“Shitfingers,” Ava had said, then snorted a laugh when I gave her a puzzled look. “Sorry,” she said. “Just... avocado.” She picked up a small sandwich, avocado and sprouts on multi-grain bread. “It’s my weakness.” She devoured the sandwich like a starving man, giggling around her first, far-too-big bite.
“Sorry,” she muttered, holding a hand primly in front of her perfectly pink lips. “Hungry.”
“I can see that,” I answered. “But why shitfingers?”
She shrugged, smirking. “It was something one of my co-workers said on my first film. I was... twelve? And it felt... transgressive. I liked saying it because I knew I shouldn’t. So it’s sort of the thing I say when I’m faced with a temptation I don’t want to resist.”
“Those are the best kind,” I murmured, reaching up to wipe away a smear of avocado from her cheek. She caught my wrist in delicate fingers and brought my thumb to her lips, slowly, meticulously sucking it clean, a gleam in her eye that let me know she knew exactly what she was doing to me. Her teeth scraped along my skin as she pulled her mouth away.
If I closed my eyes now, I could almost feel her tongue wrapping around my thumb, caressing it as she locked her eyes on mine.
But she didn’t remember any of that, and even though I could understand why, it still stung a little. It called into question everything I felt last night. We felt last night. I was sure she had felt it then too, even if she didn’t now. And it wasn’t just the booze, either. We had a connection. The alcohol had just helped us find it.
I called back down to the concierge and asked them to add the avocado toast to our brunch. She’d laughed a lot last night. I wanted to see her do it again. Her eyes squinted and twinkled whenever she couldn’t help but laugh.
My last task was to pull out my laptop and whip up a quick, fake marriage license. No use going for a prank if you aren’t all in, even ones you know aren’t going to last very long. Ava was smart. I knew she would want to see the license eventually.
My portable printer did a passable job on it, and I quickly scrawled my name in the appropriate place, and scribbled illegibly in her spot.
I found a pair of boxers in the dresser and pulled them on before starting to pack. The convention had ended last night, but I had the room through tomorrow. Spotting my phone on the nightstand, I was reminded to call River, the ranch caretaker, and let him know to expect me.
The phone rang five times before a sleepy, lazy voice answered. “Yup?”
“River,” I said, smirking. He was clearly stoned already. Without me around, it was probably a wake and bake day for him. He was a great caretaker, regardless, but he was nearly always high.
“Oh hey, boss. How’s the tech?”
“World-changing, as usual,” I answered wryly. River was something of a luddite, when it came to technology. Very old school. “Hey, listen. I’m going to be at the ranch tomorrow, and I’m bringing a guest.”
“Business guest or fun guest?”
“When was the last time I had a business guest?”
“That’s classified,” River quipped, and I snorted softly.
He wasn’t wrong. The last business I’d done was with the U.S. Air Force, and they’d paid me a tidy sum for both what I’d built, and for me to keep my silence about what I’d built. Tidy enough that I hadn’t had to sell an invention since, and I never would again—hell, neither would my kids or their kids, unless someone really fucked something up. It was more money than any reasonable person would ever need, so I’d moved most of it into an investment account and let a broker that my dad recommended handle it. Coming to conferences like these were more out of fun because I was still interested in everything tech related, but if I ever took on any other projects they would surely be out of interest or boredom rather than any actual need for a job or money.
“Okay, fair point,” I answered. “Fun guest.”
“Should I make up the guest room, or is your guest staying with you?”
“Make up the guest room. Just in case.” I didn’t want to put any pressure on Ava if she decided to come after all. I already knew I was dragging this joke out longer than I should, and I was doing my best to ignore the bad vibes I was starting to get about it. It was a strange feeling. I didn’t usually feel bad about pranks, but knowing that I was lying to Ava twisted something in my gut, even if I still thought of it just as a bit of harmless fun.
“You got it, boss. Hey, you know there’s a full moon this week, right?”
“I didn’t, but thanks for the heads up.” My ranch was pretty secluded, and pretty untouched by humanity, so the local hippies liked to gather there on full moons for... whatever it is they did on full moons. I didn’t mind, and it made River happy, so I left them in peace about it.
“No problem. See you tonight?”
“Yeah, send a car to the airstrip at seven. Thanks.”
There was a knock at the door, and I heard the water shutting off in the bathroom, so I hurried to answer it, assuming Ava would want to hide from the bellhop again.
I took Ava’s ring—a delicate, platinum band ringed with sapphire chips—from the bellhop and hid it under a mound of strawberries before pouring us each a flute of champagne. I slipped my own ring onto my finger.
“Breakfast’s ready, dear!”
Chapter 5
Ava
I started the shower as soon as I’d closed the door. I didn’t jump in right away, but I wanted the cover of the water running so I didn’t have to hear him moving around in the other room. I needed to be alone. Or at least I needed to feel like I was alone. The mirror was treated to not fog when the shower ran, so I took a moment to examine myself. My eyes were bloodshot and swollen. My hair was a royal mess. My make-up from the night before was smeared all over my face.
America’s sweetheart, my ass.
There was a bottle of aspirin on the counter, and I grabbed a couple and took them with a glass of water, which felt amazing on my too-dry throat. Unable to bear looking at myself anymore, I stripped out of my clothes and stepped into the steaming shower.
I liked my showers hot enough to turn me pink, and he’d left the water turned up to the perfect temperature. Compatibility or random chance? Or had we taken one together already? I closed my eyes and stood directly under the rainfall shower head and tried to remember anything I could about last night. About the man who was apparently now my husband.
My husband.
My voice was lost in the sound of the shower as I whispered, “This can’t be happening.”
15 hours ago...
“This can’t be happening.”
The vaulted ceiling of the hotel lobby seemed to come crashing down on me, like a dolly zoom effect, tunnel vision in 3D.
Somewhere over the ringing in my ears, I could still hear Pete Skylar, our executive producer, chattering on. I only caught a few words.
“Such a shame….”
“Best for the studio….”
“Really sorry about this….”
But I wasn’t listening. My hand seemed to lower without any effort on my part, until the phone clattered to the marble floor. Even then, it didn’t really hit, I hadn’t really been able to process what Pete had said. It wasn’t until a bellhop bent to scoop up my phone and hand it to me that I came back to reality.
“You dropped this, Miss,” he said, and when our eyes caught, I felt a flush rising in my cheeks and looked away quickly.
Was there recognition in his eyes? Was he recognizing Gabby Rover, or was he recognizing that girl whose naked body was plastered all over the Internet?
Because that’s what Pete had just told me. There were photos. Ken had taken photos of me, without my knowledge. Photos of me sleeping or in the shower. Photos that left no room for modesty. They’d been leaked, and the studio couldn’t keep me on. How could I be sweet, wholesome Gabby Rover when half of America had seen my tits?
I felt a wave of nausea sweep over me and stumbled toward the elevator, worried I
might pass out right there and add fuel to the tabloid fire. I kept my head down on the ride up, hoping none of the other guests recognized me. Was I just imagining the leer in that frat boy’s eyes?
Finally, the elevator stopped on my floor, and I all but flung myself out the door and down the hall toward our suite, where Layla was waiting.
Oh, god. Layla. I was going to have to tell her what happened. My stomach lurched.
I’d just finished rinsing the shampoo from my hair when I felt my stomach lurch again, both from the memory and from the hangover.
I left the water running as I tumbled out of the shower, dropping to my knees on the fluffy mat in front of the toilet, hitting hard enough to bruise.
“Shit. Fuck.” I muttered, remembering again the way that frat boy’s eyes had slid over me, like he knew exactly what was under my clothes. I gripped the edge of the toilet seat and vowed never to drink again, as more hazy memories of yesterday clicked into place.
24 hours ago…
Ken was late. Again.
We were supposed to meet for brunch and go over the contract I’d been offered for the next season of The Wild Rovers, but he hadn’t shown up. I knew he got caught up in his work a lot, so I figured it would be better to just stop by his office to remind him about our date, rather than call and make a nuisance of myself.
Ken technically had an office in the house we’d bought together when I turned 18, but he did most of his work in his real office, so I had my driver take me straight there instead of stopping at home. Ever since we’d started dating, Ken had told me that I should make myself at home in his office, so I didn’t bother knocking before I opened the door and stuck my head inside.
In that moment, all of the air seemed to rush from my lungs, and all of my blood seemed to rush to my face.
Ken was there, yes, but he wasn’t working.
Not unless you counted fucking as work.
I stood in the doorway, frozen in shock. They hadn’t even noticed me yet.
Ken’s back was to me, so he couldn’t see me. The woman he was with had her head thrown back. It was clear she was too... distracted to notice any intrusions.
“Fuck,” she moaned, bright, purple nails digging into Ken’s back.
That’s what gave it away. Those nails. Fiona complained bitterly about the purple nails she had to wear for her role as Melissa Rover, my character’s mother.
I just stared at those nails, trying to piece together a reality that made sense. A reality in which my boyfriend/manager wasn’t screwing my TV mom on his office desk when we were supposed to have a brunch date.
Her nails dug deeper into his back and my knuckles turned white where they gripped the doorknob. I found myself unable to move or speak or do anything to stop myself from staring at those nails, where they left deep crescents in the skin of Ken’s back. I might have stood there forever, staring, dumbfounded, except that Fiona finally lifted her head and saw me.
I don’t know what I expected. Guilt? Embarrassment? Some sort of indication that she felt at all bad for currently having my boyfriend’s dick inside her.
I didn’t expect her to laugh and tap Ken on the shoulder.
“Looks like the cat’s out of the bag, sugar,” she said.
Ken grunted in confusion, and Fiona pointed to me.
I thought, He’s going to look at me. He’s going to meet my eyes, and he’s going to feel remorse. He’s going to apologize, and run after me, and I’ll forgive him, and we can just forget all about this.
His head turned slowly, and his eyes locked with mine, and he gave me a slow, wicked smile. “Sorry, darling,” he said, still inside her, as though he were doing nothing more scandalous than sipping tea. “I guess I missed brunch, huh?”
I gaped at him, outright gaped, standing there with my mouth open. “You... you….” I sucked in a sharp breath. “How could you?”
“Oh please,” Ken said, rolling his eyes. “You really think your tight, teen pussy satisfies me? It’s nice to have around, but it’s got nothing on a real woman.”
Finally, my legs started to move, backing me out of the room, out of the prison in which I could only stare as Ken kept Fiona close to him, both of them completely shameless. I sputtered angry, confused insults. I definitely broke up with him. I might have threatened to call the cops to tell them we’d started sleeping together before my 18th birthday.
Ken just laughed. He hardly waited until I was out of his office before continuing to fuck Fiona on top of a stack of my headshots. I could hear her encouraging him to go deeper as I stumbled out of the offices.
22 hours ago…
“Pack it up, sunshine,” Layla said, dropping a small suitcase onto my bed and starting to toss in bathing suits and hoodies.
“Pack what up?” I asked, sitting up for the first time since Layla had arrived to find me weeping into my pillow, snot and salt-tears smeared all over my previously done up face.
“Whatever you need for a Vegas vacation.”
“Who’s going to Vegas?” I asked, rubbing my eyes, trying to ignore the throbbing in my head, feeling the tightness in my throat still.
“We are,” Layla said decisively, throwing a sundress or two into the bag. “The-shit-stain-that-shall-not-be-named is not going to keep us from having an awesome time. We’re gonna hit the strip, lose some money, get hella drunk, and eat all the decadent food we can stuff in our sweet, little mouths.”
“Layla, I can’t just go to Vegas. I have a meeting with….”
“Canceled,” she said, cutting me off with a wave of her hand. “What kind of assistant would I be if I let you go to a meeting the day after your douchebag ex-boyfriend, ex-manager,” she paused dramatically, as if trying to remind me that I had to fire him as well, “got caught with his prick up that hag’s dusty, old cooch?”
“A shitty assistant?” I suggested. Watching Layla, seeing her take my side like that, not resorting to “I told you so”, it made me believe that I really could just put all this behind me, that it would just take one debauched weekend in Vegas, and I’d be back to myself again. Just... searching for a new manager.
“The shittiest,” she agreed. “So get your sorry ass out of bed. I already rented us a car, and it will be here any minute.”
14 hours ago…
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t face Layla right now. I’d told her when I left that I just needed a little air, a little walk alone. She was worried, I knew, but she let me go anyway, only insisting that I put on my incognito gear: a deep brunette wig, floppy hat, and wide sunglasses.
There was no way I was going to walk back in there and admit that I couldn’t even take a walk on my own without having a complete breakdown. The rest of America might think I was a screw up, but I didn’t want Layla agreeing with them. I needed to know I could count on someone right now, that there was someone who still thought I wasn’t a complete failure.
Instead, I straightened up, pulled a tissue from my bag to dry my tears and wipe my nose, and then I turned straight back to the elevator. I was still incognito. I’d come to Vegas to have a good time, forget about everything happening back at home. I could still manage that. Even though everyone who knew Ava Cassidy knew she was only 19, the disguise made me look a few years older, so I figured at the very least I’d be able to have some fun.
I’d never gambled before, but I was just tipsy enough not to be self-conscious about asking the concierge how to go about using my room account to get chips. (I don’t remember the last time I actually carried cash on me.) He was happy to provide some, also happy to point me to the high-rollers tables. Armed with a purse full of $1000 chips, I headed out to make my fortune or lose whatever respectability I still had.
I didn’t much care which one came first.
12 hours ago…
As it turned out, Vegas casinos were more than happy to keep feeding a girl daiquiris if she was happy to keep losing money at blackjack. I was just starting to get the hang of things, had started to w
in back the $10,000 I’d lost so far, when my luck turned again.
Either that or I was now drunk enough to think you should hit on two jacks.
As the dealer swept away my last chips, I had to laugh. I fell into a giggling fit that made the guy next to me--a tall, lanky, older man wearing too many gold rings--ask, “You okay, sweetheart?”
Then, “If you need a place to get yourself together, my room’s right upstairs.” His wink made my skin crawl.
“No, thank you,” I managed through my giggles, relieved that he only shrugged and turned his attention back to the game as I tripped away, weaving through the disconcertingly large crowds of people on the casino floor the way I’d once woven my way through my grandma’s seemingly endless fields of wild herbs, back before I’d dragged my parents out to L.A. to support my desperate desire to be an actress; a real actress. Something I could be proud of. Back before I’d walked away from Mom and Dad because Ken convinced me they were holding me back. Back when I’d just been Ava, shy and coltish and too precocious for her own good. Back when I hadn’t known what it meant to be America’s sweetheart.
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