by Kayley Cole
Call Anya Bowline a liar.
If she doesn't accept her own culpability in the situation… Anya's voice interjects.
There's no point in arguing with someone who is too blind to see their own faults.
Their criticisms roll around in my head, ricocheting against my skull. When they get tired, they settle at the bottom of my brain, marinating in the darkness.
"She's too blind to see her faults," I mutter. I'm going crazy. They'll pull me out of this apartment in a straitjacket, and the paparazzi will have a field day saying this is proof that I'm everything they say I am.
It takes me a few seconds to realize someone is knocking on the door. Jake doesn't knock, and my doorman knows better than to let any stranger in.
It has to be Marie. She's going to tear me apart for confronting Anya without talking to her. She may be barely five-feet tall, but it's half her job to eviscerate people with words. I've seen Jake beat down on a handful of people, and she still scares me more than he does.
I take small steps. The person doesn't knock again. Marie would knock every three seconds until there was nothing between us except her wrath.
I grab onto the doorknob and slowly swing the door open. Instead of a five-foot Marie, there's a nearly six-foot man standing in front of me with a shaved head and a tiny dimple.
"Would you look at me like that if I was wearing black and white stripes with a small patch that said 'inmate'?" he asks. He rocks on his heels, his hands clasped behind his back.
"You're the guy from the party."
"I am the guy from the party. And you are the girl from the party." He leans to the left, looking into my apartment. "Can I come in?"
"Then you'll be the guy in my house."
He moves his hands in front of him, revealing a paper bag. "I knew you'd be hard to bargain with— so I brought you Donnelly's donuts. One chocolate frosted with sprinkles, one glazed, one jelly filled, an apple fritter, and a bear claw."
"What if I hated donuts?"
"Nobody hates donuts. That would be insane."
I shrug. "You're right. Come on in."
As he steps in, it occurs to me how gilded my cage is. My apartment isn't that different from Ty LaVallee's six-bedroom mansion. I don't know how I reached this point of embellishment.
"You know everyone has a persona in Hollywood," he says as I lead him to the living room. "Anya Bowline's is based on being a philanthropist, on being knowledgeable about world events, on writing music that skims that line of being catchy enough to be pop perfection, but unique enough that you could get slapped for insinuating it's just pop music."
"So, you're a fan of Anya?" I sit down in my armchair.
"Who isn't?" he asks, sitting across from me on the couch. He gives me a small smile. "Her persona is based on being a legend. When they say legends never die, you should know that means they can't be taken down either."
"I'm not trying to take her down." I lean back. He offers the bag of donuts to me. I take the bear claw. "From the party, it sounded like you didn't like her."
"Oh, I don't. I said I was a fan of hers. She makes catchy music. But I don't like her as a person." He takes out the jelly donut, taking a bite out of it. Powder circles around his mouth. I take a bite out of the bear claw. It tastes perfectly fresh.
I swallow. "Listen, I don't need to be lectured about how much I've messed up. I know. My career is over."
"Not necessarily," he says. He leans back too, copying my body language. "Do you really think this is the first time that Anya has cut off a singer at the knees?"
"I've heard rumors about Jade Russo, but that was all because Jade flipped out, accusing Anya of going after her boyfriend and she called Anya a fraud."
"There was also Kama Corrin, who got into a feud with Anya about songwriting rights, and Natalie Cabral, who got into a feud with Anya because of an allegation that Natalie leaked Anya's album. But everyone ignored their side of the story. Jade could have been telling the truth. Kama did have songwriting rights. And there was never proof that Natalie leaked that album."
"There's no proof that Anya is at fault for any of those. That's all speculation from you."
"You're too good of a person, Miss Ellie Rue. I imagine that Anya saw that in you. You're terrible at fighting back. But with some help from Russo, Corrin, and Cabral, you might have a fighting chance. You could be like Charlie's Angels."
"And you'd be Charlie?"
"Or you could be." He takes another bite of his donut. I copy him. Despite his vengeful thoughts and his borderline stalking of me, he seems like a cool guy. "Come on. You might be a good person, but anyone would be dying to get justice by now."
"And why do you want to help me?"
"Because you're an enormously skilled musician. Your songs deserve to be shared, and your career shouldn't be railroaded because of Anya. If I'm being completely honest, I've been a bit infatuated with you since your first single."
He hums a few notes of 'Orphaned Emotions.'
"Oh, I'm gonna abandon these feelings," he sings my lyrics to me. "On the side of the road, on some broken pedestal, in a pensive parade I never wanted to be in/I'm gonna turn them all into orphans/I'll be a cruel mother, but it'll be better than being sorrow's champion. You are a goddess of words, Ellie. Who wouldn't fall in love with all that passion?”
I force a smile. I didn't expect this conversation to turn into one of those fan lovefests. It's never made me comfortable. The praise feels massively overstated, and it reminds me that since my name became well-known, I'm not just being judged on merit anymore. Everyone's preconceived notions of me are carried into every introduction.
"Thank you," I say. "I just wrote down what I felt."
He smiles back at me, a very fox-like smile from someone who is cunning and they know it. A predator that doesn't look vicious or terrifying.
"Honestly, I can't remember most of Anya's lyrics. I think she uses baby and oh, oh, oh a lot."
"She makes great music."
"You don't have to keep playing nice, Miss Rue.”
"I'm just being honest. She is a great singer and musician. It made me think she was a good person too. And maybe she is. Maybe she just doesn't like me."
"And Russo. And Corrin. And Cabral." He tilts his head. "We should go out for coffee. We can make a game plan. I know a place that we can sneak into. The owner is an expert at keeping paparazzi away."
"I don't even know your name."
"Come with me to get some coffee and you can learn it. I might even give you my last name too."
"Look, I'm wholeheartedly flattered. Everyone hates me right now and you're willing to fight for me. It's incredibly kind of you. But I can't go out with you."
"It sounds more like you won't than you can't," he says. He throws the last bite of his donut into his mouth. "Unless it's true that you're dating Jake Amberden still."
"That's not true," I say. "My life is just a mess right now. I don't want anybody else to be part of that."
"I'm a masochist. I don't have a problem with it."
I take another bite of the bear claw, chewing slowly. "It's not fair to you."
"I think I can decide what's fair to me."
"You're incredibly persistent."
"I'm that way in all areas of my life. I can be your charity case, and I'll be incredibly persistent in making you happy. We'll be so happy together, you'll forget all this other business. Go out with me. It's just one date."
"I'm sorry," I say. "I can't."
He stares at me for two seconds before abruptly standing up, his face contorting into a shape that reminds me of a bull. His hand is clinging to the paper bag so tightly, and I can see a small tear in it.
"Well, I guess a woman who refers to other women as prostitutes would be a prude. Good luck with your bullshit."
He reminds me more of an inmate now than he ever did in a costume. His teeth are bared as he bites off every word.
"She's going to burn you down to the ear
th, and it's going to be all your fault for being such a stuck-up bitch."
His foot hits the floor— like he's ready to throw a child's tantrum— and he pivots, storming away from me. I close my eyes, my body tensing before the door even slams shut.
I pick up my guitar again. Fire is still burning through me, but I can feel the water too, surrounding me, filling my lungs with water as I try to breathe. But I'm not going to let myself drown just because other people won't stop holding me underwater.
I’m going to scorch the earth and cause a downpour. I'm going to grow from the earth into the sky and become someone better than I was.
Chapter Eight
Jake
"Where have you been?" Ellie's possible father spits out as I step into his hotel room.
"Turn on any entertainment news channel and I'm sure you'll be able to see how busy I am," I snap. "Your so-called baby girl is going through a lot of shit right now, so don't get up in my ass for trying to take care of it."
He scowls, stomping over to the lavish living room. Everything is white or black in this room. If I couldn't see this man— this man that could be anybody— I'd think I'd stepped into a black-and-white world.
I pull a plastic-wrapped cotton swab and a baggie out of my pocket. "Swipe this cotton swab in your cheek and put it in the plastic bag."
He shakes his head. "No."
I shrug. "Then you're not getting any money."
"Come on, Jake. You rub shoulders with the elites. You know that the government can use DNA against people. And even if they aren't using DNA against their own people now, it would be easy enough for them to do it in the future. What if they find out I'm predisposed to have some kind of disease and decide to kill me, so they don't have to waste money on me?"
"That's insane."
"No, it's smart. They'd just be thinning the herd, but I'm not going to help them do it."
I stare at him. I've witnessed hundreds of actors to the point that I've gotten incredibly good at telling when someone is acting or not. This man seems to believe what he's saying.
That still doesn't mean he's Ellie's father.
"I need other evidence then," I say. "Prove to me you're her father. What's your favorite memory with Ellie?"
"Favorite memory? There's a lot of them. We went to the Denver Zoo three times and every single time, she'd rush to go see the lions and the meerkats. She was completely different ages each time, but she always loved those two animals. This one time for Christmas, we— her mother and I— bought her a swing set. She spent all day on it and part of the evening. I actually had to pick her up and bring her in. And then she could barely walk the next day because she had spent so much time pumping her legs on that swing. She… she's a great kid. I love her. I wish things were different."
All I can imagine is Ellie with her father this way. Being close to Ellie makes it harder for me to tell if this man is lying.
"Jake, I really need this money. I'm desperate, buddy."
"I'm not giving it to you until I'm certain you're Ellie's father."
"I could just take everything from this room and sell it. That would get me a lot of cash."
"It would get you sent straight to prison too. And you still won't get any money from me," I say. "You need to be patient a little longer."
"How much longer?"
"Three or four days.
"I'll give you two days. Otherwise, I'm going to the media, and I'm spilling the beans on everything."
"Three or four days," I repeat. He takes a step back, his gaze less certain now. "And I'll add five grand to what you need if you turn out to be her father."
He gives me a small nod. I spin around, leaving this bizarre, colorless room. As I slam the door shut, I take out my cell phone. I find the number I haven't called in over a year.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Andrew. How would you like to come to California?" I ask. I used to call him Drew, but that was before I found out he was stalking Ellie. He doesn't say anything. The only evidence that he's still on the phone is a faint hissing sound— like he has something cooking on a frying pan. "Andrew, are you there?"
"Why would I want to come to California?" he asks. "Does it have a better mental facility you and my sister can throw me in?"
"As much as I would love to throw you, there's a man claiming to be your father here and I need you to verify it for me, but if you do want to be sent to a better mental facility, then yes, there are better ones here."
I stop in front of an elevator shaft. The elevator says it's currently on the twenty-second floor. I take the stairs.
"My father?" Andrew snorts. "Why would he come to California?"
"Because he wants money."
"Oh. That does sound like him."
"I need you to get here quickly. I can pay someone with a private plane to fly you here if I can't book you a red-eye."
"You sound desperate."
"Yes. Desperate enough to beat your ass again."
"You're very bad at making an enticing deal, Jake. How about I'll come to California if you let me sleep in your mansion?"
I grit my teeth. It doesn't sound like any of his therapy has helped to cure him of this idea that he has to protect Ellie at all costs. "How about a really nice hotel? You might even get a room near your father. Or a complete stranger. We'll find out when you get here."
Andrew lets out a sigh that sounds like he's been holding it in all year. "Fine. I know you have enough money and friends in low places to make me disappear. You're like a money magician."
"Yeah. I have to be for how much this bullshit is costing me. I'll make some calls and get back to you. You better be on that plane."
"No problem, Jake. We're best friends, and that's what best friends do. Jump on private planes under duress."
I hang up. As I'm about to put my phone back, a text flashes across my screen.
Ellie: I need you, Jake.
Chapter Nine
Ellie
When I open the door, Jake looks like a desperate woman's hallucination. It suddenly makes sense to me that his parents are surgeons because he looks like their DNA carved him into a perfect man. Even just his jawline is a work of art— it has always made him look harsh while his 5-o'clock shadow just barely softens it. His black hair contrasts with the dark blue of his eyes so well that it makes me think of sunrise, when the night is fading away into dawn.
I pull him in, letting myself fall into the darkness. We kiss and the sweetness and warmth of his mouth remind me of those spicy, cinnamon candies. The tingling warmth moves under my skin, in-between my legs, and back to my mouth when I kiss him back.
I just to want to pour all of myself into him until all the anger and frustration are gone.
"I'm going to destroy your ex-girlfriend," I whisper in his ear as his hand slips up my thigh, tugging my dress up.
"What?" He takes a step back, my dress falling back into place. There's a smudge of my lipstick on the corner of his mouth.
"I'm going to burn her career to the ground."
"It's Anya Bowline. That's not even possible to do, Ellie.“
"Of course, it's possible. You must have some dirt on her. Other people have issues with her and..."
"And they're all smart enough to not go up against her," he says. "You think I wouldn't have talked shit about her to help you if I didn't know it would fuck us both over? She has a massive, devoted fan base. You aren't going up against just her— you're going up against all of them. They're the ones who buy the albums, who buy the magazines, and click on the online articles. They control the money flow, so they control everything. All these magazines and websites have listened to her without any dissent because they're afraid of pissing off those fans."
He shakes his head, moving away from me toward the kitchen.
"I can't even believe this."
"What can't you believe?" I snap, following him. "That I'm willing to fight back? That I'm not going to let myself be turned into a villain just
because she wants me to be?"
He spins around to face me. "I can't believe that I thought you had let it go and we were going to have a good time tonight, but the whole time you were thinking about revenge. I understand revenge. You know I do. Under most circumstances, if anyone hurt you like she did, I'd ruin their life in an instant. But if you go after her, it will immediately come back to hurt you far worse than what she did to you. And she knows this. She's cornered and trapped you."
"And you failed to mention it's all because she was your ex-girlfriend."
"If you want to get revenge on me, then do it," he says. "You know I won't ruin your career over it. Why did you even greet me like that if your thoughts were never going to be on us?"
Because he's become more distant since this scandal broke.
Because I'm tainted by the media, and we both know that this kind of contamination spreads easily.
Because I needed him to still love me when everyone else has turned their back on me.
"I just found out that a man I met at Ty's party, and who stopped by my apartment earlier today, is Damon Robertson. He's known for that song about Hollywood cowgirls. I didn't realize it was him. I upset him, and now he's claiming that I flipped out when he tried to give me support and that I kicked him out of my apartment. There are paparazzi photos and recordings to prove his claim— or at least prove he left my apartment. It's just another person who's stabbed me in the back, just to climb on top of it in the hope of getting their name in a few articles. I needed you to be here, just like I've needed you to be here for the last few days."
"You know I've been busy. I..."
"I called your assistant. She said you paused filming for Narrow Roads."
He stares at me, his face betraying nothing.
"I've been busy," he repeats after too many seconds have passed.
"You've been lying." I grab my bottle of wine off the coffee table. "You know what? I don't want you pulled down with me. You should go."
He shakes his head, taking a step toward me. I raise the bottle of wine, using it like a blockade between us.