“Bruises,” I tell him. “You haven’t seen me covered in bruises.”
The violence my dad never gave to me when I was a kid, I got from Ben.
“He hit you?” Damian asks.
“Yeah,” I answer, “a lot. That’s going to be the story. I’m going to be the only celebrity in the fucking world who gets naked pictures leaked and nobody’s going to give a shit about the naughty bits. Everyone’s going to be looking at the bruises.”
“But that’s tantamount to him admitting to the assault,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say, “I guess so, but I think blackmail is going to be the more hefty charge.”
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“I’m not great,” I tell him. “I’m not looking forward to any of what’s going to come next, but it’s really too late to worry about that now. What’s done is done and there’s not a damn thing that either of us can do about it now.”
I don’t know if this is the nicest restaurant in the city or not, but it’s not the kind of place where anyone can just walk in out of the gutter and get a table. There’s a dress code here, and a certain conduct is expected of those who dine here.
None of that, though, seems to have any effect on the thirty-something man who comes over to the table where I’m sitting with Damian, pulls out his phone and takes a picture of me.
The man sees that I’m looking at him and he says, “Sorry. You’re Emma Roxy, right?”
“You’re the one with the picture,” I answer. “You tell me.”
“Do you think I could get a picture with just the two of us?” he asks.
It’s all I can do to keep Damian in his seat.
* * *
I get the call an hour after Damian and I leave the restaurant that Ben’s been apprehended and they want me to come by and take a quick look through the glass to make sure they’ve got the right guy.
If it’s what they need to screw him to the fucking wall, I’m happy to do it.
Damian, bless him, won’t leave my side even when I’m walking into the police station and identifying the jackass who tried to ruin my life twice and get away with it.
They take Ben away and, even knowing there’s going to be a trial and I’m going to have to testify and everything, it already feels like so much is already done. The fact that he’s nowhere he can get to me is enough for now.
Damian was right about one thing: Leaking the photos was a stupid idea. I don’t know if he didn’t think I would call the police if he let the pictures slip or not, but now that everyone in the world is seeing either blurred or explicit shots of me covered in scrapes and bruises.
That weekend, Ben told me at the time, was to make up for what a child he’d been a few days before. He was referencing our “discussion” that put those bruises on me, and while he told me that he wanted to take those pictures because of “how sexy” he thought I looked, I knew why he was really taking them.
He wanted a reminder of just how much power he had over me. He wanted something he could throw in my face if I ever went so far as to defy him. Well, now I’ve defied him and that picture is in everyone’s face and it’s going to go a long way toward influencing whatever jury he ends up with.
For the first time in my life, I’m actually not ashamed about those bruises.
“You’re going to have to make a statement at some point,” Damian says.
“I know,” I tell him.
“It would have been better if you could have gotten in front of this before he sent out those pictures, but—” he stops. “I think things are going to be all right,” he says.
“Yeah,” I answer.
This is my first real movie.
This is my first one.
When people talk about me from now on, they’re going to be talking about those pictures. Maybe that won’t always be the case, but that’s my immediate future at least.
This isn’t how I wanted people to know my name.
Damian’s trying to be helpful, I know that and, I’m sure, over the next weeks or however long this lasts, he’s going to be. Right now, though, I wish he were a little more steady on his feet.
We eventually decide that the best course of action is to write up a statement, phone it in to a couple of people to make sure it sounds good and then call a press conference. Damian asks me if I want him to say anything, but I tell him this is something I should really do alone.
So, before the late news we’ve finished up a draft that sounds reasonable and I give a call to my agent and a couple of other people whose calls I haven’t returned until now. With a few minor changes here and there—primarily cosmetic, nothing to change the substance—we put the thing in motion.
Me, I have no idea how to call a press conference. I don’t even know where one would start with that.
This is where Damian comes in handy.
Within an hour of finishing up the statement, I’m walking out the front gate of my driveway to a podium that someone, although I couldn’t tell you who, has already set up.
Damian stands behind me to show his support, but that’s the most I would allow.
There’s any number of possibilities of how this thing is going to end up going and I don’t want to drag him down with me. He’s innocent in all this.
“Good evening,” I say into the microphone and try to keep my eyes fully open despite the multiple bright lights in my face. “As I’m sure you’re all aware, I have, up until earlier today, been the victim of blackmail. The man responsible for this has been arrested and charges are being filed. Judging by the response in the media to the release of these pictures, there has been some outcry regarding the state of my body in the photographs, and I would like to thank all of you who’ve shown your support and…” I trail off.
…the state of my body.
I clear my throat.
“I appreciate your concern. I don’t have too much more to say before I answer a few of your questions directly, but I do want to say that what I went through is not uncommon. It’s not rare, it’s not in sharp decline, it’s not a relic of the draconian past. This happens every day to thousands of women. Thousands. Tonight, the world is talking about me because I’m in these photos and I’m acting in a new movie, but what I think we should all be talking about a lot more often is how we can work to stop the cycle of abuse and protect these women who are, so many of them, afraid for their lives. Not all of them make it out on their own. I think the least we can do is try to make it easier for these women to find their freedom. Thank you. I will now take your questions.”
There are so many flashes of light and shouting voices that for a few seconds, I’m just frozen there, overwhelmed by the sensory input.
My heart is racing as I point to one of the reporters.
“How long were you being blackmailed?” he asks, “And are there more pictures?”
“To my knowledge, there are no more pictures, although if there are, I would imagine the police will take care of them,” I answer.
“Take care of them?” the reporter asks.
“Evidence,” I answer. “I would imagine they’d take care of anything like that as new evidence, although I certainly don’t speak for the police and am largely unfamiliar with their procedure in this kind of situation.”
Someone else shouts, “Do you think this is going to affect your ability to find work in the entertainment business?”
I have to smile.
“I don’t know,” I answer. “I guess that depends on what kind of mood Hollywood is in that day.”
A few of the reporters snicker and the rest of them shout follow-up questions.
“When were these pictures taken?”
“Were you involved in a sexual relationship with the man who blackmailed you, if so, when did it end or are the two of you still an item?”
That’s my favorite question of the bunch but I’m not about to answer it.
Calm, cool, and only tell them what you’re prepared to tell them and what
you have to tell them. That’s the advice Damian gave me when we finished the draft.
When one reporter asks me if I have any scars and, if so, would the press be allowed to photograph them, I find it a little difficult to remain calm and cool and as far as only telling him what I’m prepared to tell him and what I have to tell him… There’s a lot I’d like to tell him.
The press conference drags on and I answer questions as best I can.
No, this wasn’t the first time he had physically abused me. Yes, I did give him an amount of money; no I didn’t pay him off completely.
This whole exercise is dragging on into its twentieth minute and I’m doing my best to hang in there, to answer as many questions as possible and try to limit speculation and thus, hopefully facilitate the whole thing to blow over just a little quicker.
Finally, at about the point where I’m seriously questioning whether there’s going to be any lasting damage to my cornea because that jerkoff in the back can’t figure out how to light me without blinding me, I say, “One more question.”
I’ve just had enough.
“Yes,” one reporter asks. “Did you find it sexually arousing to be photographed like that?”
“I’m sorry, who are you working for?” I ask.
“I’m freelance,” he says.
“No,” I tell him. “I did not find it sexually arousing to have my abusive boyfriend-at-the-time commemorate the savage beating he’d given me, but go to hell for asking.”
“Okay, that’s going to be all,” Damian says, jumping in, only they just start asking him questions instead of me. He has a way, though, of not saying anything no matter how many people are trying to get him to talk.
It’s miraculous.
“Thank you for coming,” Damian says.
Damian leads me back through the throng and back to my house as some of the reporters try to slip one last question in.
When we get back into my house and the front door is closed behind us, I just sit with my back against the door and cry.
Chapter Fourteen
The Baton
Damian
It’s only been a couple of hours since the press conference and Emma’s starting to calm down. Although we both knew that this press conference would likely be the most difficult part of the process, neither of us expected the questions to be so thoughtless.
She’s in the living room, trying to clear her head with a movie and I’m in the kitchen trying to find the liquor when the doorbell rings.
“Could you get that?” she calls. “I’m really not in the mood to see anyone right now.”
“Yeah,” I call back.
I drop what I’m doing and go to the door. Opening it, there’s an older man standing on the other side of the door.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“You’re that actor fella, aren’t ya?” the man asks.
“I’m sorry, who are you?” I ask.
“I’m Shane,” the man says. “Shane Roxy.”
“You must be Emma’s father,” I respond.
This should be interesting.
“That’s right,” the man says. “If ya don’t mind, I need to talk to my daughter.”
“She’s been through a rough day and she’s resting now,” I tell him. The way it comes out, it sounds like she’s just gotten out of the hospital. “I’d be happy to let her know that you stopped by.”
“If I could just talk to her for a minute,” Shane, Emma’s father, says.
“I really don’t think that right now is a good time,” I tell him. “I’m sorry.”
“Now, just who in the hell do you think you are, young man?” Emma’s father asks. “Boy, you’d better get my daughter or—there you are, sweetheart,” he says and I turn around to find Emma coming to the door.
“What are you doing here?” she asks. “I told you I didn’t want to see or talk to you again.”
“Young man, if you don’t mind giving us a minute…” Shane says.
I look over at Emma and she gives me a slight, but clear shake of the head.
“I don’t think I will,” I tell him.
“You know,” Shane says, looking past me at Emma, “I saw that press conference. It was all over the television.”
“Glad you tuned in,” Emma says. “Now get the fuck away from me.”
“That’s quite a tone for a woman to take with her father,” Shane says.
“Look,” I tell him, “we’ve both asked you to go and I would hate to have to call the police. Why don’t we just end the conversation now and we can end this peacefully?”
“Are you threatening me, boy?” Shane asks and I’m actually rather amused by the way this guy is talking to me.
“I’m not threatening anyone,” I tell him. “I just think it’s for the best that—”
“You know, I think it says a lot about you, Emma,” Shane interrupts, “that you’re willing to let those vile pictures of you out into the world, but you can’t see it in your heart to talk to your own flesh and blood.”
“I’m not going to tell you again,” Emma says. “Get off of my property and stay away from me.”
I can see a little of both sides here. On the one hand, Emma has every right to dismiss her father, especially after how he was when she was growing up. On the other hand, the guy just wants to talk to her. Still, if sides are to be taken, I’m on hers.
“You’re willing to talk to a bunch of reporters about how you got those photos taken of you by your boyfriend,” Shane says, “but you’re not willing to talk to your father. I always knew you’d end up a whore.”
My fists are clenched and one arm is already cocking back when Emma gets between me and her father. I would love to punch the guy until my fist goes through the back of his skull, but Emma’s right to stop me. That’s not going to solve anything.
“Well, looks like the pretty boy’s got a temper,” Shane says and I scoff.
Exactly what happens next is a bit of a blur.
I call Shane a sick son of a bitch and tell him to leave. He starts yelling at me and the next thing I know, there’s a flash and my right eye feels like it’s about to pop like a stepped-on cherry tomato.
I’ve never actually been punched before.
“Get the fuck out!” Emma is screaming and I’m already throwing punches back.
A couple of them connect and as Shane staggers back, he finally seems to take the hint. He turns and runs back to his car parked outside the gate, speeding off a few seconds later.
“Are you all right?” Emma asks.
“I gotta be honest,” I tell her. “I don’t think your dad likes me.”
She laughs. “That’s usually the sign of a decent character,” she says. “How’s the eye?”
I’m actually not feeling it right now. With all the adrenaline going through me, I can feel an increase of pressure where that fuckhead gave me his cheap shot, but if there’s any pain, I don’t notice it.
“It’s not so bad,” I tell her. “How does it look?”
“You’re going to have a shiner,” she says. “Dutch is going to be thrilled.”
“Do you think there’s any way we could maneuver me getting punched by your dad into a good thing in the press?” he asks.
“If it’s all the same to you,” she says, “I’d rather just forget any of this even happened.”
“You should really get a better gate,” he says, “maybe one that latches and won’t open unless the person on the other side puts in a code or something.”
“Yeah,” she says, “I’ll call tomorrow. Until then,” she continues, “let’s get some ice on that thing.”
I follow Emma into the kitchen and she pulls an ice pack out of the freezer.
“You know,” I tell her, “I’ve never been in a fight before.”
“You did pretty well,” she says. “You didn’t knock him out or anything, but you got some pretty solid blows in there.”
I chuckle, saying, “I just beat up your dad.�
�
“I think beat up might be a bit of an overstatement,” she says with a smile, “but if he hadn’t run off like a bitch, I have no doubt you could have taken him.”
The adrenaline must be on its way out because the area around my eye is beginning to throb.
“Just hold still,” she says and leans in close to inspect the eye. “You’ve got a little cut,” she says.
“Do I?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says. “It’s nothing to worry about—the thing really is pretty small. We’ll just get that cleaned and get a bandage on it and then we’ll see about taking care of that swelling.”
I shrug.
I’m not going to lie: I feel like a bit of a hard ass right now. Yeah, I know I took the first punch, but I jumped right in there and if it weren’t for the twin forces of Emma trying to talk me down and Shane getting the hell out of there, I might have done some serious damage.
They say you never really know yourself until you’ve been in a fight and I think I did all right. That’s pretty cool.
I wait at the kitchen table while Emma goes out of the room to find some bandages. She comes back with a plastic basket filled with first aid stuff.
“You might have to help me find the antibiotic stuff,” she says. “It’s been a while since I’ve been through here.”
We take a minute and pull out a box of bandages and some triple antibiotic ointment. When Emma pulls out the alcohol, though, I start to get a little nervous.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
“It’s for your cut,” she says. “We need to make sure it’s clean before we bandage it, otherwise it might get infected.”
“Isn’t that what that ointment is for?” I ask.
“It’ll just take a second,” she says.
I would much rather run at top speed into the side of a cement building than have alcohol poured on a cut. There’s a difference between dull pain and sharp pain and what she’s about to do is on the razor’s side.
“I really think the ointment’s going to be enough,” I tell her.
Costars (A Standalone Romance Novel) (New York City Bad Boy Romance) Page 18