Muscle

by Lexi Whitlow

  Okay. This is a start.

  “So, the girl that did this, she really was your girlfriend?”

  Dylan nods. “Was, being the operative word. She may be in love with me, but I don’t feel the same.”

  This poor girl just got revenge outed. What a miserable situation.

  “Okay,” I say. “I have a question. And you need to be honest with me.”

  She nods, pouting.

  “Do you want to keep up this sham of a relationship? Or would you rather be honest about who you are? ‘Cause seriously, this lying is inconvenient as hell for me. And I think you’d have much better luck finding the woman you’re meant to be with, if the world didn’t think I was your cheating boyfriend.”

  Dylan laughs, then bursts into tears. She hugs me tightly.

  “I hate the lies. It’s so stupid what we have to do to keep a job. It’s ridiculous. I know my real fans won’t care who I love, but these new fans Addison has brought in… They’re so… they’re so… awful.”

  She’s right about that.

  “They’re pulling together a press conference,” I say. “I have an idea, Addison is going to try to reign this in. What do you say we throw a wrench into his lies and tell the truth?”

  Dylan smiles. “He’ll fire us.”

  I smile back. “Three days left of filming. About sixteen million spent on production. One scene left to print. If he fires us, he can still finish the film. Honestly, if this is what it’s like to work in movies, I’d just as soon go back to Syria and get shot at by guys who have a legitimate beef against me, instead of not knowing who the bad guys are.”

  She’s with me. Nashville isn’t perfect either, but it’s home, and she’s already made it there.

  Outside, with the sun shining down on us, Doug explains that Addison has called an impromptu press conference to respond to the recent social media posts targeted at Dylan and me. He hands each of us a piece of paper with our assigned talking points and sound-byte responses. He says that the production company public relations liaison will field questions from a select list of friendly press, so we can control the message.

  This is going to be fun.

  I can probably kiss my film career goodbye right about now. Reading through the list of things I’m supposed to say just makes me laugh.

  -- Dylan and I are in love.

  -- A jealous fan doctored the photos and films. They’re fake news.

  -- No, I don’t know why anyone would say Dylan is gay. Dylan is a good, Christian woman. Homosexuality is a sin.

  -- This must be the work of Godless Socialists, trying to undermine Christian, American values as they’re portrayed in this family-oriented film, Hearthfires.

  -- Bill Addison is a good, decent man, and the best producer anyone working in the entertainment industry could ever be blessed to work for.

  Yeah. No. I’m not going to say any of that.

  Doug and his team cull together a makeshift table and backdrop for this ill-conceived press conference. He lines us up at the table as the media files in, their cameras ready to record and beam our responses out to the whole world, live, unedited. Addison is here, lurking behind the scenes, along with people from his PR firm, ready to bolt into action if something goes wrong.

  Everything is ready to go as a production company public relations rep steps forward, making a statement to the effect that this morning’s inflammatory posts were part of a concerted effort to hurt the film, impugn the reputation of several cast members, and are complete fabrications.

  When she’s done, the press begin shouting questions at Dylan. She looks like a deer in the headlights. I decide to jump in and end this farce, once and for all.

  “I’ll take that,” I say, lifting my hand. “I think the question was ‘are the images legitimate?’”

  The room goes silent except for the rapid-fire click of camera shutters.

  “Honestly, I can’t say whether they’re legitimate, but what I can say is that they’re none of our business. I’ll also add that the person who posted them claims to care about Dylan, but no one who cares about someone does that.”

  I gaze out over the crowd of ravenous reporters. “You guys all came here for the tawdry details, and you’ll make ‘em up if you don’t find legitimate ones. The truth though, is this: Dylan Denali is a beautiful, talented, intelligent woman. And it doesn’t matter who she sleeps with—or in my case—doesn’t sleep with. I respect her for her talent and her guts.”

  A volley of shouted questions follows.

  “Dylan and I are friends and co-workers,” I respond to a reporter who asks me to clarify the nature of my relationship with Dylan. “The whole romance angle between us was fabricated by the studio to keep you guys busy and build a cross-over fan base. Dylan has a private life that may or may not involve a significant other, and I have a separate private life with a woman I love very much. The rest is just Hollywood theatrics.”

  On the sidelines I see Addison’s PR team scrambling to shut everything down. The woman who spoke before tries to silence the reporters who continue shouting questions, telling everyone “That’s it, we’re done.”

  The reporters are having none of it. More questions fly my way.

  “Does Bill Addison require you to mislead the press? Does he fabricate relationships between his stars just for publicity purposes?” someone calls out.

  “Yes,” I say. “Some of it’s contractual, and some is just coerced. There’s a fair amount of intimidation involved. In my case I was told that if I didn’t play along, I’d never work in films again. You can imagine, as a relatively new face in Hollywood, that’s a heavy threat.”

  “Why are you coming out now?” another voice shouts.

  I smile out at them. “Because I was raised by my mother not to tell lies. Because people are getting hurt based on lies. And because I realize that if I don’t stand up and tell the truth, then this ridiculous nonsense that just contrived to feed one impotent man’s childish desire to feel powerful, will go on unchecked for who knows how long. It’s abusive. It’s wrong. It needs to stop. So, if this is the end of my film career, so be it. I’ve got no regrets.”

  “That’s it everyone!” the PR woman shouts, stepping in front of me. “Kill the mics!”

  She and her team attempt to physically remove me from my chair, but I make it clear with my baddest Navy SEAL assault scowl, they better not lay hands on me. The press continues to shout questions, but the room has descended into chaos. I see Kiara slip into the school of circling reporters and begin discretely answering their questions. Dylan puts her hand on my shoulder with a whispered “Thank you,” before she’s whisked away to safety by more of the PR people.

  “Addison is going to have your head,” Doug says as I pass by him. He’s not angry with me; he’s just stating what he believes is fact.

  “He can try,” I reply. “I’d like to see him try.”

  In the SEALs we were taught how to fight with bombs, missiles, and guns, as well as knives, fists, feet, and teeth. After they schooled us on the full range of hardware and physical force, they taught us the most important weapon we possessed was our brain. The best way to win a fight is to convince your opponent he’s outmaneuvered before the fight even begins. You do this by being unpredictable, irrational, and behaving in a manner that frightens and confuses.

  No one has ever stood up to Bill Addison in a public forum. No one ever dared to. No one ever showed him up and laughed at him until today. No one ever called him impotent.

  If I had to guess, I’d say Addison is somewhere nearby having a tantrum which may be followed in short order by a minor existential crisis. Whatever he’s up to, I’m prominently figuring into his angst. If he hasn’t already, he’s going to quickly realize that he misjudged me completely, and thanks to his epic miscalculation in revealing to me his tender, shameful underbelly in the form of an exotic escort service, I now hold all the cards.

  After the freak show I return to my trailer to wait for
whatever is going to happen next. I halfway expect Addison to appear, but he doesn’t. A half an hour passes, then an hour ticks by. Sam, my agent, calls me to express her condolences on the death of my career, and congratulate me on having the guts to speak truth to Addison’s bullshit.

  Fifteen minutes after that, Doug Witherspoon’s assistant pokes her head inside the trailer door and tells me they’ve shut down filming for the day due to crowd control issues.

  “Go home,” she says. “You’ll get a call with an adjusted shooting schedule. We’ll probably do it on set at Universal Studios sometime over the weekend.”

  Chapter 21

  Winter

  Gates left at five this morning to go to the set at Universal Studios. They had to take several days off to reorganize following the whole social media debacle with Dylan, and then Gates going public with how my father micro-manages and manipulates his actors.

  I expected the blow-back from Gates’ no-holds-barred, tell-all to the press to be instant and brutal, but so far there’s nothing. My father has gone quiet—a bad omen—and I fear he’s plotting something. If this had happened three or four weeks ago he could have pulled Gates from the film, sued some people, and crushed a few careers. But Gates beat him to the punch. Now if my father reacts, it’ll look like clear retaliation. I have to hand it to Gates, he’s a strategic chess player with a prescient sense of timing.

  And he’s fearless.

  I’ve spent today working on my website, posting new images from my growing professional portfolio, along with older images available for stock or prints. It’s amazing to me that after so much time not getting any quality professional work at all, now I’m busy again and doing cool things with great people I would never have met without one happy accident; Richard Kern discovering my work-in-progress web site.

  Gates is due home soon. They scheduled a twelve-hour day and it’s almost six.

  I close my laptop and pick up my phone to text Gates, but I’ve got a message from Margot.

  Margot: Check it out. You’re outed. Call me if you need to vent/freak.

  She’s attached a link to TMZ. I click it and see the headline before the photograph. It reads: “Gates Vaughn says, ‘The woman I love is Bill Addison’s daughter.’”

  Oh no.

  The photograph is of us together in an embrace, clearly recognizable, sharp, and shot from the street right outside the condo.

  Damn, we need to get some blinds for these gigantic windows!

  The gig is up. My father is going to flip.

  It was inevitable. I am pregnant. I can’t keep it a secret forever. At least the film is almost done, and we can move on, out from under my father’s very imposing thumb.

  There’s a knock on the front door. Unusual. Everyone has to buzz in at the gate to get inside the complex grounds.

  I go to the door and peek through the narrow-framed sidelights to see who it is.

  My father!

  Oh, holy shit!

  I freeze. My gut clenches tight. Adrenaline pumps, coursing through my veins, my ears ring like pealing church bells.

  “Open the door, Winter! I see you! Open the damned door!” he shouts.

  He’s angry. Of course, he’s angry.

  I try to breathe but I can’t.

  He pounds on the door with his fists. “Open the fucking door!”

  I feel myself move without willing it. My hand falls to the knob, turning it. As soon as it’s cracked, my father shoves it wide, sending me reeling backwards on unsteady feet.

  He looms large in the doorway, glaring down at me with rage blackening his eyes.

  “You’re coming home with me. Now! Get your things.”

  I stare at him blankly. I’ve never seen him quite like this.

  He steps inside the apartment, slamming the door behind himself. He comes toward me, his face torn with anger.

  “Don’t make me tell you again. Get your things,” he growls, his voice low, menacing.

  “I… I…” I stammer, struggling to put words together. “I… can’t. I’m… working…”

  “I don’t give a fuck what you’re working on, or who you’re working for, and what you think you’re doing here in Gates Vaughn’s apartment. You’re not doing any of it anymore. You’re done with all that. You’re coming with me!”

  He steps up and seizes my arm, gripping it tight. He pulls me toward the door.

  “Forget about your things. Leave them here.”

  He shoves me ahead of him, pushing me toward the door.

  Some long-repressed bit of strength rises up like a tide from deep inside me. I finally find my voice. I yank my arm away, screaming. “No! No! I’m not going anywhere! Let me go!”

  His face contorts with rage. “You defiant little bitch,” he growls, seizing me again—tighter this time. I can’t get away.

  “I will have you mind me or you’ll regret the rest of your days.”

  He hauls me roughly toward the door, careless of the fact that he’s hurting me. I fight him, flailing against his superior strength.

  “I’m pregnant!” I shout, struggling against him. “Gates and I are going to—”

  His reaction is so swift I never see it coming. I could never even have imagined it.

  Before I even know what’s happened, I’m sprawled on the floor, seeing stars from a blow he landed against the side of my face with his fist. Blinking, I try to get my bearings, but can’t before he yanks me up to my feet, then shoves me hard against the door.

  “You stupid little tramp. You reckless bitch,” he spits at me, his face so close to mine I can feel the scalding heat of his foul breath.

  “You’re coming home. You’re never going to see that son-of-a-bitch, Vaughn, again. We’ll get the bastard he put inside you dealt with, and you will never humiliate me like this again. Because if you don’t, I will destroy him. I’ll crush him. I’ll wrap him up in litigation so tight he’ll never see then end of it. And you’ll be dead to me. Just as dead to me as your tramp of a mother is dead to me. I won’t let you turn out like her. I won’t let you—”

  I shove him away, hard, feeling my own rage boiling up.

  “Get out,” I say, an odd calmness descending over me as I reach out to the security panel by the door. I lay my finger on the panic button, ready to pop it. “If you don’t leave now, I’ll have half the Hollywood Police department here in two minutes, and all the apartment security inside this door in thirty seconds flat.”

  My father’s expression shifts from rage to confusion. He looks at my hand on the panel, then back at me. He can’t believe I’m not folding. He can’t believe I’ve chosen something for myself over what he demands.

  He becomes calm too.

  “You’re dead,” he says. “I don’t have a daughter anymore. I hope you wind up in a ditch. That’s where you belong.”

  He reaches past me, grasping the door handle. He shoves me aside and is gone.

  With my last ounce of strength, I slam the door shut. Quickly, I turn the deadbolt in just enough time before I slump to the floor. My body shakes, and I heave in terror, fighting back the urge to cry. Bile rises in my throat.

  I’m barely able to breathe.

  Chapter 22

  Gates

  We wrapped filming early today and I’ve never been so glad to leave a place since being released from Walter Reed Medical Center. It was painful on set. The tension was so thick, nothing cut through it. Everyone from the gaffers to the catering crew is ready to be done with this colossal bit of expensive melodrama.

  And done with that worthless sack of shit, Bill Addison.

  On top of that, on my way out of the studio gates, I’ve picked up a couple of clown-cars filled with paparazzi. There’s no point trying to ditch them. They’re skilled at the mouse chase. I just let them follow me with the certain knowledge I’ll leave them at the gate into my condo complex. At least I can be guaranteed that much.

  There was a time when I rolled my eyes at people who believed the
y needed to live behind high walls, with security gates to restrict entry into their homes. Now I understand perfectly. The condo is almost the only place left where I feel like nobody can get at me or Winter. It’s a refuge against all the invasive assaults on our privacy.

  I come left off Hollywood Boulevard onto Fairfax with three cars still trailing me. When I slow down to take the right on Selma to get to the gate, I’m astonished to see Bill Addison coming out of the complex via the ground-level walkway. He sees me, and instantly moves fast toward my car, coming around to my door in a rage.