Promise Me

by Robin Bielman, Samanthe Beck

  “It’s no problem,” I manage, which sounds humble and understated when what I really want to do is leap up and high-five Nina. I want to fist-bump John. I want to kiss Nigel full on the mouth. Mostly, I want to wipe the frown off my dad’s face. This is great news. Why is he scowling like someone pissed in his cocktail?

  “Sorry, John. Nigel,” my dad says, “forgive my confusion, but I guess I’m still trying to catch up. Friday, a very reliable source told me your team had drawn up the short list and we weren’t on it…”

  I stop my head from swinging in my father’s direction. He’d had an unofficial thumbs-down since Friday and didn’t think to share that information with me?

  “…today, I get a call for this meeting and find out we’re still in the running. Obviously, we’re pleased, but why do I have whiplash?”

  John props his forearms on the table and leans in. “Confidentially?”

  Dad nods. “Of course.”

  Total waste of breath. Whatever John’s about to disclose will be breaking all over the gossip outlets before this meeting concludes, but we pretend it’s just between us. “You’re not the only one with very reliable sources. Late last week one of ours informed us Flynn Bateman is about to be the latest name trending with a MeToo hashtag attached. We conducted a quick but intensive investigation into the accusations, and while we are of course not prepared to comment on whether he broke any laws, we determined certain documented behavior fell short of the America Rocks ethical standards. He was one of our top contenders, due to his potential to reach the smartphone demographic on the platforms they favor and lure them away from their YouTube channels and Instagram feeds a couple hours a week.” John’s eyes shift to me. “Now you are. Unless you tell me someone’s got hard-to-refute evidence of you doing things that would make it impossible for you to sign a morals clause.”

  “Of course not,” my father replies before I can even open my mouth.

  “Brilliant.” Nigel sets his drink down, and I realize the meeting is basically over.

  “What kind of morals clause,” Nina interjects, ever the pragmatist.

  Nigel rubs his palms together. “Nina, John will have someone send over the gist of it first thing tomorrow morning, but the legal folks tell me it’s completely reasonable.”

  “I’m sure they do,” she says without much concern, but I know she’ll go over every word and work that shit until she’s satisfied it’s fair. Beneath her Clair Huxtable facade beats the heart of a tireless detail-wrangler. “I’ll give it my immediate attention and let John know right away if anything doesn’t read right.”

  “I’m confident you will.” His smile widens to include my father, who has been in on the rounds of auditions, discussions, and negotiations so far. “And I’m sure we can count on your continued discretion regarding this process.”

  He follows that up with a wink, because we all know this, too, is part of the game. If you’re Nigel Cowie you don’t sip drinks on the patio of the Ivy with a guy plenty of insiders know auditioned for host of your show unless you want to fuel rampant speculation. Which he does, because having people buzzing about this is good for the show.

  I figure it’s time for me to get in this meeting and say something. “Aside from ethics, Nigel, can you tell me what’s on your wish list for the next host?”

  Across the table Nina gives me a tiny nod of approval.

  Nigel sips his drink and considers how he wants to answer my question. “I loved Gray. Loved him. Admired him. He was one of my mates. But this process isn’t about finding another Gray Ellison. We had him, he was bloody amazing, and nobody can replace him. That chapter of America Rocks is closed. It’s on the next host to write the next chapter in a style and voice that works for them. Page one, someone with the versatility to appeal to the loyal, longtime fans while at the same time attract a new set of viewers.”

  “I—”

  “Right.” My dad cuts me off. “You don’t need another Gray Ellison, but you do need someone who can project a similar all-American image. Someone who knows how to watch what he says, what he does, and with whom he says or does it, because this franchise is handing over an audience, and the host’s choices have the power to alienate that fan base. Here’s the bottom line. Flynn Bateman wasn’t ready for prime time. We are. In today’s world you have no safe zone. So Vaughn”—he turns to me—“you need to keep in mind that every facet of your life is part of your brand and, by extension, part of the America Rocks brand. Does that make sense?”

  Yes, but my face heats at my dad’s assumption that he needs to spell this out for me, especially in front of Nigel and John. He’s treating me like a kid, and everyone at the table realizes it except him. For two people who share DNA, he doesn’t know me at all.

  “Yeah, Dad. Thanks. I think I’ve got it.”

  My tone doesn’t invite any further discussion, but my dad doesn’t need an invitation. “Most importantly, you’ve got me.” He directs his attention back to Nigel. “I’m here to manage his brand, down to who he makes appearances with, who his name is linked to, and so forth. There will be no missteps.”

  I tune out. Kendall’s angel face forms in my mind, silently contradicting my assertion that I’m not a risk to their brand. Okay, maybe I’m extra defensive on account of my actions last night, because in light of them I may actually deserve to be treated like someone without a fully developed prefrontal cortex, except my father doesn’t know a damn thing about what happened. I tune back in to hear my dad insist, “I have a strategy for everything.”

  Nigel offers a neutral smile then raises his glass. “To strategy.” We all toast, and moments later, Nigel thanks us again for working him into our schedules. I give him credit for sounding sincerely appreciative for a man most people in this town would reschedule surgery for if it meant getting a meeting. Chairs are eased back, handshakes exchanged, and then John and Nigel sail off, making brief stops at other tables as they chart a course toward the sidewalk.

  Dad and Nina launch into a review of the meeting. I listen as they trade impressions, but a fact keeps circling in my head like a hawk over prey. My dad’s control freak tendencies are getting worse as my career advances, not better. I respect his business expertise, and I appreciate everything he’s done to help me succeed, but I’ve got to set some boundaries with him. Before we end up hating each other.

  A better man would have done it sooner, I admit a couple of hours later when I’m back in the privacy of my car. But my relationship with my father is complicated. When it comes to my career, I’m not just shouldering my hopes and dreams. I’m carrying his as well, because I’m the only one left to do it. I’m the second-string replacement for his paternal ambitions after the real star of the family—my sister—went dark far ahead of her time.

  Even without the fucked-up family expectations, the stakes are high and getting higher. The producers of a massively successful reality show don’t often hand the reins over to an unknown quantity. If they do, everyone’s taking a risk, but if America Rocks goes off a cliff with Vaughn Shaughnessy driving, Vaughn Shaughnessy takes the blame. Failing to get the gig after making it this far will mean I clutched at a crucial moment. I had a real shot, but ultimately they deemed me too something—too inexperienced for network TV, too unfamiliar to audiences, too clumsy with the banter and interviews—and that would be disappointing because banter and interviews are my strong points. I can’t change my level of experience, or do much in the near-term to increase my profile in Middle America, but I can talk. More importantly, I know how to listen, and I know how to steer the conversation into everyone’s comfort zone. Lose your sister when she’s nineteen, on the verge of achieving her dreams, you learn how to walk and talk your way through hell and back. I like to think that’s why I’m uniquely qualified to land the job. But landing the job comes with a backdraft of pressure. I feel it. My dad feels it, too, and asserting control is his way of dealing with the tension and protecting me from failure.

  Un
derstanding where his compulsion comes from doesn’t make it easier to tolerate, but nothing’s going to change unless I tell him to back off and figure out a way to make it stick. With that promise to myself issued and accepted, I toss the problem into a compartment of my mind labeled “Later” and focus on the satisfaction of advancing toward something I’ve put a lot of effort into accomplishing. It’s a good feeling.

  The sun’s tinting my rearview mirror orange by the time I drive down my street, reminding me that I have a very narrow window to finish packing before a car arrives to take me to LAX. I may be tomorrow’s next host of America Rocks, but today I’m a guy with a commercial shoot in Miami. I hit the brake to make the left turn into my driveway and some of my king-of-the-world high fades. What went down on this slab of concrete last night is a prime example of the kind of behavior America, and the producers of America Rocks, will not forgive. Thankfully, they’ll never find out about that stupid lapse in judgment. Kendall won’t say anything. I mean, I’m not naive, and I don’t go around trusting people I’ve barely met, but she didn’t even tell her sisters, so I don’t see her doing some kind of “You’ll never guess whose drunk ass I saved” post all over social media.

  On the other hand, she’s yet to forgive me. And that bothers me. A lot. Unfortunately, there’s not much more I can do. I apologized. I thanked her with words and with a gesture I hoped she’d appreciate. Did she? That remains to be seen, but the next move, if there is one, is hers.

  I pull to the top of the driveway, easing off the accelerator just before the slope flattens out into the small parking area in front of the garage. The stripped-down classic black Bronco Matt bought back in high school occupies the far left slot. Dylan’s sporty new silver R8 Spyder sits in the spot closest to the door.

  The cars fit their owners like personality profiles. Dylan’s smooth and fast. Matt’s strong and rock solid. I’m somewhere in the middle, I think, as I slide my Range Rover into the space between their vehicles. We’re brothers in every way except birth, and I value that even more now than I did as a kid. Being in this business brings a constant stream of new people into my life, and most of them act like they’re my friends—at least to my face—but they don’t really know me, and they don’t really want to know me. They want to project onto me whatever image suits them best. The face of their product, the candy on their arm, a commodity to be exploited for their purpose, and I wouldn’t have a career if I couldn’t satisfy those demands to some extent. But Dylan and Matt want nothing from me except what any guy wants from a bro. Be cool, show some love, and restock the beer fridge every once in a while.

  You have no safe zone.

  But I do. These guys are my safe zone. They give me shit when I deserve shit—and expect the same from me—but they’re in my corner. They’ll be stoked for me when I tell them about my meeting, and they won’t lecture me about how I should handle myself. They believe in me. And I know I can trust them.

  The knowledge restores my king-of-the-world mood. I walk into the house with my arms spread wide and call out, “Stop jacking off for a second and listen—”

  Dylan’s pacing the living room, his phone to his ear. He holds up a hand to simultaneously acknowledge me and signal me to shut up. “Hell no. We’re not paying Sandoval a dime if they brought us cases of broken bottles, and… Screw that. I don’t give a shit what he says. Reject delivery. What do you mean it’s too late? Who the fuck signed for the order without inspecting it?”

  I settle myself on one of the sofas and watch the excitement of life in club-land unfold before me. It’s weird and oddly encouraging seeing Dylan invest actual effort into something besides having a good time or getting laid.

  He stops pacing and pinches the bridge of his nose. “He’s fired. I don’t care. I’m firing his ass. Oh, and tell Sandoval I’m not paying for the cases of recycling his guy dropped off. If he doesn’t have my order delivered within the hour—intact this time—I’ll find another supplier.”

  With that threat hanging in the air, he disconnects and throws his phone onto the coffee table. “Goddammit.”

  “Tough day at the office, honey?”

  “Holy shit.” He comes around the empty sofa and drops down heavily. “If someone doesn’t suck my dick in the next five seconds, I swear to God my head is going to explode.”

  Matt walks in from the kitchen at that moment, bottle of beer to his lips, and I snap my fingers at him. “Got an emergency situation here, Officer Wright. This man’s dick needs sucking.”

  Matt doesn’t miss a step as he crosses to the mantel to commandeer the remote. “I’m not sucking that dick. I know where it’s been.”

  “I don’t want either of you cocksuckers anywhere near my dick. Hand me my phone, Vaughn. This is a job for your mom.”

  Predictable burn, but smoothly delivered. My comeback will involve his grandmother and her obnoxious Chihuahua, but as I reach for his phone I notice a familiar blue bag sitting on the table.

  What the…?

  I snag it, vaguely aware of Matt turning on the flat-screen and Dylan telling him to find the Dodgers game. I look inside to see the opened card and the little blue box. “What is this doing here?” The question comes out louder than I intended, silencing the conversation.

  “I don’t know, man,” Matt answers. “I found it by the door earlier today.”

  I’m halfway to the hall before I hear Dylan’s footfalls behind me. “Hey, what did you want to tell us?”

  “Tell you later,” I say over my shoulder, not breaking stride. I cut through the kitchen, grab a beer from the fridge, and twist off the top before heading out the big sliding glass doors leading to the patio. My ego’s not fragile. In my business you have to learn to let disappointment roll off without leaving a mark. But having my gift tossed back in my face leaves a bruise. I gave this to her, dammit. Because I’m sorry, and grateful, and I wanted her to know how much I appreciated what she did.

  And now I’m standing on my patio with a stupid Tiffany’s bag in my hand and no fucking clue what I’m doing. The calm, glassy surface of the pool mocks my agitation. Planning to bang on her door and give her crap for returning the gift? That’ll show her what a cool guy you are.

  Shit. I lean against the railing separating the patio from the pool and down half my beer. I don’t have time to deal with this right now. I should be upstairs throwing the last-minute stuff into my suitcase and making sure I’m checked in for my flight to Miami.

  I push away from the railing to do that and catch movement from the corner of my eye. Over the hedges of bougainvillea I watch Kendall step out onto the patio next door. Our house sits higher on the hill, which gives me a bird’s-eye view of their backyard. Late afternoon sun sends long shadows across the lot, but there’s enough light for me to see she’s traded the Winnie the Pooh pajamas for a snug raglan shirt and a little pair of drawstring sweat shorts that ride the flare of her hips. Her hair is swept up into a careless bundle, and I can’t help but notice the graceful arch of her neck. She stands there, still and beautiful as a statue.

  Then the statue stretches her arms high over her head. Her face tilts toward the sky, and my throat goes dry at the pull of her shirt across her full, upswept breasts.

  Matt or Dylan cranks up the volume on the game—something they tend to do when they’re in and out of the living room and they don’t want to miss anything. Sound surges. Kendall’s arms drop quickly, and her head swivels my way, clearly annoyed. Good. That makes two of us. My car’s due any moment, but the knowledge doesn’t stop me from stalking down the deck stairs, around the hedge, and into my neighbors’ meticulously maintained English countryside of a yard. Part of me hopes she retreats into the house.

  But she doesn’t retreat. Not an inch. She crosses her arms, plants her feet, and faces me as I approach, her chin tilted up at a take-your-best-shot angle. She’s braced for a fight, and all of a sudden I have none in me.

  “This is yours.” The words come out slightly winded, a
nd I hold the blue bag out to her.

  She crosses her arms a little tighter and backs up a step. “I can’t accept it, Vaughn. I don’t know what you think giving me a fancy gift accomplishes, but—”

  “It says ‘thank you.’”

  “It says more than that.” She glances away for a moment, and when she makes eye contact again, I’m at a loss for reading them. “You don’t have to buy my silence with pretty gifts, you know. I’m not going to tell anyone about last night.”

  I never doubted that, but apparently she doubted my motives. I tamp down on my cynicism. “Okay. Thanks.”

  She straightens her spine. “And I’m not going to fall into bed with you because you bought me something pretty.” Early evening shade can’t dim the pink in her cheeks.

  Obviously I haven’t corned the market on cynicism. “I’m glad you think it’s pretty.” I push the bag at her again. “And I’m sorry if I confused you. I’m not trying to buy anything. Not your body—which is amazing, but clearly not for sale—or your silence. Not even your forgiveness. Seriously, Kendall, I just want to say ‘sorry’ and ‘thank you.’ You looked out for a stranger. You cared enough to get involved. I like to think maybe the next time you’re feeling like no good deed goes unpunished, you’ll put on the pendant and remember someone appreciates what you did for him.”

  All the pink drains out of her face. “It was nothing.”

  “Not to me.”

  She bites her lip, and her gaze drops to the bag I’m still holding out like a dumbass dork. What else can I say?

  “There’s a gift receipt in the box, if you don’t like it…”

  Her eyes find mine. “No. I like it. It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

  “Then take it. Please.” I’m not so off my game that I can’t remember to say the magic word.

  Reluctantly, she lifts the bag from my hand. Skin slides over skin in the process, and I endure a quick and dirty fantasy of those hesitant fingers sliding down my chest, over my stomach, and into my jeans.

  Not a chance. Maybe not, but the memory of having her back against my chest this morning comes back to tease me, and all at once I have to do better than a simple pass-off. “Wait. Hand it over,” I say, curling my fingers toward my palm.