Until Porsche giggled.
The giggle grew louder, until Bentley was caught off guard by the simple sound of her sister laughing. When had she last heard that? She tried to remember, but she couldn’t. More to the point, though—why was she hearing it now?
Does my sister actually like this guy?
Porsche sighed, smiling at Whitey. “Oh my god. You’re insane. That was hilarious.”
Whitey pulled on a curl of her hair, as if they were both sixth graders. “Weirdo.” Then he began to laugh at her.
“If you two are finished . . .” Grunburg began.
Whitey waved him away. “We’re finished. It’s all good. Kidding, right, Grungeburg?”
Mercedes gasped, and the Royces laughed harder.
“Grunburg,” said Grunburg stiffly.
Whitey didn’t seem to be paying attention. “And you can call me Whitey, riiight? Everyone else does. Except my moms, but you don’t want to know what kinda names she calls me, unless you want me to start cussing in here, Iceberg—”
Jeff growled. “Grunburg.”
Whitey nodded and ran his fingers back and forth through his choppy blond hair until it stood straight up. “So you guys want to ask me some stuff?”
“Just a few questions,” Jeff said. “Like, why have dicks like us never heard of you?” The laugh track laughed—but this time none of the Royces joined in.
Pam looked like she didn’t know what to do. “If we could just get back to the folders—”
But Whitey stopped her. “Why haven’t you heard of me? You really want to go there?” Whitey sighed. “Because you’re old, Funbag.”
The laughter stopped.
“His name is Grunburg,” the Dirk said, finally. “Jeff Grunburg.”
“Can we actually get through this, boys?” Mercedes asked.
“All right.” Whitey shrugged. “You don’t know about me because my moms never wanted me to have anything to do with music. She made a deal with Pops that he wouldn’t bring home his job. Last year, though, Pops decided he was too old to run the label. He’s stepping down, and he wants me to step up. He and my moms want to see the world, do the things they never got to do while Pops was always in the studio. Our publicity clowns gave him some advice about transitioning and continuity and stability and all that shizz—”
“Oh right, that shizz,” Mercedes said, in spite of herself.
“And one of them suggested I needed a relationship,” Whitey went on. “He thought hooking up with someone like Porsche would do that for me.” He smiled at Porsche. “I mean, hey, I’m not complaining.”
Porsche looked away, hiding her lips behind her hand.
Jeff looked at Pam, who nodded.
“It’s true. He’s a story. He’s having a moment. He’s also the new face of Whiteboyz. He’s never even given an interview before. Think about that,” Pam said.
Mercedes already was. “So it’s a true whirlwind romance. Maybe even love at first sight. Stranger things have happened. Who are we to judge what goes on between two people?” She stared at Whitey, like an artist eyeing a bowl of fruit.
“Preach.” Whitey grinned.
“Porsche’s marrying a family friend. Someone who gets it, and gets us. With similar interests, both professionally and personally,” Mercedes said, trying out the line for the very first time.
Pam took notes. “I could make that work.”
“Perfect. So could I. Now, then,” Mercedes said, raising her voice, taking control of the room. “Here’s how we’re going to play it. Bent, you’re not losing a sister, you’re gaining a brother.”
“That’s a fresh take,” Jeff said. Mercedes glared at him. “Go on,” he said warily.
Pam was furiously taking notes.
Mercedes looked at the ceiling as she put it together. “You’re jealous at first, Bentley, because your beloved sister will be spending more time with her new fiancé than with you. So you’ll be acting out. As usual. Looking for attention.”
“Classic Bentley, at her finest,” Bent said.
Mercedes turned to Bach. “Bach, it’s harder for you. You’ve never had a father figure, you know.”
“Oh, I know.” Bach smiled. Bentley could tell by the way he held his arm that he was shuffling a deck of cards beneath the table.
“And you live in a world dominated by strong women.” Mercedes looked at him. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Bach protested.
“But Whitey will start doing manly, brotherly things with you. Courtside Lakers seats. Dodger Dugout Club. Guy stuff.” Jeff shot Bach a look.
“As opposed to gay stuff?” Bach raised an eyebrow.
To be fair, Jeff had never seemed to have a problem with Bach’s sexuality, excepting a brief phase when Jeff had wanted Bach to start an a cappella group “like that gay kid on Glee,” and had been disappointed to learn not all gay boys could sing. Jeff’s many competing biases against ugly people, fat people, old people—not to mention most women his own age—seemed to frame more of his thinking than any problem he might have with the LGBTQIA+ community. Jeff Grunburg was fine with all people of all races, genders, and sexualities, provided they were young, attractive, and painfully thin. That had always been Jeff’s idea of the LA melting pot: a world where all the realistic bits had melted right off.45
“Awesome,” Bach said, since there wasn’t much else he could say. “I love sweaty boys.”
“We like manly. Manly is money.” Jeff nodded, in spite of himself.
“I get it,” Bach said. “Sweaty boys with money.”
“Hey,” Whitey said. “You do you, bro.”
“This is touching.” Mercedes rolled her eyes. “Can we get back on track?”
“Absolutely.” Pam spoke up. “There’s a multi-episode arc we’ve been playing with about Whitey and Bach going go-karting in the Valley, if the sponsorship comes through.”
Bach raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know which part of that sentence was more disturbing. Go-karting or Valley.”
“I only heard sponsorship,” Jeff said. The room started to laugh. Mercedes glared, and Whitey offered Bach an air fist bump. Bach looked on, amused.
And the circus rolled forward.
The rest of the morning went on like that. Mercedes composed her daughter’s love story, while Jeff Grunburg raked Romeo over the coals. Mercedes pitched take after take on true love, while Jeff Grunburg tried time and again not to be dazzled.
They were formidable adversaries.
As the actual inquisition continued, the rest of the room turned over every detail of Whitey’s life: his spending habits (predictable), his hobbies (fitness, training, and fitness training), his vacations (Cabo for surfing, Iron Man Triathlons), his cars (imported, see spending habits), his wardrobe (flip-flop hip-hop, or in other words, the official uniform of Los Angeles), and his education (irrelevant).
Finally, Jeff checked his watch. “I have a golf meeting in a half hour. Can we cut to the chase, lovebirds? The bathing suit competition?”
“Excuse me?” Porsche said.
“The visuals. Let’s do the visuals,” he said.
It was the final humiliation in an already humiliating day. If Jeff Grunburg sounded petty, it was because he was. He didn’t lose gracefully, and Bentley was slowly beginning to realize that was what this meeting felt like to him. A loss. He really had been planning to cancel the show, and now it looked like the tide was turning against him. He didn’t know how to handle that—at least, he didn’t know how to handle it like an adult.46
“The visuals,” Jeff said again, snapping his fingers. “Get on with it.”
“Oh no,” Mercedes said, half under her breath. “You did not just go there.”
Bent looked at Bach. Bach shook his head. Whatever was coming, it wasn’t going to be good.
Grunburg gestured at Porsche and Whitey with one hand. “You. Yes, you. Stand up. Both of you. Show us your stuff. We need to see if it works.”
Por
sche stared in disbelief. She looked at her mother, who shrugged, disgusted. But Bentley already knew the answer. There was nothing anyone could do. There never was. If Jeff Grunburg wanted to do this, Jeff Grunburg got to do it. Twenty million dollars in debt and a factory in Shenzhen said he got to do it.
Bentley felt like throwing up.
Porsche stood, slowly, holding her hand out for Whitey. He took it, pulling himself up next to her while the room watched in silence.
“There,” Porsche said. “Is that enough? Are you happy?”
“Does he make her look . . . bigger?” Grunburg glanced around the table, ignoring Porsche. “Do you see it? Anyone?” The room was silent. Big was the nastiest insult anyone ever said about anyone in this town, or this room.
“Excuse me?” Porsche trembled, outraged.
“You know, a little chunky. Maybe here, and down here?” Grunburg gestured awkwardly to his own hips. “You know. Like a big girl.”
As the word hung in the air, Porsche looked like she was actually going to lunge at him. For a moment, Bent considered attacking the guy herself. Even Whitey now had an arm around Porsche’s waist, looking like he was physically holding her back.
“I think they look fabulous,” Mercedes spoke up. “And I think you’ve had your fun, Jeff. Let’s move on.”
It was a threat, and Grunburg heard it. He looked across the room at her.
Make me. That was the look on his face as he went on.
“Could you spin around, hon? Give us the view from behind? Think of the last royal wedding, you’re competing with what was her name? Pippi? We’ve got to make sure you’ve got the junk in the trunk, you know, the gear from the rear.”
The man was Satan.47
Porsche’s face turned white and then red. Whitey was even redder. Mercedes’s hands had tightened into fists. Bach was still as a ghost.
But it was Bentley who finally launched herself at Jeff Grunburg. “YOU—WORTHLESS—ASS!” She thrashed toward him. “THAT’S—MY—SISTER!”
Before Bent could reach him, though, she found a solid, bandanna’d mass in her way. “Sit down, li’l mama. I got this.”
And with that, T. Wilson White turned and punched the top exec of the Lifespan Network in the face, so hard his chair toppled over backward.48 In that one moment, Whitey became the single most (secretly) popular person in the room.49
Maybe even the company.
“You really are an asshole, Dickburg.” It was a historic moment, and one that would grow with every retelling. But that wasn’t what mattered.
What mattered was that when Porsche Royce pulled her fiancé in for a kiss—moments before he was ultimately kicked out of the building by security—it was the realest thing anyone in the room had ever seen.
It made Bentley think of Rolling with the Royces: RELATABLE.
So that was it. That was the big moment. The first moment Porsche Royce was crushing on her fake fiancé. And the first moment any of the Royces believed they could be renewed for a sixth season. Either way, there was no turning back now.
This ship had sailed, and there went the bride.
* * *
43 Jeff & I would also like to see these stats, if we do end up tracking them down. —D
44 Per Jeff: he’s filed paperwork to trademark his name for that rush: “the shark bite.” He’d like you to include here, if possible. (His lawyers will contact you for remittance.) —D
45 Can they do that now? Like Coolsculpting, but with heat? Will have to ask my guy! —D
46 Per JG: “Or he was just doing his job.” —D
47 Per JG: “Or the head of a network?” —D
48 Per JG: “Reports of this incident are greatly exaggerated.” He’d prefer you stick to the facts (his version). —D
49 Per JG: “*$#@!^&*%$#” (Per Dirk: I’m staying out of this one!) —D
ROLLING WITH THE
ROYCES SEASON SIX: LIGHTS, CAMERA, REALITY!
Eight
SECOND CHANCES
August 2017
Trousdale Park Gated Community, Beverly Hills
(North of Sunset, off Benedict Canyon)
“Big news coming from the Royce fam! Don’t miss out! Heart-heart-heart.” Bent tweeted the words as she spoke them, then tossed her phone down next to the chessboard. “Oh my god, I think I just threw up a little in the back of my throat.”
“Big news?” Bach looked up. “There is?”
Bent sighed. “There better be. Porsche and Whitey should just announce it already. The engagement.”
“Why? What do you care?”
“The sooner they announce, the less time the network has to cancel us.” All signs were pointing to the engagement story line having saved the day, but they still hadn’t gotten the official green light from the network.
“Wait a sec. Rewind. Since when do you want us to not get canceled?” Bach stared at his sister in disbelief.
“I dunno.” Bentley shrugged. “Since now, I guess. Things change.”
Bach eyed her suspiciously—but his phone chimed, and he looked down to check it. “Uh-oh. Hold that thought. Jeff wants to talk to us.” He took a breath. “All of us.”
“Talk? His jaw must be getting better.” They smiled at each other, despite everything.50
“Guess so. Either way, looks like they’ve made up their mind,” Bach said. He held out his hand and pulled his sister to her feet.
“Either way, looks like we better run,” Bentley said, grabbing her bag.
“Why?”
“Beat Porsche to the car before she can get behind the wheel.”
He nodded. “I like your thinking.”
“You know me. Three steps ahead,” Bent said as they took off running.
Jeff Grunburg looked up from the hot-lunch line at Tallulah’s summer school, where he was talking on the phone wearing plastic gloves. Felicity, Tallulah’s nanny, was scooping kale salad for the students, while Dirk, who Bentley had come to think of as Jeff’s nanny, was handing out orange wedges. A sign directly overhead read PARENT VOLUNTEERS ONLY—PLEASE DO NOT SEND FAMILY EMPLOYEES TO HOT-LUNCH LINE.
Tallulah sat between Felicity and Dirk, looking bored as she stirred the massive trough of FRanch51 dressing in front of her.
“He’s on the phone,” she said as they walked up. “But you can have some kale salad if you want.”
Jeff motioned to the Royces before covering the phone. “Give me one sec.”
“Of course,” Mercedes said. “So obnoxious,” she whispered.
“You realize there’s probably no one on the other end of that call,” Bach said in a low voice.
Bentley laughed nervously, watching as Porsche and Whitey huddled together, whispering like they were here on a playdate. They weren’t focused on anyone but each other, as if whatever decision Jeff Grunburg held for all of them wouldn’t forever change their lives as much as anyone else’s.
Which it would.
Lippies and Shenzhen and Fake Weddings and all.
But Porsche seemed strangely calm about the whole thing—while Bentley was holding her breath. She tried not to think about it as she waited with Mercedes.
Bach had taken a seat crammed in next to Tallulah with his cards, and was already teaching her how to play Texas Hold’em.
Jeff finished his phone conversation as if the Royces weren’t there.
“You can go tell DiosGlobale to screw themselves. We’re not giving them new numbers. They may be our parent company, but they’re not our parents. Grandpa CEO can go . . . You know what Grandpa CEO can do. You tell him that for me. Better yet, do it to him.”
He clicked off, looking annoyed. Then he glanced up at Bentley, almost surprised, as if he were only just now remembering that they were there.
“Congrats, kid. You got it. You’ve been renewed.”
“Really?” Bentley broke into a smile, in spite of the fact that the person she was smiling at was Jeff Grunburg.
“Of course we’ve been renewed,” Mer
cedes snapped. “The new season is brilliant. I just don’t know why we had to be dragged down to Brentwood to be given this information.” The 405 freeway divided the west and east sides of the city; during certain times of day it would have been faster to cross the Mississippi River on a sapling raft. The most passive-aggressive thing someone could do was demand that you attempt that passage unnecessarily. As Jeff knew.
Message received, Bent thought. You may be renewed, but I’m still the boss.
Jeff smiled generously, ignoring Mercedes. “Between the wedding story line and the Bentley Royce train wreck, how could we say no?” He nodded at Bent. “Wreck yourself before you check yourself. I like the new Bentley.”
Mercedes rolled her eyes, but Bent could tell how relieved she was. Porsche and Whitey smiled at each other, confident and calm, as if they’d never had any doubts. Neither Bach nor Tallulah looked up from their card game.
But Jeff kept going. Seeing Bach there with his daughter seemed to have reminded him of something else. “Just one more thing—Bach and the gambling.”
All three Royce women stared.
“I know we were staying off it, but now I think we should let it roll. Play up Bach’s addiction. Get a little edge in there. It’s a big problem among American teens—”
“No,” Mercedes said. “No deal.”
“Forget it,” Bent said fiercely. “Bach is off-limits.”
“Why?” Bach said, finally giving up on his game. “If Bentley can throw herself to the feeding frenzy the way she has lately, why should it be any different for me? I mean, Porsche’s marrying a guy. Mercedes offed a—”
“Don’t!” Jeff and Mercedes said, in almost perfect unison.
Bach shrugged. “Seriously. What have I done for the show?”
“Bach,” Bentley started.
He began to pick up cards from the table. “And don’t say I’m the good one. Don’t say I’m the cute gay brother. That’s so condescending.”
Nobody said anything—except Jeff.
“I agree. Bach’s right. I’m not going to let you keep him sidelined because of your own homophobia.” Jeff grinned smugly and let a hand fall on Bach’s shoulder. “I’m an LG . . . B . . . TZ . . . B . . .”52
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