by J. A. Huss
I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m not sure I can handle much more public scrutiny.
We enter the building and I’m led down a long hallway. There’s no stage in sight. No people in sight, either. He points to a door and then opens it for me. “It’s down the hall and to the left. They can’t hear you from this far away and you won’t be interfering if you just stay back.”
I nod and walk through the door alone and find myself in a dimly lit hallway. I can hear a few voices further down so I follow that until I reach a black curtain. Peeking through, I can see the set. It’s incredible. It looks like an actual city street alley with a side of a building, complete with a fire escape as the backdrop.
There’s lots of talking at the moment. People are laughing and joking. Vaughn is not in view. I lean against the wall and consider if I’m being overly dramatic about my recent experience.
I mean, I’m fine. Yeah, it got a little dicey for a few minutes, but I’m fine. My heart is not beating fast anymore. I’ve calmed down from the scare, and now I’m feeling more ridiculous than anything.
I’m just about to turn around and say forget it when I hear his voice. It’s booming and boisterous and a smile immediately forms on my face. God, I love him.
He walks out onto the set dressed in a suit, like he was at a party. His face, which is usually invisible in post-production, is clearly visible now. In fact, he looks a lot like the man I met on the beach the night of Samantha’s wedding.
I have not thought about that night in months, but now it hits me how far we have come from those first arguments on the island.
God, I was such a bitch to him. I smile as I watch that same man on set in front of me. He was more patient than he should’ve been. Especially that weekend. And I was so scared of what he represented to me. The control was frightening.
And now he’s more aloof than I’m comfortable with.
It’s probably my fault, but that doesn’t make me wish for a do-over any less. I wish I was back on that beach right now, experiencing him for the first time again.
His co-star, Valencia Cruz, joins him in the scene. She’s his ex-girlfriend from his teen years.
She’s very beautiful. She’s wearing a gold gown. They must’ve just come out of some kind of a ball in this part of the script. She’s very exotic, like Bebe. Long, dark hair. Striking amber eyes. Olive skin. And a body most eighteen-year-old girls would be jealous of, even though she’s about the same age as Vaughn.
They talk briefly on set, and then there’s a call for quiet and the stage people do their thing.
I strain to hear what’s happening, I’m not really that close, but my whole world goes silent when I witness what happens next.
They are kissing.
Vaughn leans in, cupping her face, his mouth covering hers in a kiss so passionate I almost want to faint from the steam. I move a little closer to get a better look. As he kisses her, it feels familiar. It feels like he’s kissing her the way he kisses me.
Then his hands are all over her body, grasping at her tits, her ass, and then he roughly grabs one of her gown straps and pulls until it breaks. He yanks her dress down, exposing her breasts, all the while his mouth never stops its assault on her lips.
I’m stunned. I’m picturing our rough sex the other night and I swear to God, I think he uses some of these moves on me!
I’ve watched him kiss countless women on screen, but he wasn’t my husband. I turn and walk away, following the dimly lit hallway back to where I entered, then make my way outside.
It’s dark now. I click the keychain and my car beeps, so I head in that direction, still trying to process what I saw and how I feel about it.
I sit in the car for a few moments trying to wrap my head around things.
This is his job. I realize that, but I can’t come to terms with the idea that my husband gets to have a rough makeout session with his ex-girlfriend and call it work.
I program the GPS for home, just in case I get lost again, and then drive off the lot. Security waves to me as I leave, but I can’t even pretend to be normal and wave back.
The drive home brings me no clarity. In fact I’m more confused than ever. I don’t feel like going to that Black Bash, but I feel… duped for some reason. I feel like there’s a whole other world that exists outside my little bubble of isolation. Like the Twitter stuff. It’s a world where people are talking about me. Like the Tiffany’s stuff. A world where people recognize me in a city where I know like four people with any amount of intimacy.
And what else are they saying? How much of what they are saying are things I don’t know about?
I pull into the garage just as my phone dings. A text from Vaughn.
Still working late. Don’t wait up.
Yeah, don’t wait up, my ass. I grab my shopping bags and take them inside, passing by Vaughn’s office to get to our bedroom. The phone rings in there just as I pass.
Figures. More things to make me uneasy.
I drop the bags off on the bed and head back to the office just as the message starts to play.
“Vaughn?” a woman asks on the other line—Valencia? “We’re still on for tonight, right? I wasn’t sure if you were still into it. So I’m gonna assume you are. Meet you at the Bash. You’re still Bogart, I’m still Bacall.” The message ends.
Wow. Just wow. My husband is going to this big party after denying it in front of everyone yesterday at Thanksgiving dinner, and not only that, he’s going dressed up as one half of an iconic Hollywood movie couple. And I’m not the other half.
I take a deep breath.
I’m going to that party. I need to know why my husband is acting so strange. I need to know what this Black Bash is all about. And I feel like Vaughn is trying to hide it from me. Maybe it’s something personal with him. Or maybe he’s trying to protect me. But either way, I don’t want to be left out of his life because he thinks I can’t handle things.
He’s been there for me, so if this is about him, then I want to return that gesture.
And if it’s about me… then I want to fight my own battles.
I like the prince, but I’m not helpless and that’s how I feel right now.
I rummage through my closet until I find the Halloween outfit Vaughn bought me. We went to Larry’s house for a party, but ended up going home after a few hours since I was not really up for parties back then.
I pull it out. It’s Cleopatra. He was dressed as Mark Antony. This is the only costume I have, so it will have to do.
I squeeze into it, crushing my girls into the bustier, and turn to look at myself in the mirror. That makes me smile. Because I look damn good in this costume. I grab the accessories—an elaborate headdress, some costume jewelry, a black wig with pretty beaded braids. And then I do the heavy eye makeup à la Elizabeth Taylor.
If Vaughn is going as one half of an iconic Hollywood couple, I’m going as Cleopatra.
I grab my phone, pull up the invitation via email, and then head to the car.
I have no idea what is happening at this party tonight, but I’m definitely going to find out.
I get in the car and program the address into the GPS and then head out. The place is in downtown, and it’s actually not far from where I got lost this afternoon. But I’m not gonna let fear prevent me from going.
I need to figure out what’s going on.
Chapter Twenty
#StarOfShameThatsMe
“HOW do I look?” I ask Valencia.
“Perfect, as always, Vaughn.” she coos. “But”—she’s frowning now—“I think it’s a bad idea. I mean, what if Grace finds out?”
“Grace is at home. Where she’s been for the last three months. I told her not to wait up for me.”
Val nods and hits send on the email. “OK, then here it is. Two access codes to the Black Bash. But don’t say I didn’t warn you tomorrow when this shit hits the fan.”
“Thank you so much.” I check my email and when it comes in, I download bo
th attachments and forward one directly to my date and then turn to go.
“Hey,” Val calls after me.
“What?” I say, still walking towards the studio door. I’m already late since filming went on longer than expected and I just want to get to the party.
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
I don’t even turn back. “I do, Val. I do.”
I say that with a confidence I don’t feel though. Because while I know what goes on at a Black Bash, I’ve never been the guest of honor before. And tonight, I am.
The drive downtown is stop and go, as is typical on Friday nights, and by the time I get there, it’s nearly ten o’clock.
I pull into the old building’s garage entrance and flash my access code via phone at the man with the scanner. This place is about to be torn down to make room for some trendy new lofts, so I’m sure the Bash organizers figured it was the perfect place for a party.
The location is never the same from year to year. It’s all very hush-hush until after Halloween and then that’s all anyone in Hollywood is talking about—the stars afraid they will be the ones on display that year, and the media excited to get even with celebrities who may have treated them badly.
One person each year is the guest of honor. The epitome of bad behavior. The one person who deserves to be shamed above all others.
And this year it’s me.
That Buzz bitch has had it in for me for more than a decade. She blames me for what happened. And no matter how many times I tried to explain myself back then, she never accepted my apology.
Threatening that editor a few months back was probably a big mistake, but it felt good to use my status and power to fuck up her plan of getting an interview out of me.
I drive up to the top level of the parking garage and park the car. Another set of headlights flashes at me from down the row, and I get out and adjust my suit.
Marjorie steps out of her car wearing the houndstooth suit Lauren Bacall made famous in The Big Sleep. She eyes me up and down as she approaches. “Looking good, Bogie.” She slips a masquerade mask over her eyes and I do the same.
I smile down at her. “Ready?”
She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I’m not sure, but I’m going through with it.”
She wraps her arm in mine and we walk into the party together.
Chapter Twenty-One
#NUNYA
IT’S dark and there must be a smoke machine somewhere to add to the eerie effect, but it’s not necessary because this party is creepy as hell. Everyone is dressed up and no one looks familiar. I just hope no one recognizes me until I find Vaughn.
God, I pray, please don’t let him be cheating on me. I don’t think I could take it.
With that little prayer I walk forward into the cavernous room. The party is really all six floors of the building, but only the top two have ‘exhibits’.
The exhibits are partitioned off with thick white canvas sheets hanging from the ceiling to make a sort of cubicle. And even though I know that there are things inside the makeshift rooms that I don’t need to see, curiosity gets the better of me and I peek inside. On three sides, each sheet is displaying a looped video of an unlucky actor.
I wander through the crowd, not taking a drink from any of the servers—who are all dressed up as the Invisible Man and that makes everything triple creepy—because I don’t actually trust that the drinks aren’t drugged.
I’m here for one reason only. To find my husband and ask him what the hell is going on.
A curtain opens as I walk past and I catch a glimpse of some nude photos of a famous starlet and the sounds of a sex tape playing. Jesus. So that’s what this is about. The hall of shame. The pictures that couldn’t be posted publicly for fear of being sued? The sex tape someone paid to have scrubbed? Because while I might’ve been depressed for a few weeks this year, I was certainly on top of my celebrity gossip until very recently. I never saw or heard of that sex tape.
I follow the person who came out of the tent-like room right into the next one.
This time it’s a picture of a famous singer with two black eyes and her assailant’s mug shot. So he was arrested? That was never in the news either.
The singer’s music is playing in the background, but her frantic call to 911 is superimposed over it.
I leave the tent, repulsed at how they are invading her privacy. Why is that anyone’s business? Why do people think just because you’re famous that they get to know every detail of your life?
I mean, I get it. It’s wrong for him to hurt her and he deserves to be held accountable. She needs help. But how is this helping her? How is exposing her most private moments helping her?
Suddenly there’s a hum of murmurs circulating through the party. People are leaning in to whisper, all looking at the elevator. I watch with them as the outdated counter over the top of the doors calls out which floor it’s on.
It dings that it’s arrived on six, and then the doors open. A collective gasp goes up from the crowd as Vaughn appears dressed as Humphrey Bogart. On his arm, and clinging far too tightly to my husband, is a blonde woman dressed as Lauren Bacall.
People start muttering Grace, around me.
“Grace!” someone calls out. “Why did you let your husband bring you to this?”
I look over to find the voice, but the crowd is far too thick now. People are pouring out of the stairwell, desperately trying to get a glimpse of Vaughn and the woman they think is me.
Vaughn ignores them, as does the woman, and he steps forward. People move aside as he enters the vast room and then he leans down and asks a question of a girl standing close.
She raises her arm and points to a tent behind me.
The whole room looks in that direction.
That tent is made up of thick black curtains. I’m only a few feet away, in fact, so I start walking towards the entrance. An arm darts out to block my way and a large man dressed as a Stormtrooper stops me from entering. “Guests of honor first, bitch. You know the rules.”
OK. I stand my ground, waiting to see what they’ve got behind the curtains about Vaughn.
He steps forward, only a few feet in front of me, his eyes straight ahead.
And then the curtain is pulled back.
Chapter Twenty-Two
#JustReturningTheFavor
HER whimpering fills the room. They’ve got the sound on every speaker. Her sniffles boom out from every corner. But it’s the images onscreen that stop me dead and make my heart want to crack.
Grace. On the floor. Trying her best not to cry as Derek Hauser kicks her in the back. I knew it would be bad, but I honestly never thought they’d show those videos of when she was kidnapped as a teen.
My heart speeds up. My face goes hot. The rage I feel at this moment builds, but then the image shifts and it’s another girl lying on the floor. This one is covered in blood too, but this one is dead.
“He killed her.”
Everyone goes silent as the words echo from the speakers.
“He killed my sister.”
The image switches back to Grace, her nude Twitter pictures up for all to see.
I’m mortified that these scumbags should see my wife in this way.
“He uses women,” the speaker system booms. “All of them. See what he made that poor Daisy Bryndle do?”
The tweets on that account are private. They require a password and no one has ever gotten our passwords. I changed them the day Grace was found to some incomprehensible string of numbers. But the pictures are not protected. If you know the link, you can get the pictures.
The scene flashes to Grace in a Nebraska cornfield, being loaded onto the Life Flight helicopter, bound for Denver.
“It was your fault she was taken again, Vaughn Asher. Your fault she was shot. Your fault she lost that baby.”
Hare dare that bitch mention my wife’s pregnancy. I turn and face the crowd. “Show your face, you bitch. Show your fucking f
ace!”
Amy Stratton steps out of the mass of people and they part for her, just as they parted for me. “Here’s my face. The one you’ve been trying to forget for more than a decade. You killed her and you got away with it because you’re famous. You celebrities all feel entitled. You all live by your own rules. You flash your money and use your status so you don’t have to be accountable. You make me sick.” She walks straight up to me and spits in my face.
I say nothing.
“What, no denial?” she snarls at me.
“You know I didn’t do it. You know that every word you’re saying is a complete fabrication. You’re the sick one. Your sister did not commit suicide—”
“You made her kill herself!”
“She was on drugs, Amy. She was doing some very questionable things.”
“She hired you to be in her movie, and you fucked her over. You ruined her career. You made her kill herself.”
“That’s not what happened and you know it. I told you back then, that’s not what happened.”
“Yeah, you tried to blame her boyfriend—”
“Her boyfriend, are you fucking kidding me? Frankie Miller was thirty years older than her. He was a scumbag who was taking advantage of her.”
“No. He loved her. You’re just mad because he tricked you. And then you threatened him. You threatened to send him to jail.”
I shake my head and look at the crowd, trying to decide if I need to make my case or not. But then I remember who my date is for tonight, and I realize I have no choice. This is it. I have to come clean and whatever happens afterward, so be it.
“Frankie Miller killed DeeDee Cisco ten years ago.”
“You’re a liar,” Amy screams. “He was found not guilty.”
“He was not found not guilty, Amy. The charges were dropped. There’s a big difference. And the charges were dropped because…” I look over and find Carey Keefe in the crowd. She’s not dressed up and she’s in front to see my reaction. “Because… Because I—”