Vegas Baby

by Winter Renshaw

  My mother grins from ear to ear, glancing out the window next to her. That woman would sell her soul to be able to plan a Montgomery-Darlington wedding.

  “Funny,” I say. “Lydia doesn’t speak this way. She sounds coached.”

  I hand the tablet back to my father and sit back, glancing at my brother texting on his phone several seats back.

  “She and I may have convened a little before the interview.” Mother plays with the pearls around her neck, twisting them between two fingers.

  I know.

  “And why wasn’t I in on this interview?” I ask. “You don’t think it looks odd?”

  She shakes her head. “Men don’t discuss weddings and engagements. It’s not proper etiquette. It has more weight coming from Lydia, and the public just adores her.”

  “Then they don’t know her like I do.”

  Her jaw falls, and my father glances up from his reading, his eyes narrowing through his wire-rimmed glasses.

  “What is your problem, Ronan?” His voice booms, a rare moment for a man who built his reputation by staying even-keeled.

  My mother places her hand on his arm, squeezing ever so lightly. “It’s all right. He’s been a little preoccupied lately. I’m confident he’ll be singing an entirely different tune in the very near future.”

  ***

  I open the door to my apartment and stop when the sole of my left shoe catches on something.

  A piece of paper rests on my foyer rug. Someone had to have slipped it under my door while I was gone this weekend.

  Upon closer examination, I realize it’s a postcard, only there’s nothing on the white side. No message of any kind. I flip it over to see the front, and my stomach drops.

  It’s a black and white photo of the Melrose Hotel.

  I set it on a nearby console table and wheel my bag to my room. A large, yellow envelope rests on the middle of my bed. Glancing around the room, nothing looks out of place.

  I tear into the envelope, pulling out a small stack of photocopied, handwritten pages. I don’t recognize the handwriting, but my eyes zero in on the dates. They’re all recent. At first glance, this appears to be some kind of diary. I scan the words, my mind working overtime to make sense of everything as quickly as possible.

  “He won’t show me his face, which concerns me. But when he touches me, I forget. I relax. How a faceless stranger can wield that much power over me, I’ll never know . . .”

  “I didn’t think I’d like the blindfold at first, and then I found comfort in the dark. Every graze and taste and tease was magnified, every impalement that much more intense . . .”

  “His voice is handsome, and tonight I traced his face with my fingers. My mystery John has dimples!”

  “John told me I was his dark paradise tonight. Little does he know, he’s mine too. He doesn’t touch me like the other men did. He’s gentle and sensual. He makes me forget why I’m really there: to be his whore. It’s been a long time since anyone touched me like that . . .”

  I’ve read enough. Letting the papers fall to my bed, I grab my phone and call Camille. She needs to be warned, and until I figure out what this means and who would be tailing us, I want her on lockdown.

  Paging through the photocopies one last time, I shove them in the envelope and flip it over. A typed note is taped to the underside.

  IF YOU CARE ABOUT HER, YOU’LL WALK AWAY.

  That warning could mean anything, and it could’ve come from anyone. Political rivals. Someone with a vendetta against my family. Anyone looking to ruin my father’s campaign before it even gets off the ground.

  And just as I anticipated, they’re using Camille as a pawn.

  She doesn’t answer her phone, and I check the time. She should’ve landed hours ago.

  I fire off a text, WHERE ARE YOU? CALL ME IMMEDIATELY.

  And then I call Oliver to come back for me.

  ***

  “Oh . . . hello.” A blue-eyed blonde with hourglass curves answers Camille’s apartment door in a designer tracksuit. This must be Araminta. “Um . . .”

  I’ve known their address since the day I discovered Camille’s identity.

  “I’m looking for Camille.” I peer over her shoulder toward an apartment fit for two modern-day princesses. “Is she home?”

  Araminta stares at me, her fingers fidgeting as she struggles to speak.

  “You’re . . . you’re Ronan Montgomery,” she says.

  “Yes.” I glance at Oliver to my left, who stands out of the way. His eyes roll. “May I come in and speak with Camille?”

  She steps backward, swinging the door open and ushering me in.

  “She’s not here,” she says. “How do you know her?”

  “We’re acquaintances. You must be Araminta?”

  She nods, extending her hand. “Yes. Araminta Randall.”

  Two hallways jut out at opposite angles from the living room. “Which way to her room?”

  Araminta points to her right. “But she’s not here. She’s . . . not coming back.”

  I scoff, pushing past her and heading toward Camille’s side of the apartment. “What do you mean, she’s not coming back?”

  “She called me earlier,” she says, gingerly ambling behind me. “She said she was done with Washington. She needed a fresh start.”

  “You don’t think that’s odd?” I twist the knob and open the door. Her room is impeccably clean, her bed made and all her belongings in their rightful places, including her laptop.

  “I mean, I knew it was coming, I just thought she was waiting until our lease was up. She’s been talking about moving to LA for years.”

  “She’s in LA?” I ask.

  Araminta shrugs, lifting a bottle of Camille’s perfume and bringing it to her nose. “I didn’t ask. I was kind of upset with her at the moment. I was more concerned with her half of the rent, to be honest. I think she said she was going home first, to Tennessee.”

  “Did she sound upset? Nervous? Scared?”

  She laughs. “No, she sounded normal, I guess. I was sort of in the middle of something when she called, so I had her on speaker. I wasn’t really paying attention.”

  My hands rest on my hips as I exhale.

  “Have you tried calling her?” Araminta asks.

  “Yes,” I say. Both numbers. She hasn’t answered either. My last call was placed from my personal cell, the number left unblocked so she would have it if she needed to reach me. That was an hour ago.

  “You’re ‘John’ aren’t you?” She studies my face, her lips pulled up at one side.

  “Can you call her? Maybe she’ll answer for you.”

  She slides her phone from her pocket and dials Camille before handing it to me. If she answers for Camille and not me, I’ll know I’m the reason. If she doesn’t answer at all, I’ll have to pay her a visit in person.

  “Did something happen between you two?” Araminta asks.

  “Nothing that would warrant her running off without so much as a goodbye.”

  She chews on her lower lip. “Okay, then that is weird.”

  “Are you positive she went to Tennessee?”

  “I’m pretty sure.”

  I hand her phone back and stride to the door.

  “What do you want me to say if she calls back?” Araminta calls after me.

  Lingering by the door, I inhale, my stare fixed on a pair of crystal-encrusted heels I recognize from our first night together.

  “Tell her to stop running,” I say. “Tell her whatever it is, whatever she’s afraid of, I’ll fix it. Tell her she’s still my dark paradise.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Camille

  “Wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon, but I’ll sure take what I can get.” Mom throws her arms around my neck and hugs me close. “I hope you’re still coming home for Christmas.”

  I breathe her in.

  “What’s wrong? Something’s wrong. I can tell,” she says. “Is this about a boy?”

  I s
queeze her tight, refusing to let go if only for the fact that I don’t want her to see the tears in my eyes. I’m humiliated. Busy’s words replayed in my mind the entire flight home and then followed me during the drive here. They played on a loop. Stuck in repeat. Reducing me to tears and wearing my self-esteem down until there was nothing left.

  “Just feeling homesick lately,” I say. “And I think it’s time for me to head west, finally pursue my dreams.”

  She rubs my back. “Oh, sweetheart. I know it’s scary to chase your ambitions, but you only fail if you never try. You have no idea how happy this makes me.”

  I blink away tears and breathe in her soft scent before letting go.

  “What made you decide to make the jump?” she asks, brushing hair from my face. “Did something happen?”

  “I just realized I was wasting precious time. If I stay in DC, I’ll never be more than Camille Buchanan . . . waitress.” I force a smile to thwart her from worrying too much. “I’m going to head upstairs for a bit. Mind if I borrow your laptop?”

  “Go right ahead, sweetie. I’ll make us some supper. You’re probably famished. I hear they don’t feed you on airplanes anymore.”

  She strides off, waving in the air and cursing the airlines under her breath.

  I grab her computer from the coffee table and lug my bag up to my room. My head pounds, the pain pulsing behind my eyes. I’m dehydrated and exhausted. After boarding the flight to Nashville, we were forced to wait another hour while they investigated some burning smell coming from the cabin. When we finally left and landed in Tennessee, I waited in line for two hours for a rental car because apparently every flight heading to the Northeast was canceled thanks to Winter Storm Knox.

  With the laptop in hand, I collapse on the familiar worn comforter, sprawling across my bed. Cracking the lid, I check my email before composing a quick note to an old friend from Georgetown currently residing in West Hollywood.

  Hi, Nina!

  Guess what? I’m finally moving west! Were you still looking for a roommate? I’m leaving DC sooner than anticipated. Let me know. I can be on the next flight out.

  XOXO,

  Camille

  PS – Are you still working at that casting agency off Ocean Ave?

  PPS – Miss you!

  I grin, recalling the fun and mischief Nina and I used to get into back when I was some innocent freshman exploring newfound freedom in one of the most exciting cities in the world.

  In a way, maybe what happened today is for the best. It’s forcing me to act on my dreams, taking away any choice I may have had to prolong it. And who knows what would’ve happened two months from now? Ronan may have wanted to keep me around longer and longer, and who knows if stupid me would’ve agreed. I’ve known women who’ve gone years as nothing more than glorified fuck buddies, kept under wraps by men who fill their heads with just enough hope to keep stringing them along.

  Pulling my phone from my bag, I see a handful of missed calls; all with 202 area codes. One after another. Each call separated by a minute or so. I don’t have to second guess what I already know: they’re all from Ronan.

  The bar across the top of my screen tells me my battery’s at one percent, and it may as well be because I’m not calling him. It’s pointless. He’s not my boyfriend. We weren’t romantically involved. And I don’t need another surprise visit from the FLOTUS when she finds out we’re still communicating.

  Besides, I know what he’ll say. He’ll convince me to see him again, and he won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. And I’ll cave in because, well, he’s Ronan Montgomery, and my ability to resist a handsome man who makes me feel light on my feet and dizzy with sweet reveries only goes so far.

  I exhale, allowing myself to experience one last, vivid memory of his lips on mine, his hands in my hair, and his weight on my body before I release it for good. He was never mine to keep—none of them were. Our passionate nights were on borrowed time, and the meter just happened to expire earlier than expected.

  An irrational, sharp pain fills my chest when I think about him moving on, if only because I selfishly wanted to keep him to myself just a little while longer. He’ll get over me eventually, and he’ll probably wind up married to Lydia Darlington. Everything will work out the way it’s supposed to, even if it pains me to think about it.

  I let myself dwell just a little while longer before I plug my phone into the wall and head downstairs to spend more time with my sweet mother.

  ***

  A blanket of snow coats our front yard. It’ll be gone by noon, but it makes for a beautiful view as I sit in the kitchen and lick a spoonful of cinnamon oatmeal. Mom left an hour ago to put in a few hours. Since retiring last year, she’s taken to volunteering at the library fifteen hours a week.

  I’ve got the whole house to myself for the next couple of hours. Nowhere to go. No one to see.

  I pull the familiar scent of my childhood home into my lungs. It’s like a fuzzy blanket, a hot cup of cocoa, and a big hug wrapped up in one. I’m not used to this much quiet, but I imagine it could be therapeutic.

  A wooden birdfeeder attached to the kitchen window with plastic suction cups catches my eye. Inside, a tiny little brown bird perches on the edge, nibbling at the seed.

  “What are you doing here? You should’ve flown south by now.” I smile and rinse my bowl in the sink, and the bird flies away.

  Lucky little thing.

  I skip down the steps to the lower level family room, fully content to veg out with the remote and a stack of my mom’s celebrity gossip magazines. She’s partially to blame with my obsession with all things glamour. Mom’s style is the epitome of understated, but she always appreciated a good red carpet gown.

  Mindlessly turning pages and simultaneously flipping channels, I mute the TV when I hear knocking. It’s possible that it’s my imagination, but I cock my heard toward the stairs, waiting to see if I hear it again.

  A few seconds pass, and the sound of three hard knocks echoes through the house. It’s the middle of the morning on a Monday. Unless it’s one of my mom’s crazy neighbors or a FedEx delivery, I’m not sure who else it would be.

  I sit the magazine and remote aside and head upstairs, my heart pounding at the intense recollection of my surprise visitor at the hotel yesterday.

  A break in the curtains on the front picture window shows a shiny black SUV in the driveway, and the pounding of my heart radiates through every extremity before traveling up my throat and pulsing in my ears.

  Mustering all the courage I have left, I count to five and open the door.

  THIRTY

  Ronan

  “Why?” My jaw tenses. “Why’d you run off?”

  I don’t waste time with simple pleasantries. I didn’t fly to Oakdale, Tennessee to waste time with small talk.

  “Ronan, what are you doing here?”

  My elegant Camille stands in the door of her mother’s home in plaid pajama pants and a faded gray t-shirt, her dark hair piled into a messy bun and her face stripped of makeup.

  “You disappeared,” I said. “You didn’t return my calls. I was concerned.”

  “I don’t want to do this anymore,” she says.

  “Don’t lie to me, Camille.” It’s cold as hell outside, but I’m burning. “Did someone threaten you? Is that why you ran?”

  Her gaze falls to my shoulders, then to the cement steps under my shoes. “Come in.”

  I step inside a quaint split level, welcomed by modest décor and 90s-era furnishings.

  “Why haven’t you taken my calls?” I ask.

  “I don’t have the disposable phone anymore,” she mutters.

  “Where is it?”

  “It’s gone, Ronan.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You shouldn’t be here,” she says, her eyes pleading along with her words. She takes a step back, her arms crossed and posture guarded. “Let’s just go our separate ways and not make this into something bigger than it needs
to be. I don’t want any trouble.”

  “Any trouble?” I laugh, stepping into her space. She refuses to meet my gaze. “I don’t understand. We had a great weekend together. We were looking forward to the next nine weeks. Something had to have changed after I left. What happened, Camille?”

  She peers over my shoulder toward the window. “Did you come alone?”

  “Oliver’s in the car. Why?”

  Her chocolate eyes grow round as her fingers cover her lips. “Oliver.”

  “What?” My brows meet. “What about him?”

  “He’s always with you.”

  “Right. He’s my assigned agent. Required to go everywhere I go.”

  “He’s . . . he’s . . .” She runs past me, glancing out the window and taking a closer look. From where I stand, I can tell he’s on his phone. “It’s been him all along.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She collapses on a nearby loveseat, her head in her hands.

  I take the spot beside her, hooking my arm around her back.

  “Your mother,” she says. My heart drops. “She came to my room yesterday morning, just after you left.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “You shouldn’t be here, Ronan. She made it very clear that I’m not to have anything to do with you.” Camille turns to look out the window again, and we watch as Oliver ends his phone call. “I guarantee you he was just speaking to your mother.”

  Her words send a chill to the room.

  “When I got home yesterday,” I say, “someone had slid a postcard of the Melrose under my door. And a packet of photocopied journal pages was on my bed.”

  She points at her chest. “My journal pages?”