by Noah Harris
“I see it,” he said, and Jack hummed in agreement.
“When she was little, her cries sounded like…moans. Like ghosts. Always a spooky kid. Intuitive.” Portia rolled her eyes and pulled her phone out, then put it back away.
“No service, remember?” Ronnie said with a laugh, and then pulled his phone out and threw it on the floor in front of him. “Maybe we can play a board game. I don’t really, uh, want to talk about Perry anymore,” he said to Portia, and Jack nodded. He’d meant what he said, she was too young and too innocent. It was too much for a fifteen-year-old.
“I understand. I think it’s a little late for Portia, though. Way past your bedtime, huh, kiddo?”
“It’s only one, Dad,” she protested, and he laughed in amusement.
“Only one. That means it’s morning. Bedtime for you,” he said, then got up and walked over to the many shelves lining the walls. “Bet you have something down here.” Ronnie watched him, feeling calmer. The thick walls made it quiet, safe, and Jack even seemed more relaxed being in the bunker. He grunted in approval and then carried a small little bundle of wires over to Portia.
“Not my sleepy music, Dad,” she said, her cheeks flaring as she glanced at Ronnie. He shrugged grinning.
“We’ve all got sleepy music, Poe.” Jack’s head quirked when Ronnie used her nickname, but Ronnie was glad to see a small smile on his face when he glanced over. She took the headphones begrudgingly and plugged them in. Jack mimed sleeping, folding his hands and holding them up to his cheeks, and she grunted in annoyance and shuffled further into the cushions of the chair, closing her eyes.
“So stubborn,” Jack said, shaking his head and walking back over to the couch. Ronnie kept his limbs tucked closely together to leave enough room for the large man.
“Sleepy music?”
“Classical music from her ballets. ‘Sleepy’ ones,” he said shrugging. “Frankie compiled it and downloaded it onto one of those old iPods for her. Batteries never die on those things.” Ronnie nodded, laughing.
“No, they don’t. I used to have one of those, too.” Silence fell, louder than usual because of the concrete, insulated walls, but Ronnie recognized that he didn’t feel awkward. It was a comfortable silence.
“You wanna talk about Perry? Now that Portia…” Jack trailed off, his tone kind but his eyes not meeting Ronnie’s. Ronnie leaned back into the couch and sighed.
“Yeah, I guess if you’re keeping me safe, there should be, um…transparency.” Jack nodded agreeably. Ronnie stared at the ceiling, trying to compose his thoughts. “Well, when we first met, he was nice enough. My parents kind of just handed me off. I don’t really talk to them anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” Jack said, and Ronnie laughed, partly at how soft and sincere Jack sounded. He didn’t think, in the past day, he’d ever sounded so gentle.
“It doesn’t really bother me. Rather have no parents than bad parents. Anyway, he soon signed Lucy, and then this guy Travis Caulfield that neither of us really kept in touch with. He was the last to join and the last to go. He might even still be working with Perry, I’m not sure.”
Jack was watching him intently, his dark eyes reflecting the gold light of the emergency bulbs, his face smooth and earnest. Ronnie cleared his throat, feeling hot, and looked back at the shelves, going one by one as he spoke. He’d never said out loud, until now, that Travis might still be working with Perry. It had always lingered in the back of his mind, but now it was a reality, and it made his head pound.
“Well, after a while, I think I became his favorite or something. Not to say he didn’t like Lucy, but…we all turned sixteen, and he just zeroed in on me. He started, um, grooming me, I guess. He used to take advantage of…of me. And I’d let him. Or if I knew he was mad at me, I would initiate it. I never told anyone because he’d threaten me. I didn’t realize he might have been doing it to other people. I like to think I would’ve spoken up if I realized sooner.”
“Jesus,” Jack mumbled, leaning back and rubbing his face. He was still watching Ronnie, but Ronnie could feel himself falling back into his memories again. He was glad he hadn’t told Jack the extent of the violence he’d experienced, but it still made the corners of his vision blurry. He didn’t even notice Jack watching him, or Portia stirring in her sleep. All he remembered was the pain in his knees and the gleeful, disgusting pleasure on Perry’s face. “You didn’t let him, you know?” Jack said softly, and Ronnie jerked out of his painful reminiscing and looked at him.
“What?”
“You didn’t let him. You were a kid. You didn’t have a choice.” Ronnie stared at him, mouth open, and then closed it, feeling his throat sting. He blinked a few times, and Jack cleared his throat.
“When I was overseas, a lot of my mates would…they’d find the girls that got left behind in villages that got bombed or abandoned, and,” he paused, shaking his head. His jaw was set. “Yeah. The girls didn’t fight too hard, but it wasn’t because they wanted it, or were letting it happen. They knew they might get hurt, or their friends might get hurt. They just…dealt with it until it was over. They usually got killed anyway.”
“I didn’t know you were a veteran. That’s horrible.”
“War is horrible. It’s overrated. I got kicked out because I killed one of the bastards when I caught him. They swept it under the rug, but…I still got sent home. Sometimes I wish I’d gotten more of them before they packed me off.” Ronnie nodded, feeling cold, but Jack looked over at him with a heavy sigh. “I’m just saying…it’s not ever their fault. Your fault.”
“Thank you,” Ronnie said, his voice coming out meek.
“What about the money? You never got it back.”
“Yeah, the money,” Ronnie sighed and then turned to look at Jack, folding one leg up more comfortably. The money was easier to talk about, easier to look someone in the eye about. “He embezzled a lot of it. Lucy and I came out alright, but I’d say he took about seventy percent of our profits. Still, I was…I was scared of him, you know? Stupid.”
“Not stupid. You were young, remember? You were barely older than Portia.”
“But now I see him, and he’s like...a tiny, miserable man. I could probably beat the shit out of him,” Ronnie laughed bemusedly, imagining Perry on the ground, bloodied, a swollen lip and a black eye.
“I know I haven’t known you for that long, but I don’t think that’s your style,” Jack laughed back, eyeing him doubtfully. “You’re a softie.”
“I’m not,” Ronnie argued, but when Jack held his gaze questioningly, Ronnie burst out laughing. “Okay, yeah. But I should’ve at least said something. Instead, I just retired. I’ve done a few indie movies, but no one really takes me seriously anymore.” Jack nodded in understanding, clearly not familiar with the movie business, but Ronnie was just grateful he didn’t ask any more questions. He wasn’t being entirely truthful. Sure, no one took him seriously, but that was because he didn’t take his own career seriously. Hollywood was corrupt, ugly, a festering wound on the west coast that he couldn’t get away from soon enough. Being an Instagram personality was easier and more remote.
“Maybe being on Drake Street will open up some opportunities for you. Plus, I’m sure Frankie’s reporting Perry to the feds right now if she hasn’t already. He’s not part of our investigation any longer. You won’t have to worry about him anymore,” Jack offered to the silent room, and Ronnie pretended to hum thoughtfully. Really, though, something about getting more opportunities while Perry was still out there harassing and abusing people…it made him feel wrong, inside out.
“Maybe, since all this attention is on Perry, the threats will stop. You know? Maybe it’s all related, even if we can’t see it. Maybe I can just go back to my old life, posting smoothies on Instagram and chatting up wine-drunk talk show hosts.” He tried to inject a bit of humor into his response, but it came out flat. Jack glanced at him and then put his hands up.
“You can if you want. But Portia thinks you have
potential, and she’s rarely wrong. Intuitive, as I said,” he half-smiled. Ronnie blushed, and Jack suddenly reached out and put his hand on Ronnie’s shoulder. That spark returned, pulsing through him unexpectedly, and Jack cleared his throat. Behind them, the locks started to grind in their slots, and Jack jumped away from him and stood up, folding his hands behind his back. Ronnie pushed his hair back self-consciously, like they’d been caught and smiled at the door as it opened.
“Lucy Lazenby’s here,” Frankie said, looking panicked. Fiona appeared behind her, green hair braided on top of her head and looking even more Medusa-like than usual.
“And she’s being trailed by a shit-ton of paparazzi,” she panted. “It’s chaos up there. The manor’s surrounded.” Jack grumbled something under his breath, and Ronnie looked up at him apologetically. He walked by without a word, following Frankie upstairs, and Fiona pursed her lips.
“I called her here. I’m sorry,” he said weakly, and Fiona waved him off.
“No need to apologize. But we do need to get things under control,” she paused, looking above her as the echoes of shouting paparazzi came bouncing down the tunnels. It was like they’d opened the door and the sound had rushed inside the house. “We might need your help with that.”
Disturbing Truths
Jack
Ronnie’s confession had made Jack’s skin crawl with disgust and sympathy. He’d heard stories of older men taking advantage of young actors and actresses who had something to prove and money to make. But hearing it from someone he was supposed to be protecting and was starting genuinely to like…well, he felt like he’d already failed. He wasn’t going to fail again.
“The manor, actually, the entirety of Drake Street isn’t secure any longer,” Frankie corrected herself as they ran up into the lobby and looked out at the flashing cameras glaring light from every window in the manor.
“We’ll have to move them. Ronnie and Lucy,” Jack agreed, flipping them all off.
“Yeah, if we can get Lucy out of her limo. A fucking limo. What was she thinking?” Frankie groaned, tapping frantically at her tablet. A few spotlights flashed on outside, sending a few paparazzi running scared. Many, though, were still swarming around the sleek black limousine that was parked in front of the gates.
“I don’t think Fiona’s to blame for that one. Angel’s Inn?” Frankie nodded seriously and then turned her back on him, and he took a deep breath. That meant the paparazzi were his job to navigate. He snapped up the hood on his shirt and pulled it over his eyes, then approached the door. He was big, but he was also stealthy, and he knew exactly how to rescue Lucy from her many admirers. Breathing in, he tried to quiet his mind and listen intently to the shouting men and women outside. It sounded like twenty or thirty people. He’d dealt with worse.
“Alright, everyone,” he called, opening the door exaggeratedly. They all froze and then rushed over to him, taking his picture and crying out questions. He pulled the hood farther over his eyes, those flashing lights would make his eyes appear whitish-green and ghostly in photos like a dog caught off guard by the headlights of a car. “We know you’re all wondering why Lucy Lazenby is here, but we really can’t give you any information,” he said, trying to sound charming. He knew he probably sounded monotonous and irritated.
“Who the hell are you, dude? Why’s Lucy on Drake Street?”
“We heard she might be filming a new movie here,” another called, clicking the camera incessantly. Jack forced a smile, though it felt like he was just baring his teeth at them.
“I can neither confirm nor deny any rumors.” He walked through the sea of people toward her limo, and she rolled down the window as he did. Her hair was curled perfectly, the ringlets framing her face. Her lips were a dark pink, and her eyes were shadowed in a way that made them appear large and doe-like.
“Lucy,” he said, lowering his voice as he leaned down. She smiled charmingly up at him, resting her chin lazily on her hand.
“You must forgive me for all this,” she said innocently, and he smiled tightly at her.
“You need to follow my lead and stay quiet.” She nodded quickly, looking up at him with those big eyes that made her seem so much younger than she was, and he ripped the door open. Grabbing her arm, he pulled her out roughly, keeping her in front of him as they fought through the crowd.
“Lucy, over here!”
“Lucy, baby, right here!”
“Why are you on Drake Street?”
“Are you here for the rumored sequel? Lucy!” Jack continued batting cameras away and shoving her forward, holding her up as she stumbled in her wedges. He looked inside the house, which they were approaching, and focused his hearing, the spotlight timer was reaching its end, clicking slower and slower, according to plan.
Darkness. The front lawn was drenched in it, the spotlights having powered down. Some of the paparazzi screamed in surprise, others fell over with a clatter of their cameras, but mostly the shouting increased in volume. Jack pulled Lucy to the left, fighting his way through the unsuspecting, rushing crowd, and then, suddenly, they were breathing fresh air. Lucy gave a surprised gasp when Jack pulled her arm forward, hard, and led her to the back of the manor.
They reached the side of the house, and he stopped, his eyes having no problem in the darkness. He found the key-pad on the fence’s side-gate and punched the code in. The door sprung open, and he caught it before it closed.
“Let’s go.” Lucy looked behind her at the clamoring paparazzi and then hurried through the gate, and Jack followed. “In here.” They’d reached the hidden driveway, where Frankie and Jack kept their many cars. Frankie had already taken the more subtle Tesla, so he decided, quickly, on the Hellcat. The door unlocked at his touch, and he urged Lucy inside. She fell in haphazardly, and he slammed the door after her, then climbed into the driver’s seat.
The car’s engine purred, but he didn’t have time to enjoy it. The paparazzi were starting to spread out again. He jammed it into reverse and, using his night vision, sped out of the driveway and onto the street. In no time, they were on their way.
“That was mighty impressive,” Lucy said, leaning forward and sticking her Marilyn-Monroe face between the seats. “You’ve done this before?” Jack kept his eyes on the road.
“Yeah.”
“It was kind of fun,” she giggled and then leaned back luxuriously. “Any drinks for the lady? I’d love a little bottle of champagne.”
“I don’t keep alcohol in the car.” He wasn’t quite irritated with her, but he was beginning to feel the first twinges of annoyance at her playfulness. She’d just caused a huge scene and compromised the manor and Ronnie’s safety, but she thought it was just a big adventure. She clearly didn’t get out much or didn’t take anything seriously, or both.
“Well, where are you taking me? What’s your name, anyway?” her voice reminded him of those fifties stars, lilted, dramatic, breathy.
“I’m taking you to a motel that you’ll be staying at with Ronnie.” She harrumphed in the back, and he glanced at her in the rearview mirror. She was sticking her bottom lip out and looking out the window. Pouting. What had she expected? A five-star hotel?
“Can we stop for some food, first? I’m famished,” she exhaled. “Do you have any poke restaurants around here?” She was almost pressing her face to the window, and he held back a sigh.
“I don’t even know what that is, so no.”
“What about Italian? But, like, good Italian.” Now she had her fingers curled over the shoulders of his seat, her nails poking his back.
“We’re not stopping,” he said shortly, and she slammed back into her seat.
“Now, you’re no fun.”
“I’m not supposed to be fun,” he replied easily, though her comment threw him off. Fun? Was this how celebrities were? This wasn’t how Ronnie was, no matter how silly Ronnie was, at times, he never acted like a spoiled child.
“Okay, let me rephrase.” She tapped her nails on the armrests
, he could hear it. “You’re remote and boring. Most bodyguards will at least, like, talk. Or something.” He drove down the road in silence, the wet cement looking like an inky river, reflecting the neon signs and string lights hanging overhead. Remote and boring. But he wasn’t with Ronnie, was he? He felt like he’d talked more to Ronnie than he had to anyone in Fort Anaheim in a long time. But it didn’t seem like Lucy wanted to talk to him, really, not like Ronnie had. She wanted an entertainer, a babysitter, someone to show her a good time and keep her mind off the scary stuff. Ronnie had been…deeper. Thoughtful. Like he’d been trying to get to know him. His heart swerved in his chest, and not because of the tight turn he’d taken to get onto the main road. He hoped Ronnie didn’t find him boring.
“Can you at least turn some music on if you’re going to ignore me?” she whined, and he looked back at her, again, in the rearview. Her eyes met his.
“Maybe I’m a little serious sometimes, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care. Ronnie’s safety is my utmost priority, and now yours is, too. My job is to protect both of you and find out who is sending these letters,” he said, and she frowned disappointedly at him. “And I don’t think I’m that bad. I’ve gotten to know Ronnie pretty well these past few days, so I’m not completely socially inept,” he said defensively.
“Oh, you have, have you?” she said, her tone returning to its teasing tone. When he looked back at her, her eyes were gleaming with curiosity. “So what’s this new relationship you have with your client? Is that allowed?”
“That’s not…you’re twisting my words,” he grunted, turning on cruise control and mashing the buttons a little too roughly. “It’s not my relationship with Ronnie you should be worried about, but yours. What can you tell me about growing up with him? His past?” Lucy’s perfectly groomed eyebrows met in the middle, her smiling eyes squinted. “Perry Johnson, maybe?”