LOVERS

by Roxy Harte

  I shake my head. No. I haven’t decided one way or another about Toby yet.

  A long hard silence fills the gap, a silence that hurts. I finally say, “Adrian. It’s Adrian’s night. So unless you tell me that you are in town, I will be with Adrian.”

  “Thank you. Was answering my question so very hard?” He hangs up. No endearments, just the silence of the disconnect leaving me stunned and very sad.

  I look at the phone, consider calling him back if just to hang up on him, but instead I throw my cellphone across the room. It doesn’t crash into a wall, dramatically shattering it. It does land in a pile of clothes, reminding me I should be doing laundry.

  Unfortunately, Bishop isn’t my biggest disappointment of the day. Four hours later I am left sitting at Orgasms alone. Adrian didn’t even leave a note. His bartender tells me he left town unexpectedly.

  My heart jumps through my chest. “Was it an emergency?”

  I feel like an idiot before Alec even takes my hand sympathetically. I brace myself for the worst. I’m not disappointed.

  “Darling, you know I love you. That’s why I won’t lie for him to you. He threw luggage in his trunk and tossed me the keys to the place. I think he’s planning to be gone a few days.”

  I nod. Toby strikes again. “That bitch.”

  Oops. Did I say that out loud?

  Alec pats my hand, shaking his head. “There wasn’t a woman in his passenger seat. Some guy. I’ve seen him around. Red hair. All-American boy.”

  Phelps. “You better pour me a double, Alec.”

  Chapter 32

  Emma

  I rub my belly, stroking it really, calling to my child, Dawn, because when I stroke her, she is gradually drawn to me and she reciprocates the attention with a soft kick. A daughter. I am finally going to have the little girl my husband always wanted, but even she isn’t enough to keep him here. I shake my head, completely sobbed out.

  Now, when we should be our happiest, how does he repay me?

  By leaving me for that bitch.

  I can’t even think her name, she nauseates me so. I would say that she is a sorceress who bewitched my poor Jameson, but her evil goes beyond chants and potions…she is a dominatrix and her power lies in her sadistic ways. I cringe to think of them together, because I am not so naïve as to not know what happens when they are behind closed doors…the whips, the chains…the strap-on. The thought of it turns my stomach. I’ve tried to save him from her, but he is blinded by his lust.

  Since meeting her, a normal marriage bed is no longer exciting enough for him. Well, screw him; I most certainly will not spank his lily-white ass. No, the thought is too perverse, too ridiculous to even consider.

  I pray my children never learn of the depravity.

  Not that I’m religious, I have no church affiliation, but to want so badly that they never find out, I would do anything. That is why I will go to court and fight for sole custody of my children. If he chooses her, let him. He will only reap the sadness and heartbreak he’s sown in return, and I can think of no sweeter revenge.

  My daughter kicks my hand. “It’s okay, baby girl, Mommy’s here.”

  Blindly, I flip television channels and read the same page of the tabloid that has been lying in my lap since he walked out, hours ago. I stop at VH1, the rock and roll classics station, because it is just music, no thought involved.

  I’m six months pregnant and feel like a whale. The doctor assures me it isn’t unusual to get bigger, much bigger, early in the pregnancy, citing my previous pregnancies and my age as possible reasons why. I cannot imagine three and a half more months of this. I feel like doing absolutely nothing now. Sighing, I eat another cookie, because the baby loves Oreos, craves them like there will never be another, and as she relaxes, I relax, listening to a song from way back in the day, Love me. How apropos is that? Thank you. I reach for another tissue, tears falling over my cheeks again. I wonder what ever happened to Bebé.

  I look at the tabloid that has been laying open, waiting to be read all morning; so many choices, who is doing what to whom, who is marrying whom, who is divorcing whom…and pictures of a famous actress at sixty-two—like I want to see another woman looking better as an old cow than I do at thirty-four. I turn to the page, thinking it is a mistake, because the photo is of a homeless looking hag, tossing back a beer at a ballgame. Yuck! I read the headline and compare the faces of how she looked only a few weeks ago at the Golden Globes and how she really looks sans makeup. Dear God!

  Bebé’s voice is as magical as it ever was. “Love me, oh please just love me enough.”

  I close my eyes, remembering my prom, because that song takes me there instantly. Sometimes, I wish I could go back to those simple days.

  The VH1 announcer says, “And that’s the close-out song to our ‘Whatever Happened to Those Stars of the One-Hit Wonders’. Remember, if you have any information on these top ten missing has-beens, call in and you could win a trip to the vacation destination of your choice.”

  I lay the tabloid on my lap, watching the flashing faces of so many forgettable stars until he flashes on Bebé and I smile, remembering that once upon a time, I pretended to be her. It’s strange, I’ve seen her face so many times, I’ve memorized her every perfect feature. I always thought she was so exotic. I sigh, it really was a sad day when she disappeared off the face of the earth and took her incredible music with her. I go back to flipping the tabloid pages, but my mind is still on Bebé and why she stopped performing—all because of some scandal, something that happened in—

  I lose the thought, my eyes racing back to the television screen, but her face is gone. “Damn it!” I swear.

  “That’s a bad word, Mommy,” Mick yells from the kitchen table where he is supposed to be doing homework.

  I call back, “Yes, it is, Mommy’s sorry.”

  He giggles. “Mommy should go to her room for time out.”

  “Yes, yes, I should,” I agree as I flip channels to the Guide, trying to find out when the ‘Whatever Happened to Those Stars…’ repeats. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” It has to repeat, they always repeat! Okay, okay. Here it is…tonight at eleven o’clock.

  I look at my watch. Two hours, plenty of time to figure out how to tape the segment using the damn recorder.

  I announce, “Bedtime.”

  Moans fill the house, the youngest whining the loudest. “You always read us stories, Mommy.”

  “Not tonight, honey. Mommy doesn’t feel good.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  I reach out my arms to give him a hug, which he rushes into, as I look expectantly at the clock because time is ticking away. I kiss the top of his head. “Off to bed now, because you’re a big boy, and tonight the baby in my belly needs me to lie on the couch quietly.”

  “I’m tired of the baby being in your belly. You aren’t any fun anymore. I want Daddy. He’s fun. He’d play with us and read us a story.”

  “Tom, help me get your brother in bed!” I call out, exasperated. I try to pull Mick by the hand, but he goes dead weight. If I wasn’t pregnant I would pick him up and haul him to his room, but the last visit to the doctor ended all of that. No lifting anything over ten pounds. I tell Mick gently, “Well, Daddy isn’t here, and Mommy needs you to cooperate.”

  Both of the older boys come into the family room. Tom holds out his hand. “Come on, Mick, I’ll read to you.”

  He pouts. “I wish Daddy was here. He’d read to us.”

  “Go! Go to bed right now!” I shriek, hating that I am yelling at my boys. Goddamn you anyway, Jamie. You should be here! I feel like I am losing my mind. Calm, screaming lunatic, calm…I cannot keep going like this.

  I struggle to get the recorder to work and clap when it finally does. You just don’t screw with a woman scorned, because she can do anything. As I think it, I believe it. I spend the remaining hour and a half pacing, trying to convince myself I was seeing things. When the show begins, I turn up the volume, really wishing I could fas
t forward…

  I fall back into the couch, tired, grumpy, achy. I hope I’m not coming down with the flu. As soon as Bebé’s video starts and the camera zooms in for a close-up on her face, I know it is her, and my aches disappear. “Oh my God!”

  I grab the phone and scoot closer to the television, comparing the image on the screen to the face in my head. “You little bitch! It is you!”

  When the phone number to call appears, I start dialing. I listen to a pre-recorded message, “Leave your name and contact number, and which celebrity you can give an accurate accounting of after the tone.”

  “I know where Bebé is! And she’s living right here in Hollywood! So call me back. I have dirt. Oh, do I have dirt!” In my excitement, I almost forget to give them my name, but I recover quickly and do.

  Hanging up, I’m reeling with excitement, knowing I will win…and start planning my all-expense paid vacation. God, I need a vacation. I so need a vacation!

  “That’s how you do revenge!”

  I’ll be basking in the sun, while that bitch’s life falls apart at the seams…and once Jameson finds out what a conniving, lying, murdering little bitch she is—he’ll be back here with his tail between his legs so fast…

  “Yes!”

  The truth will all come out now.

  Everyone thought that she was so young, so sweet, oh so innocent. I laugh at how far from the truth that was. She disappeared from the celebrity inner circle after a scandal in Germany. Same rock star story, the sex and the drugs and the orgies, except some old guy died and apparently everyone wanted to talk to Bebé because she just happened to be the one in bed naked with him when his body was discovered by the maid. I’d bet money that she killed him, and once everyone knows the truth about her…Ms. Fucking-Husband-Stealing-Dominatrix…the world will see the truth too.

  Timing is everything though. I don’t know why I didn’t recognize her before and put two and two together, but I have now, and that’s all that matters.

  Chapter 33

  Bianca

  My first clue today was going to be a disaster should have been the staid black Subaru parked across from my house on a street few vehicles ever really park along, but I ignored it and drove straight to one of my stores. I could blame my head being in the clouds after my morning phone call from Bishop or the fact I am so pissed at Adrian I can’t see straight. First, leaving town without even bothering to tell me. Second, blowing off our Friday night, although he did leave a message on my voicemail about Whipped Crème tournaments and how he couldn’t skip out on the club. I get it, the bar is his livelihood, but I’m also starting to feel juggled around and knowing Phelps is back in the picture isn’t exactly making my day.

  I don’t know the man, but I know of the man and everything I know spells trouble.

  So all of the pieces of the my-day-is-gonna-be-shit puzzle don’t fall into place until an hour later when I am dressed in leather and parading around the store like I own the place. Oh yeah, I do. Who cares, right?

  A camera flash tips me off someone does.

  A rapid-fire assault of more flashes than I can count leaves me blinded as I try to get the intruders out of Wicked Pleasures without resorting to calling the police. I am transported back in years to a time when such instances were normal. Thankfully, I hire staff for their brilliance, and the twenty-something hot guy who rings customers up wearing nothing but jeans, his nipple rings, and a perfect six-pack of abs, which draws the ladies like flies to honey, calls the police for me while a man waving a press badge offers me an exclusive interview on Entertainment Tonight.

  Unless I can act quickly enough, all of America, or all of those connected to internet or television, will see photos of Bebé all grown up and poised to dominate. With the hope my lawyer can do something, I call him. He informs me there isn’t a thing he can do; paparazzi have the right to earn a living and celebrities are expected to deal with their status in whatever fashion they deem necessary. I am encouraged to hire a bodyguard.

  I inform him, “I gave up bodyguards and entourages fifteen years ago! I’m not that girl anymore!”

  He laughs and wishes me luck.

  I hang up hoping he has as fucking messed up a day as I know I’m going to have. Shit, shit, shit!

  A moment later my cellphone is ringing, not my lawyer, Adrian.

  I don’t want to answer, because Adrian doesn’t wake up before noon unless there is a really good reason. I say a quick prayer, “Please let this be unrelated. Please,” and then I answer.

  “Care to tell me why Phelps was accosted on his way to work this morning by a news crew?”

  “I don’t know, why would Johnny—”

  “They thought he was me! Obviously. He was so upset he didn’t go to work, he ran back inside and woke me up, and do you want to know what happened next?”

  I dread the answer to that rhetorical question so much I deflect, “So the rumors are true. You are seeing John Phelps. Does Toby know about this, or did you not bother to tell either of your girlfriends?”

  Unamused, he answers, “Yes, I’m seeing Johnny. I think we might even become an item this go around. I was going to wait until I was certain, but hell, why not tell you now, even before I tell him, because I tell you everything…my every thought, my every need…which was an attribute I thought we shared. So maybe you can tell me why…” His voice changes to a growl. “…a reporter from VH1 is outside my building waiting to interview me about my girlfriend, Bebé.”

  “Oh God.”

  “So it’s true then? You’re the pop-tart Bebé?”

  I cover my mouth, wanting to lie. Wanting so desperately to wake up from this really bad dream. “Shit,” I say. “I’m not her…not anymore.”

  “Right.”

  “I’m sorry, Adrian. Maybe I should have mentioned it, but it didn’t seem important. I’m just Bianca Castillo, I’m not important.”

  “Can you come down and tell the guy out front that? Because he isn’t going away, and I do not need my club turned into a media circus.”

  “I’m leaving now.” I look at what I’m wearing and restate. “I’m leaving as soon as I get out of my leather ensemble and into something more appropriate. I’ll be there soon.”

  I hang up the phone, angry, confused, and wondering how VH1 and Entertainment Tonight found me at exactly the same time. It then occurs to me that they are trying to outscoop each other. But why? I’m nobody. It doesn’t matter that I was someone for a few years over a decade ago when I was a teenager. There has to be a hundred other one-hit wonders out there that they could be finding and pestering, so why me?

  A half hour later, wearing jeans, a t-shirt, sunglasses, and a floppy hat, I sneak in a side entrance door that can only be reached through a narrow delivery alley which I blocked with my SUV. I am discovered only after I am safely ensconced in the foyer between Adrian’s apartment entrance and the bar’s rear entrance. I climb the stairs to Adrian’s apartment and don’t have to knock because he is standing there, waiting.

  “A head’s up would have been nice,” he says.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He hugs me, and I’m thankful for that…and then I hear Love Me playing in full digital stereo surround sound. What the fuck?

  Phelps comes around the corner munching an apple. When he sees me, he says, “I loved this song. You sang this?”

  I nod then sit in the nearest chair to keep from falling. I bury my face in shaking hands as an influx of memories better left forgotten resurface.

  Adrian kneels in front of me, saying, “It’s going to okay. I admit I was freaked, we both were. Poor Johnny thought you were wanted by the FBI or something when they started waving your photo in his face and wanting to know what his relationship was to you, but once he found out the guy was from VH1 and that you were Bebé, he thought it was pretty cool.”

  I look up at Johnny. “Did you talk to them?”

  “Sure, I told them you are a wonderful person.” He takes another bite of ap
ple.

  “That’s all?”

  Chewing, he says, “Well, I told them that I wasn’t Adrian. Fairly obvious, I think.”

  He laughs and I look between the two men, Adrian’s Greek god heritage a stark contrast to Johnny’s fair Celtic descent, both men incredibly handsome. So how would a reporter know… I shake my head confused. “And?”

  “I may have told them I was Adrian’s boyfriend.”

  I nod, still okay. Nothing huge. What can they make of all that? Really. They’ve got nothing. Nothing and a few pictures. I keep nodding my head, trying to convince myself this is going to blow over and everything is going to be fine.

  Sitting in front of the television eight hours later, I’m not so convinced.

  Entertainment Tonight flashes a few pictures, sensationalizes the fact that I am both a member of the poly community and the BDSM community, and promises a live interview before going to a commercial.

  “Really?” I ask sarcastically. Seeing disbelief on Adrain’s face, I assure him, “I didn’t give anyone an interview!”

  “This ought to be good,” Adrian agrees.

  “Oh my God!” I exclaim a moment later, hiding my face in my hands. They didn’t specify an interview with whom, and it is Emma’s face sprawled bigger than life across the screen. I watch with horror when VH1 is credited for breaking the story because of a contest entrant’s submission leading to my discovery: Emma’s contest entry.

  “Entertainment Tonight is interviewing Emma?” I ask with absolute disbelief.

  “I told you that you should have just talked to them. That psycho is going to turn this into a circus,” Johnny says.

  “They’ve got nothing,” Adrian assures Johnny. “Seriously. So what if they have a few pictures of Bianca in leather?”

  Emma’s voice comes across the speakers, and I hold up my hand for both of them to be quiet. “She’s been in hiding all this time, I don’t know what kind of statute of limitations there is on murder but—”

  I fall back into the couch cushion drop-jawed. “Oh God, Emma, what have you done?”