Royce Rolls

by Margaret Stohl

  And things had quickly gotten easier after that; the prying eyes had kept their distance once it became clear that the Roycers were sympathetic to the rehab story line. Blurry photos on the way in and out of the meeting were okay, at least in the eyes of the fandom; stolen spy shots from the front row were not.

  Still, the Royce sisters kept going, if only for different reasons. Porsche liked to talk, and Bentley liked to listen. It didn’t hurt, either, that half the words out of Lawrence’s handsome mouth could also be read on the inspirational posters that plastered the walls of the meeting room.

  Today, as they hurried to the door of the building, the paparazzi watched with more interest than usual. It was only Whitey who waved at the cameras now.

  “Whitey,” Porsche warned. “Not here. Not yet.”

  “What?” He sounded annoyed. This was only his second meeting, and he didn’t know the ropes that well.

  “Don’t encourage them. Not until we announce our engagement,” Porsche said.

  “She’s right,” Bent said, annoyed.

  “Aw, I’m just messin’ around, darlin’.” Whitey pulled his fiancé and sister-in-law in for a photo, zipping open his Adidas jacket.

  On his T-shirt was a hot-red Porsche, the sports car. He grinned and made the sign of the horns with either hand, next to the Royce girls’ heads.

  Porsche giggled. “You’re so bad.”

  Bentley glared. “Seriously?”

  The paparazzi went nuts, and any Royce AA protocols were instantly suspended.

  “DOES YOUR FRIEND HAVE A NAME, PORSCHE?”

  “WHO’S THE NEW GUY?”

  “YOU GOT A NAME, BRO?”

  “Whitey! Lifespan will kill you. You know that’s not allowed,” Bent said, pulling her sister away. Pam had been very clear—until the announcement, the Royces were to say nothing about Whitey, confirm no rumors, give up no information.

  As the three of them headed down into the basement of the building, the tall dark-skinned man (sporting a long-sleeve Heal the Bay T-shirt and the bone structure of a runway model) looked happy to see them. “Porsche! A vision as always! Hello, T.W. Glad you could join us again. And welcome back, B. One of these days we’re going to get your mother and brother to drop in.”

  “Hilarious.” Bentley kissed his cheek. “Looking good, Lawrence.” No one was allowed to call him Larry. That was his only rule.

  “What other people think of me is none of my business, B.” He smiled. Lucky for you, Bentley thought. It’s my whole life and my family’s whole business.

  Now the group leader drew his arm around her, kindly. “Tell me the headlines aren’t true, B?”

  “They never are, Lawrence.” She let him hug her. The last thing she needed was a lecture right now. “You know that.”

  “I do. Just keep coming to meetings.”

  Porsche smiled. “Hello, Lawrence.”

  “Hey.” Whitey nodded, next to her. “Just letting you know. It smells like crap in here.”

  “He’s right.” Porsche sniffed. “Cigarettes.” Sniff. “No, sweat.” Sniff, sniff. “Camel Lights and sweat.” She looked exasperated. “For goodness’ sake, can’t you get the smokers to stand by the back door? I can already feel my pores clogging. They’re, like, crying out all over my face.”

  Lawrence sighed. “Humility isn’t thinking less of yourself, Porsche. . . .”

  “Save it.” Porsche shoved him out of the way and stalked off toward the coffee table. Whitey lingered, hands jammed in his pockets. Like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.

  Bentley looked at Lawrence sympathetically. “. . . It’s thinking of yourself less.56 And you might as well give up on that one, Lawrence.”

  “Never.” He smiled charitably, even now. “God is your copilot. Yours, mine, and Porsche’s.”

  “Actually, I’m her copilot now,” Whitey said, over his shoulder, with a wink.

  Bentley rolled her eyes and patted Lawrence’s back. “Believe me. If Porsche was god’s copilot, he’d switch seats or jump.”

  But there was no getting Lawrence to give up. Not even on Porsche. “We’re all here to surrender ourselves to a Higher Power.”

  “Yeah, that’s not gonna fly. Porsche’s self-esteem is steel-plated and sealed in Teflon. The thing’s airtight.” Bent rapped on his head. “Like a drum, Lawrence. Tighter than Mercedes’s post-op forehead.”

  Lawrence wobbled, and for a second Bent thought he was actually going to break character. But he sucked it all back in the moment the next broken-down former hippie producer stumbled up. “Brian! Are we keeping it simple?”

  She’d never rattle that AA composure.

  As Lawrence made it to the podium at the front of the room, Bentley followed her sister and Whitey to the very back.

  He beamed. “Are you ready to get started? Because if you want what you’ve never had, you’ve got to do what you’ve never done. Am I right? Everyone? Are you with me?”

  “Yes. . . .”

  “You know it. . . .”

  “We’re with you, Lawrence. . . .”

  The room mumbled and nodded. It was a stampede of mild positivity, Bentley thought. But it must have been enough, because Lawrence went with it.

  He cleared his throat. “My name is Lawrence, and I’m an alcoholic.”

  “Hi, Lawrence,” the room dutifully responded.

  Bentley and Porsche looked at their phones in unison. Two synchronized swimmers treading water in the shallow end. Forty-four minutes and counting.

  “Does anyone want to share?” As usual, Lawrence looked around the room. What happened next was less usual.

  Whitey stepped up to the mic, or rather, T. Wilson White, as he introduced himself. He looked nervous. “I’m not really sure what to say. I’ve never—”

  “Just say what you’re feeling, Tomas.” Lawrence was eating it up. He hadn’t had a first-timer step up to the plate in a while. “You can’t open the door to a better place if you don’t—”

  “Don’t what?” Whitey frowned.

  Lawrence looked distracted. “Put . . . put all your weight . . . on the handle.” He wasn’t used to being interrupted.

  “What handle?” Whitey looked confused.

  Lawrenced blushed. “Your handle, I mean. Your metaphorical handle.”

  “Whoa, dude, come on. Let’s leave my handle out of this.”

  Bent looked at Porsche, who was trying not to laugh.

  “No—I—you misunderstand—” Lawrence stammered. Even their unflappable group leader was flapping in the face of Whitey.

  “My handle? Like a trucker?” Whitey shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, man.”

  “Forget the handle. Just go on,” Lawrence said. Now he was sweating. He rubbed the sleeve of his T-shirt against his forehead. “And remember, first names only.”

  Whitey nodded, clearing his throat. He looked directly across the room to where the two Royce girls were sitting. “So, like I was saying, I don’t know—I’ve never done this before, but I met someone, and it’s important to her. I mean, it’s, like, one of her things, riiight? And she’s important to me—well, I mean, she’s going to be, I think, riiight—and so, yeah. I gotta push through it. Here I am.”

  Whitey’s laying it on thick today. Bent wondered why.

  “You’re taking the first steps.” Lawrence nodded. “Emotionally, you’re a toddler.”

  “I guess so, riiight? Seeing as I first-stepped all the way into this dump, didn’t I?” Whitey sighed. “This time around, it’s important.” He scratched his head, uncomfortably, or fake uncomfortably—it was impossible to tell. “She’s important, I mean.”

  His eyes moved across the room, stopping on the last row.

  “I don’t know, I tell you, she’s . . .” He made an exploding sound. “Blows my mind, L-Dog.”

  “It’s Lawrence,” Lawrence said, staring at Whitey as if he were speaking the meaning of life. “But go on.”

  “I love everythin
g about her, to be honest. From her fancy-pants business-lady lip-gloss line down to the fact that she still keeps her childhood teddy bear next to her vanity mirror. It’s adorable.” He shook his head incredulously, unable to believe his good luck.

  Bentley looked over at her sister. Porsche couldn’t take her eyes off Whitey. She was completely frozen, transfixed, deer-in-headlights–style—except this was LA, so the only things you saw in your headlights were more headlights.

  Had Porsche told him about not being able to let go of Binky the Bear? She never told anybody about that. Bentley had to consider the possibility that T. Wilson White represented more than just a business deal to her sister now—and that was a very troubling realization, even to the sister who was supposed to be the Troubled One.

  It was just too cruel. If Porsche was really starting to like the guy, she was doomed. Fake marriages produced by fake reality shows didn’t have the best track record, longevity-wise. Not compared to the longevity of a Shenzhen lip-gloss manufacturing plant.

  And twenty million dollars was a lot of track record.

  But it wasn’t just Porsche feeling it.

  As Lawrence pronounced him “committed” and “authentic,” Bentley watched while her future fake brother-in-law came and took his seat next to Porsche. Bentley noticed that her sister adjusted her position so that her arm brushed up against his—and he did the same.

  The way a couple sits.

  It was the strangest thing, seeing them together like that. Not talking, not looking at each other, but somehow still a couple.

  Though Bentley knew it was supposed to be fake, it didn’t look fake—not even here in this shabby basement of a room, the one place where there could be no cameras at all. It was . . . alarming.

  Very.

  Just then, Bentley’s phone vibrated loudly in her lap. The anonymous alcoholics around her all turned to see what the noise was about. She blushed a deep shade of red and grabbed for her purse.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, fumbling with her phone, “I thought I turned it off.”

  The meeting picked up where it left off, and Bentley was able to sneak a glance down at her screen.

  It was a message from Mrs. Reynolds, her high school English teacher. The subject read: YOUR REQUEST.

  Her heart began to race. She had asked Mrs. Reynolds for a college recommendation letter—but that had been long before everything—before Whitey—before the show got picked up again.

  Now here was the response. Bent wanted so badly to open the email right there and then, but she knew it wasn’t the time.

  There’s never going to be a time. You know that. You made your call. Quit whining about it.

  Delete and forget.

  Lawrence’s voice floated toward her from the front of the grungy room. “Happiness is appreciating what you have, not getting what you want, people. Say it with me.” Bent pressed a button and closed her eyes, losing herself in the mumbling crowd.

  Thirty minutes later, the three future in-laws stood together by the back door. Now the coffee cups were out and the cigarettes were lit, which meant freedom was at hand.

  “How is this worth it? You spend a whole hour every week with these people? Most of them look like they still live with moms and pops. I mean, I love my moms, but . . .” Whitey shook his head over a paper cup of bitter coffee that tasted like it had been brewed in a toaster, or maybe even a toilet.

  “You realize you’re the one who keeps mentioning your moms, right? Twice now?” Bent raised an eyebrow.

  Whitey held up his hand in a high five. “You got me. Every boy loves his moms, am I right?”

  “That’s three,” Bent said, leaving him hanging.

  “Whitey, there’s something you should know.” Porsche looked over her shoulder to where their fearless leader was chatting up a (hot) hot yoga instructor. “We don’t have a drinking problem. That isn’t why we come.”

  “Yeah?” Now Whitey looked interested. Porsche had yet to show him how things really worked at meetings—or more precisely, after them.

  Bent studied the alleged music mogul over a paper cup of her own. “Porsche’s right. It’s time. We can trust you. Walk us out, and we’ll show you, Whitey.” She clapped her hand on his back. His shoulder blades were sharp as knives.

  “If we don’t pass out from the smell first,” Porsche said, pinching her nose and making a face.

  “I hear you, Sugarplum.”57 He smiled at her. “You know, you’re pretty cute when you’re crabby.”

  Bent ignored both of them until she reached the door. “This is the payoff. Forty-five minutes of emo sharing, and this is what you get in return.”

  With that, she pushed the back door open dramatically. On the other side was nothing but an empty parking lot.

  WHITEBOYZ HEIR, SON OF RAZZ JAZZY WHITE: IS HE ROLLING WITH THE ROYCES NOW?

  AP: Santa Monica, California

  Via Celebcity.com

  Friends help friends stay sober—and from the look of it, celebrity sisters Bentley and Porsche Royce, stars of reality television’s long-running Rolling with the Royces, have made a new friend.

  Once again seen in the vicinity of their regular (if undisclosed) meeting of what appears to be a local Santa Monica–neighborhood Alcoholics Anonymous group, both girls appeared to be enjoying a quiet afternoon out with none other than mogul-in-the-making T. Wilson White, son of Razz Jazzy White, legendary founder of the Whiteboyz record label.

  Never one for the cameras, the White family, aside from Razz Jazzy, has made a point of staying out of the public eye. Until this year, T. Wilson White didn’t have a social media presence whatsoever. The Royce family less so; Bentley Royce, whose problem with teen addiction was briefly depicted on the show’s low-rated fifth season, has virtually grown up on television.

  Neither Royce had any comment on the appearance (other than the hand gesture the younger Royce made toward the paparazzi) excepting a cryptic tweet issued on the verified account of @PorscheRoyce:

  “ROYCERS: minds are like parachute pants. They only work when u know how 2 open them. XO @GetBent @BachRoyce @MercedesRoyce #RWTW6 #Lifespan”

  This meeting marked the eleven-month anniversary of the Royce sisters attending Alcoholics Anonymous.

  (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.

  * * *

  54 Per JG: No BooBoo! Never a BooBoo! Lifespan isn’t TLC! (Pls. revisit!) —D.

  55 I have that glow too, it’s from the La Mer product line, right? —D

  56 Per JG: Is humility aspirational enough for Lifespan? He isn’t sure, will kick it up the chain. Let’s stick a pin in that line. —D

  57 Per JG: Sugar is considered a drug in this community; could he call her PLUMMY PLUM instead? FRUITY PLUM? PEACHY PLUM? Or similar. —D

  Ten

  LOST TIME

  November 2017

  Santa Monica Public Library, Santa Monica

  “There ain’t nothin’ here.” Whitey looked out from the back basement door to the empty parking lot in front of them. It bordered the distant street, and there wasn’t a car in sight until you got all the way out to the black asphalt of the badly paved road.

  “Exactly,” Bentley said. “Also, nobody.”

  “See? No paparazzi. They’re all waiting for us on the other side of the building.” Porsche sounded like she was explaining the alphabet to a preschooler.

  Whitey grinned. “All right. I get it. Now what?”

  “Now? Lost time. We split up. Every Royce for herself.”

  “Hold on,” Whitey said, looking from one sister to the other. “You just take off? Every week? Where do you go? A bar? A club? A hotel? Somewhere naughty?”

  “That,” said Bentley, “is the first rule of Lost Time. You don’t get to ask, and we don’t have to answer.” Bent shoved on her Ray-Bans.58 “Okeydokey,
then. I’m off.”

  Porsche nodded, and they went their separate ways.

  Since nobody knew exactly when AA began and ended—given the essential coffee and smoking59 and mingling time on either end—Porsche and Bentley had developed a weekly routine for being Anonymous. Which is to say, they stretched the off-limits, off-camera “Meeting” time as long as they could, at least a good two hours.

  Because, as it turned out, there really was something more anonymous than AA. There was PPP. Plain Personal Privacy. This was the ritual. This was why they kept coming back.

  When Bent turned to look behind her this time, though, she saw that Porsche had paused at the intersection.

  Don’t do it, P.

  “Well? Don’t just stand there. Are you coming or what?” Porsche called back to Whitey, who looked like he didn’t know what to do. He grinned and raced to catch up with her. Bent shook her head.

  With a moment finally alone, Bentley opened the email from Mrs. Reynolds and smiled. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to delete it, no matter what Lawrence had preached to the group.

  Let me have my fantasy just a little while longer. It’s just mine. It’s almost the only thing I have left that’s just mine.

  And wasn’t that what PPP was all about?

  Once Bentley reached the street, it was only a quick turn down the sidewalk, past the parking lot, and straight into the side door of a neighboring gray concrete building. She couldn’t stop smiling.

  The Santa Monica Public Library,60 at Sixth and Santa Monica, was arguably the most architecturally significant space in the small seaside city. It was a sleek, modern fortress, though because it was in Santa Monica (Soviet Monica, according to Mercedes), the most homeless-friendly city in North America, it kept out nothing but the breeze.