by Nicole Snow
Japan sounds good, or maybe New Zealand. Some distant island where Bare won't be the main American export for the next year. There has to be a magical place on this planet where I won't have to re-live this lie disguised as love, and where every day I survive a nervous breakdown feels like a major accomplishment.
One Month Later
Time's up. There's none left to cry, or reflect, or grieve because I don't let myself do it.
I ignore the headlines and the buzz on social media about the film. The studio wants me to finish my last scenes with Harkness first, before they find a proper replacement for Luke. I'm happy to comply.
I give my best tearful speech as Ali, pleading with the Senator for mercy. I'm supposed to make him show his weakness, giving Miles the opportunity he needs to save us by strangling the villain with his own handcuffs. Harkness gives an incredible performance with the stunt actor they've hired to stand in for Miles.
His fencing skills are truly a lost art. I thought the sword scene at the end sounded dumb the first time I saw it in the script, but that was before I saw what a living legend could do with his fancy footwork and heroic slinging.
“Truly a shame about your man,” he tells me one day, squeezing my shoulder, his wise old eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Thanks. It's not your problem.”
“Hang in there, lovely lady. These things have a funny way of working themselves out.”
I give him a fake smile. Older and wiser doesn't mean a thing when his advice is insane.
There's no happy ending here. No third chance, now that our second one is blown. Not after he savaged my mother, tearing my heart out in front of me.
Bebe calls me several times a week when I'm not on the set. She's in a mad rush to protect my mental state, hoping I won't breakdown and walk, causing her to lose an already tenuous commission.
I swear up and down that work is all I care about. It's a huge lie, of course, but since when were the comforting ones the most sinful?
Sweet distractions. Thank God for them.
They're a small relief from the nuclear surprise I'm doing my best not to acknowledge.
It doesn't hit me until I'm at mom's place again, alone during the nights, a sheet pulled up to my neck while I fight not to let my mind wander. She's taken several days off to go to a conference upstate, leaving me alone.
There's only one place my brain goes, and it isn't good.
Hell, will anything ever be good again after the pregnancy test last week confirmed my worst fears?
I'll never know how or why my birth control failed. It must've been our last night together, before the world came down the next day. He dialed my baby fever up to ten, or maybe I just missed a pill or two I really shouldn't have in all the commotion that started as soon as he went to prison.
No, I haven't been to a doctor yet.
Hell no, I haven't told mom.
For now, it's my secret, and it's the most bittersweet excuse to hide from the world when I'm not in front of a camera. It's also great motivation to get on with planning my life after the movie in earnest.
I need to leave Chicago, and never come back. Anywhere, far from the wealthy, evil reach of the Shaws will do.
This isn't about running from a big, fat mistake anymore. It's about keeping my baby safe, keeping it innocent, and most of all, making sure it never learns the truth about its father, Lucus Shaw.
They say a woman can't erase a man who's made his mark down to her DNA. Obviously, they're wrong.
They haven't felt the hate in my heart.
They haven't felt my pain.
They haven't figured out that with enough anger and hurt, a woman can do anything. That includes extracting the venom, erasing the good times and the bad, learning to forget the man who came to me camouflaged in love over and over, only to jam the dagger of truth he was hiding deep in my side.
No more. I'm pulling it out, however much it hurts, and then I'm walking away. One agonizing step at a time, I will leave Luke behind.
12
Rewind (Luke)
Pushups keep a man sane when he's wearing orange.
I used to watch bad prison movies growing up, and always laughed at the lengths guys would go to get their time lifting weights in the glorified recess pits outside. Now, it's not so funny, and I'm about one more week away from siding with the creepy guys wearing motorcycle club tattoos if it means a permit to pump iron.
Actually, I have these guys to thank for nobody else fucking with me yet. Hayds told me they're on notice, men from an affiliate of the fearsome Grizzlies MC, who he used to do deals with cage fighting downtown. If anyone gives me trouble, they're bound to get a broken nose.
It's not much consolation when I'm stuck like a pig waiting to be slaughtered. Pushups, on the other hand...they're practically a divine kiss.
I work myself until I can't in my tiny cell. Grunting, sweating, muscles giving out after a couple hundred body lifts. The exertion sends the precious hellfire through my veins that lets me momentarily forget the blinding need to choke Ericka Plomb with my bare hands.
My brothers promised I wouldn't last a week. It's been at least five, and I'm starting to lose track of time.
For all our wealth and connections, they underestimated the power of a movie star in a popular film committing a horrific crime. Hell, I'm starting to believe it myself every time one of those bikers slips me a tabloid in the cafeteria, or shows me the latest Twitter printouts they've smuggled in.
BARE NAKED SHAME! LUCUS SHAW HEADING FOR SERIOUS TIME IN THE SLAMMER!
The headlines screamed it high and low for about a week, each more insufferable than the last. Then King Silas saved his wife and royal baby from a shipwreck overseas, and my dirty deed receded into background noise as the people moved onto happier diversions in the news.
I've thought long and hard about how to get her back. It's all I think about whenever exercise hasn't stunned my brain quiet.
Prison makes me miss a lot of things, but nothing compares to her.
I'll give up my fortune, my fame, even my pilot's license if it means having her know I didn't lay a finger on her insane mother. There's no obvious way to prove my innocence, except for one.
I'm collapsed on the floor when I hear a warden's boots shuffling toward me on the cement floor. The lock to my cell door buzzes, and the tall, wiry man I've seen before stands in the doorway. “You have visitors. Let's go.”
It's a minute's walk down the hall, past the other cells, toward the small room they give the prisoners as their only contact with visitors from the outside world. Most of the bastards in their cells have stopped leering, scared off by the MC protection I've got thanks to Hayds. A few of them, though, know exactly who I am.
They stare through the openings in their cells. The brave ones curse, spit, tell me I'll be left alone in the shower one of these days, and then they'll give my 'rich boy ass' payback in spades for beating an innocent woman.
The noise fades when we're through the security checkpoint. I stand still while he opens the door, wondering why Hayds bothers to see me when he can't do a damned thing.
“Thirty minutes,” the warden says.
I nod, and step inside. This time, my billionaire brother isn't alone. There's another silhouette towering over him, familiar scruff on his face, wearing a thousand dollar Oxford shirt with the top two buttons undone.
“Fly Right, what the hell have you gotten yourself into?” Grant stands up when I lean in for a brotherly hug.
“Can't believe you came.” If he's here at all, it's good news.
We share a quick embrace before Hayden slaps our shoulders, his stern look reminding us why we're really together. “Grant's people ran the tapes,” he says.
“Shit.” I thought I'd be ready for this, receiving my one ticket out of here, and back to Robbi. But my heart tells another story, pounding like a war drum, threatening to rupture if this doesn't go how I hope. “And?”
Grant smiles,
the blue eyes we share twinkling above his beard. “And Wall Street's a place where a man can buy anything, for the right price. Lucky for you, I called in a few favors with the data firm I told you about. They owed me big after the money I poured into their company last year. You wouldn't believe how fast the bastards came knocking when they thought I had another seven figures waiting for them.”
“Come on, Grant, let's get to the point. We've only got half an hour.” Hayds reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small black box, and lays it on the table.
I raise an eyebrow. “Really, bro? The nineties called, and they want their voice recorder back.”
“It's this, or our word of mouth. The guards don't let us bring phones. Hell, I had to bribe them four figures just to keep them from confiscating this thing. Here, have a listen.” He pushes the big white play button in the middle.
The room falls silent while I hold my breath, hands clenched underneath the table in a silent prayer. It's audio from dad's library five years ago. When I hear my old man's voice, I tense, knowing what's coming next will make or break everything.
“Why so much overtime, Ms. Plomb? This library doesn't even have a speck of dust. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to get my attention with your work ethic more than that short, fuckable skirt.”
Laughter fills the silence after his words. A woman's. “Oh, Mr. Shaw, I've heard what they say about you. Stop with this Ms. Plomb stuff. Must you be so formal, or is it just because you haven't had to call me Ericka yet when I'm on my knees?”
Dad growls. All three of us try very hard not to imagine what the fuck is happening on that tape. I doubt my brothers brought barf bags.
“Well, Ericka, you're a married woman. I heard about your husband's discipline problems in accounting when I decided to check into your family.”
“Oh, Danny's a damned idiot. I wouldn't be here flirting if I was getting what I need at home.” She inhales sharply, and there's a sound like a zipper coming undone. “Forget him, Mr. Shaw. If I'm not worried about him finding out, there's no reason you need to be.”
“Who said I was worried? Cute, really, thinking you're the first gal with a ring on her finger I've ever had. We'll do this, and we'll do it dirty, but you'll follow three simple rules.” Inwardly, I'm groaning. He sounds like he's cutting a business deal, not seducing the woman who's brought me nothing but misery.
“Just three? I can handle a lot more than that, Mr. Shaw. A whole hell of a lot more.”
“Fuck,” he grunts, lust heavy in his tone, regaining his composure a second later. “First rule is, this only happens in our off hours, usually late, and always in private. You don't call me, I'll call you, whenever I'm ready. Second, no money. I don't pay for sex or make favors. If that's what you're looking for, then you can pull up your dress and walk the fuck out. Anything from me that's not part of your regular salary is a gift, or extra hours on your pay stub to fool anybody getting nosy. I'm nobody's sugar daddy. I can go downtown any night and have my pick, Ericka. Never forget it.”
“I'm a lucky woman, aren't I?” she coos, sarcasm and genuine worship smearing her words. “What's the last?”
“No drama. I don't do scorned women or pissed off husbands when I fuck married pussy. It's your responsibility to keep your feelings in check, and make sure nobody finds out about us. If you'd like, I'll help send your husband and daughter places where they won't worry why you're not home most nights.”
“Oh, my. Whole nights, you said?”
There's a long pause, and a smacking sound that can only be a kiss. My stomach turns.
“If you keep me interested, then yes. Your body is already doing a damned fine job at it. Oh, and one more thing.” I hear a rustling sound, fabric snapping, a woman gasping as she goes down hard on a desk. “Call me Frank.”
Grant punches the old recorder with his fist. “You've heard the relevant part. The rest, you really don't want to hear.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I'm glad you got your friends at the data recovery place to do your dirty work. Don't think we'd ever be able to sit through hours of this. Tell me there's video as well?”
Hayden leans forward, his hands folded. “Fortunately and unfortunately, there is. Where do you think we recovered the audio from?”
“Christ.” My hand is almost shaking as I bring it up, wiping the sweat from my face. My brothers are just as drenched, the hot lamp hanging over us glowing like a second sun. “You're sure this is the first time they ever fucked? You're certain?”
“Brother, the guy who fed me this knows I would've busted his balls if he left anything out,” Grant says. “I came all the way from New York and swore off a camping trip in Maine for this. If I wasted my time, I'd wring necks, and he knows it.”
“You have to get in touch with Robbi. Show her,” I say, guiding my fists slowly to the table.
“Yeah, that's a problem. She threatened us with a restraining order over the calls a few weeks ago,” Hayden tells me. “There's also nothing damning on this tape that'll prove Ericka lied about what happened in your dressing room. Will it make your girl second guess what went down five years ago? Probably. Will it get you off the hook with her, and the rest of the world?”
“No.” I admit it. My heart sinks into my stomach. Much as I hate it, he's right. She mixed her blood too well with the fake crap when she punched herself in the mouth. Even the lab tests we ordered came back inconclusive.
“Tell us how to reach her,” Grant says, his shoulders bowing up. “You know her best. There's got to be something we can say, or do, to get her attention, and make her listen.”
“I don't know how many lies Ericka's told her since the morning it went to shit. She'll walk away pissed off and confused unless she hears it from the horse's mouth.”
“A confession?” Grant's eyebrows go up. “Luke, stop talking crazy. There's no way we're getting jack out of the crazy, lying witch unless you're asking us to break the law.”
“Obviously not. Won't do the family any good if we all wind up behind bars.” I look at Hayden, sadness filling my eyes. “Especially when Hayds has a daughter on the way.”
I'm happy for him, but damn if I'm not jealous. Every minute he's not in this place, working and playing as a free man, a woman he loves at his side with his kid in her belly....he's living my dream.
Same one I chased that landed me here. Same one costing me my sanity every dark minute I ponder letting go, cutting some kind of plea deal, and leaving Robbi to a life without me a second time.
No.
Fuck no.
“Get them in a room together,” I say. “We're Shaws, for God's sake. Richer than royalty put together, and smart enough to make our own fame and fortune. Figuring out how to get a woman and her daughter together for a sit down with the video ought to be easy.”
My two older brothers share a look. When they turn back to me, they both nod.
“Whatever it takes to get you out of here,” Hayds tells me.
“Any ideas?” Grant asks, leaning back in his chair.
I smile, a gesture that's alien after tension ruled my face for so long. “I have a few. Listen closely...”
One Week Later
In five minutes, it's going down.
I've tracked the time religiously, heard what few updates I can get through my brother's biker buddies, and I know it's scheduled for nine, at a small hotel next to the studio. My brothers roped in my agent, Jim, to fake the studio's invite.
He wasn't real keen at first, but when he realized he could make up a decent chunk of his lost commission from my role on Bare falling through, he jumped.
The guards are shuffling us into the cafeteria for another late morning breakfast. If Hayden and Grant can't fix this, there's a strong chance I'll spend many more years here, stuck, living like a shadow.
It's not half as mortifying as losing her twice. I need Robbi back, and I need to carry out what I started. I need it down to my bones.
The ring on her finge
r, the kid I'll give her, the life we're supposed to share until we're nothing but dust in the wind...it's out of my hands. It's fucking infuriating.
I did all I could, wracking my brain to help them find the tapes, and then giving them an idea how they could get Ericka and Robbi in the same place to drop the bomb.
What happens next is up to fate.
The hopes, the prayers, the love I remember bring me no peace. There's no making any.
I'll never breathe well again unless Ericka gets exposed as the monstrous fraud she is.
13
Tumbling Down (Robin)
I don't understand why the small conference room is almost empty, or why they brought us here. Fishing into my purse for the phone, I read the email again, eyeballing the extra chairs, coffee, and cups waiting on the table.
Special guest, 9:00 a.m. We'll be discussing how to move the film forward with a new Miles Black, plus some surprising news.
It's such a brief note, and it doesn't sound much like one Emmie would send out, the lead assistant who does the scheduling for Pierce and crew. I'm still standing when I hear the door open behind me, five minutes earlier than I expect, knowing how many late stragglers come into these meetings.
I do a turn, and my jaw hits the floor.
It's Hayden Shaw. Plus another man it takes me several seconds to recognize, until I remember the old photos in the house, and the two times he visited near the holidays. Grant, the eldest, in all his high end lumbersexual glory, wealth and ruggedness colliding in a way that's almost as handsome as Luke's hard edge.
As handsome as he used to be, I mean. I hate him now, I have to keep telling myself. Almost as much as the two persistent idiots taking up the same space in this room.
“Robin, have a seat. Please. We need to talk.” He goes to the head of the table and pulls out a chair.
“Holy shit, no. I'm out of here.” I turn, and start heading for the door, but Grant steps in front of it, blocking the entire frame with his huge body.