in the front seat in his polka-dot Italian silk boxers. Thank god the windows were tinted.
“I’ve got an idea,” Bent said.
Five minutes later, Porsche looked over her sister, studying her from head to toe. “Wow, you really are taking one for the team.”
Bentley took a breath. “Porsche, you still filming this?”
“Oh, right. Yep, here we go.” She raised her phone so that it stared straight at Bent.
“Oh my god, I’m sooooo drunk, you guys!” Bent grinned and lurched at her sister, who rolled down the window. (Bentley had never been that trashed, but she’d seen plenty. Between high school and Hollywood, she probably knew enough to administer a Breathalyzer with courtroom-admissible precision.)
Porsche was trying gamely not to laugh. “That must be Boi,” she said brightly. “Looks hoppin’.”
“Boi meet girl!” Bent burst into laughter. “Get it? The club is called Boi? And me, I’m a girl?”
“Got it,” Porsche said. She patted Bent’s head protectively. “You sure you’re up for this, cute thing?”
“LIPPYTIME!” Bentley said suddenly. “Mushy Melon me!” She puckered her lips. Might as well throw in a little product push, seeing as the failing family fortune depended on it.
“Musty Melon,” Porsche said, but still, she handed Bentley the gloss gratefully.
Bent sniffed it. “Ummm. Yuuuummmmmmmy.”
Porsche pinched her sister’s cheek. “Let’s do this.”
Bach covered his face in the front seat, and Bent couldn’t tell if he couldn’t bear to be seen or if he couldn’t bear to watch what was about to happen. Probably both.
Porsche ducked out of the car first, long legs unfolding in front of her. The noise swelled, both the screaming and the shouting of the paparazzi calling her by name, as it always did. The flashbulbs were blinding, almost deafening. Porsche turned back toward the car door. “Well? Are you coming?”
Well? Am I?
Bent hesitated. She thought of college: Would these pictures jeopardize her chances of being accepted? Would this be the headline that pushed her over the edge, the one that cost her a future shot, however far down the line, at four years of Royce-free freedom? It might, she knew that. If not this headline, then the next one, or the next. But she also knew it was a chance she had to be willing to take.
In the middle of her fake-drunk, single-shoe, cigarette-in-hand delirium, Bent had a moment of perfect clarity: tonight was a sacrifice, her sacrifice, and she had to make it. She had no choice. She had to have faith. It was now or never.
She could feel Bach looking at her (between his fingers) from the front seat—and Porsche watching from outside. She could even feel Mac and Teddy behind the cameras— and then the overwhelming energy of the crowd that had gathered around the car.
This is what you came to do. So do it.
Bent’s off-balance stilettos hit the pavement, teetering.
Turn it up, Royce.
She stood up, blinking in the light. She wore nothing but Bach’s boxers, one Balenciaga jacket, and one broken stiletto heel. She looked like a homeless person, or an idiot, or maybe a movie star.
Judging by the swelling roar of her name and the number of flashbulbs going off, it worked like a charm.
Bach shook his head. Porsche looked shocked. Driver Dan looked straight ahead as always. Ted and JoJo got it all on film.
Bentley held up the cigarette by her face, coughing. Then she took a step—and fell right over. The crowd roared, and she smiled at the asphalt.
She rolled
onto her back, staring up at the cameras and the streetlights and beyond that, the stars.
Judge me, she thought. Judge me and hate me and watch me and need me. I’m yours for as long as you want me.
Take that, Grunburg.
And then: If this doesn’t do the trick, nothing will.
Tallulah Kyong-Grunburg, wearing tie-dyed pajama bottoms and a Four Seasons Hualalai T-shirt—a hotel she had a particular soft spot for ever since she’d made a killing in chocolate eggs at the resort-wide Easter egg hunt, along with Judd Apatow’s youngest daughter’s friend’s youngest sister—checked her Tumblr feed and froze.
She picked up her cell phone and hit a rapid succession of buttons. The phone rang, echoing up the stairwell outside her room—which meant her father was downstairs watching Korean soap operas to try to fall asleep.39
His voice came through the receiver. “Go to bed, Lulu. Your mother wants you at your advanced origami tutorial in the morning before school tomorrow.”40
“Yeah, you know what origami is, Jeff? Folding freaking paper.”
Her father sighed on the other end of the line. “Lulu, I’m not getting in the middle of this. You know your mother says Stanford wants one of two things—”
“I know, I know. The bleeding edge and the obsolete. Google or the marimba. Or maybe a podcast about the marimba.”
“Exactly. Now tell me, what’s more obsolete than paper?”
Lulu rolled over on her Pratesi duvet. “So Justin Brammer learned how to beat paper out of tree bark for his application. Big deal. Marguerite Vendermeier built a whole boat. Am I suddenly going to have to grow a pair of sea legs, too?”
“Instead, how about you finally open the pamphlet about this Illuminated Manuscripts summer camp thing?41 Your mom wanted me to talk to you. It’s in Alexandria, but we could upgrade you all the way to Athens. Do you want to come downstairs for a face-to-face?”
“I’m good.” Tallulah waved him off, her eyes glued to the laptop perched on a pillow next to her. “Gotta run. Check out TMZ. I just sent you the link. You’re going to want to get in the middle of this. And you’re welcome.”
She hung up, turning her attention back to the headline that lit up the center of her screen, and smiled. Tallulah was always impressed when someone had enough sense to take her advice.
BAD BOI! BENTLEY ROYCE BOOTED FROM CLUB—IN BOXERS!
She reached for the open bag of Hint of Lime tortilla chips she kept under her bed, where a stash of carbs could remain safe from the prying eyes of that spy/babysitter she called an assistant. After twelve straight years of gluten-free, sugar-free, wheat-free, cruelty-free, GMO-free, joy-free, organic vegan living, smuggling junk food under her parents’ noses was her one remaining passion in life.42 (She wondered what Stanford would have to say about that.)
“Well played, Royce. Well played.” Tallulah stuffed another chip into her mouth and hit REFRESH. “I gotta admit, I didn’t know you had it in you.”
BENTLEY GETS BOOTED FROM BOI—
HOLLYWOOD HOTSPOT REJECTS ROYCE
AP: Beverly Hills, California
Via Celebcity.com
It looks like Bentley Royce is Hollywood’s latest Boi toy. The long-troubled teen reality star hit the club scene with her big sister, Porsche, last night.
Already stumbling on her way inside the celebrity hot spot, bad-girl Bentley could be seen partying from the moment the car pulled up near the entrance to the late-night venue off Sunset Strip.
Once inside the VIP area of the club, a popular haunt among young Hollywood’s A-listers, Bentley was said to be dancing on the tables before the night was done. Wearing only boxers and a leather jacket, it was unclear what look she was going for.
Porsche Royce, telling waiting photographers she had an audition in the early hours of the day, left well before the younger Royce. Bentley’s personal party showed no sign of stopping; when things reportedly got a little too out of hand, and management approached the wayward teen about cleaning up her act, an alleged altercation resulted in Bentley beating it out of the club.
Loyal little brother Bach Royce, the only son in the second-most-famous family of reality television, appeared to claim his sister at the end of the evening and see that she made it home. (Despite recent rumors about the youngest Royce sibling and the poker table—Bach Royce is the founding member of the Mulholland Hall School Poker Club—it’s clearly Bentley who remains the wildest child in the Royce family.)
The following tweet was issued by the verified account of @GetBent in the early hours of the morning.
“ROYCERS: ‘If everything seems under control youre just not going fast enough’—Mario Andretti @BachRoyce @PorscheRoyce @MercedesRoyce #RWTR6 #Lifespan”
(Disclosure: Celebcity is a fully owned subsidiary of the Lifespan Network, which is itself a fully owned subsidiary of DiosGlobale.)
Follow @celebcity for breaking details, or www.celebcity.com.
* * *
39 Jeff asks if you could swap out for “reviewing potential foreign market drama acquisitions,” or similar? —D
40 Recycled? (Jeff would like you to indicate in text.) We’re a green network! —D
41 Per JG: See Manuscripts Museum, Biblioteca Alexandrina, for more detail. Could be good for the Tallulah character. (Also for Tallulah.) —D
42 As you know, JG has begun AGGRESSIVE litigation vs. his home air purification system manufacturer re the removal of processed food smells along with any allergens, thus limiting his ability to parent effectively. Legal says to stick a pin in this chap. —D
Seven
THE TREATY OF MAGNA PORSCHE
July 2017
Trousdale Park Gated Community, Beverly Hills
(North of Sunset, off Benedict Canyon)
It was Saturday, and Bent was sitting up in bed, furiously typing on her laptop—at least she was, right up until the moment Porsche stormed in and pulled her lilac embroidered duvet and sheets clear off her. (They were, as Mercedes liked to brag, the same sheets made for the Queen of England, who was said to carry a single set from castle to castle in Louis Vuitton trunks, they were so expensive.)
“Go away, Porsche.” Bent clicked quickly out of her Word document and onto Celebcity.com.
Porsche pulled her sheets harder. “Where have you been the past few days? I’ve been trying to talk to you.”
“Nowhere.”
Project #TURNITUP seemed to be working. Two weeks, three boutique openings, one Vegas club birthday, three late nights in West Hollywood (and as many unflattering headlines) later, Bentley was crashing hard and burning harder.
At least, she was trying her best to.
@GetBent had more followers than ever.
She had guest DJ’d at Tricky Dick’s while slurring and calling every single band by the wrong name—which was an extra-tricky feat, considering it was Beatles Night.
She had walked down Rodeo Drive wearing a feather boa and dragging a tiny stuffed dog on one end of an Hermès leash. (Apparently Hermès leashes, especially ones covered with microscopic duck feathers, were more difficult to return than Mercedes had imagined.)
She had thrown up on the tram to the Getty Museum from the parking lot in front of a fifth-grade field trip. (To be honest, she had gone with fake vomit plan B, the old thermos of cream of tomato soup mixed with yogurt. The performance was Emmy worthy.)
She had hung out with her fancy relatives, including her cousin Royce Blakely (apparently Mercedes wasn’t the only Californian who believed in aspirational naming), whose dad was, like, a congressman or something. Royce was a nice guy, but his older brother Mason was pure trouble, and Bentley knew Mason would be up for primo partying. Still, she couldn’t even remember how she had gotten home, and that was after dumping shot after shot onto the bar floor. (Uber? Had to be.)
But after all that, frankly, Bentley Royce was exhausted.
Porsche stepped on Bach, who had been snoring peacefully on the carpet, his face wedged halfway beneath the p
ersonalized beanbag chair Bentley had kept since sixth grade.
“Ow,” Bach said, opening one eye.
Porsche pinched Bentley with one hand while kicking Bach with one foot.
“Wild night?” Porsche bent to pick up an empty can of cocktail peanuts, eyeing remnants of a late-night chess game scattered across the floor. She kicked Bach in the ribs again—yanking Bentley’s ear.
“What?” Bent groused again, slapping her laptop closed.
“Get in the car,” Porsche said. “Now.”
“Why?” Bent mumbled, and attempted to lie down instead. “It’s summer. I’m busy.”
“What she said.” Bach didn’t open his eyes.
“Well, change of plans. Now you’re going to get off your butts, both of you, and meet me in the garage.” Porsche raised her voice. “You too, Mercedes.”
Mercedes had stopped in the doorway behind them, next to Donielle, her Pilates instructor, who was following her out to the gym in the pool house, as she did every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday morning. “Why?” she asked.
“Why? Because I want you to meet someone. Get dressed.” Porsche went to open Bent’s closet. “Try to look decent. It’s important.”
“Wait! I’m up—” Bent tried to stop her sister, but it was too late.
Porsche slid the mirrored door open, revealing two obviously new bags of clothes from Ralph Lauren. “What’s with the Ralph, B? The whole preppy thing? You going rogue? I don’t think Pam would consider Ralph Lauren your approved wardrobe.”
“Which is why I’ve never worn any of it.” Bent tried her best to shrug it off. “I made some joke online, and they sent me some horrible samples. It’s nothing.”
Bach sat up, rubbing his head groggily. “Why are you still talking? Who are we meeting? Tell me it’s not a duck.”
“Maybach,” Mercedes warned.
“No. I’m not getting a pet.” Porsche cleared her throat. “Or maybe I am, I don’t know. I guess that depends on your definition.”
“What?” Bentley rubbed at last night’s eyeliner smudge.
Porsche took a breath, sitting down on the bed next to Bentley. The intimacy of the move startled Bent, who couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her sister in her bed.
Royce Rolls Page 8