by Arell Rivers
Greta declares, as only she can, “We’ll keep playing this angle for the public, but we all know he’s lying. He admitted to me that they hooked up. We find the girl, pay her off and move on. It will be a costly lesson for Cole.” She fixes her glare on me.
It’ll probably be more costly to me. In more ways than one.
Greta announces, “Let’s inform Cole of the refined strategy.”
Because I’ve been handling his account for over five years, it falls on me to place the call. I pull out the file with his contact information and dial his number using the conference room phone. Like a true publicist would, not a girlfriend. Or ex-girlfriend.
“Rose, we need to talk.”
“Hi, Cole.” Speaking his name burns my throat. “I have you on speaker. Greta is here.”
My boss acknowledges him with a bland, “Cole.”
“Also, Greta felt this situation required another team member, so please let me introduce Kim Trainor.”
Kim sits up and chirps, “Hi, Cole. It’s a pleasure to meet you, although these circumstances certainly are not ideal. But don’t worry. By the time I finish with this Starr Nelson, she’s going to wish she had never been born.”
There’s a pause. I feel my cell vibrate, notifying me of a new text. In a controlled voice, Cole finally speaks, “Nice to meet you, Kim. Hello, Greta.”
Ignoring the text, I continue, “Greta feels the best strategy is for us to hire a private investigator to locate your wife and pay her to go away. We’ll keep denying the marriage to the public, though.” Having to say the word “wife” in relation to anyone but me nearly makes me choke.
“I didn’t marry her. She’s not my wife.”
Kim pipes up. “Cole, it’s okay. Stuff like this happens in Vegas all the time. We’ll just find her and pay her to go away. Now, let’s get down to brass tacks. Tell us everything you remember about last night.”
“I already told Greta what happened.”
“Cole, I know what you told me. But my team needs to hear everything. Don’t leave out any details. We need to get in front of this story now.”
I must have done something truly awful in a prior life. I jump in. “You can start from when Greta left you at the bar with a bunch of fans.”
“Right.” He pauses. “Well, after Greta left, most of my fans went away, too. This blonde woman, Starr, ordered champagne to celebrate my new single. We drank a couple of bottles.”
“That must have been when she took the photos of you with the champagne,” Kim interjects.
“Yes. I remember taking that photo. She also took a selfie when she kissed me.” I guess he stressed the word “she” for my benefit. Whatever.
Kim nods at us and says, “That one’s been circulating on the ‘net as well.”
“I remember drinking scotch, too. Anyway, at some point, Starr propositioned me. I was pretty drunk by then, so I figured it sounded like a good way to let off steam.”
Because after being a witch to him in New Jersey, I showed up in the backroom on Marco’s arm. Yes, Cole, I hear you.
“But I didn’t want to bring her up to my room here.”
“Why not?” Kim questions.
Exasperated, I put the phone on mute. “Kim, let him tell his story.” She gives me a dirty look and then glances at Greta. Our boss’s eyes are narrowed, but she remains silent.
Make this end. Returning to the call, I say, “The ‘why’ isn’t important. Please continue your story from when you two left Caesars.”
Cole clears his throat. “Well, we took a taxi to her hotel. We, ah, fooled around a little in her room, but I didn’t want to go any further with her. It was late and I was wasted, so I just crashed in her room. I swear, we didn’t have sex.” Thanks for making that clear. More like he protests too much.
Kim rolls her eyes. “Go on.” She urges him to continue with the absolutely worst story I’ve ever heard in my entire life.
He clears his throat. “When I woke up a few hours later, I heard the shower running. I grabbed my clothes . . .”
He’s still talking, but I can’t get past the image of him grabbing his clothes. So they were off? Of course they were. He obviously hooked up with her.
The sound of Kim tapping her pen on the table brings me back to his story. “Greta, you called me just as I got out of the shower.” Now there’s another visual I can’t stomach. Biting the inside of my cheek, I concentrate on that pain rather than the one in my heart.
At least he stopped talking. But his timeline needs to be pinned down. Since it doesn’t seem like Greta and Kim are going to ask, I speak up. “Cole, can you give us approximate times for when you left Caesars, when you fell asleep and when you returned to the hotel?”
“I left sometime around one a.m. I think I fell asleep around three, and I got back here at six or so.”
“What was the name of her hotel?” I don’t want to know this, but we have to follow every lead.
“I don’t remember.”
Kim jumps in again, “Have you been with Starr before?”
“She was at The Ice Lounge last month when I went there to help create buzz for Jessie. But I only found that out last night.”
He met her last month? I was there that night, too. I pick up one of the photos and study her face. Does she look familiar?
“Listen, I have no idea what she’s up to, or how she got that marriage certificate.”
Kim and Greta exchange looks. I want to disappear.
“Have you seen the photos on the web?”
“Yes, Greta. The only ones I have no idea about are the one of us leaving the hotel and the other one of us . . . in bed.”
“The paparazzi took the one of you two leaving,” Kim clarifies for him.
I can’t take much more of this. My stomach is revolting again, but I can’t leave. Swallowing bile, I ask, “Is there anything else we should know before we start executing our strategy?”
A pause. “That’s everything I can remember.” My phone vibrates again.
Sunday evening
DROPPING MY MOTLEY assortment of bags in the middle of my living room, I re-arm the security system that Cole had installed. Is there any part of my life that man hasn’t invaded? A quick glance out the window reminds me of another way my life has changed since Cole and I tested the boundaries of our relationship. Roberto stands by a car talking with his coworker Mike, who is assigned to watch my house.
My stomach rumbles. When was the last time I ate? Pretzels on the plane? Going to the kitchen, I rummage through my cabinets and find a box of pasta and a jar of spaghetti sauce. I put a pot on the stove. While the water is heating up, I sit down at the dinette with my phone in front of me.
Three texts from Cole, a voicemail from my mom, an email from Marco and a text from McKenna. I open McKenna’s: Hope you made it home OK, Rookie! Up for a visitor?
Despite everything that’s happened, a smile ghosts across my face. McKenna’s so bubbly and cheerful. Between Greta and Cole, however, I don’t have any room in my life for bubbly. I reply: I’m back in LA safely, thanks. Life is crazy for me right now. Why don’t you check back with me in a few weeks?
In a few weeks, I may not have a job anymore. I’ll probably have plenty of free time.
The subject line of Marco’s email is “I’d like to help.” Um, no. You’ve done enough. Delete.
Mom or Cole? Cole or Mom? Which one to open first? I pick what seems the lesser of two evils, and moments later, my mother’s message begins to play: “Rosie, this is Mom. Are you okay? Is this marriage some sort of publicity stunt you did to bring more attention to Cole? Call me and let me know what’s going on, and how things went with Marco.”
The water is on the verge of boiling over, so I dump the pasta in and set the timer. Publicity stunt? Don’t I wish. I stir the noodles, set the colander in the sink and put the sauce in a small pan. My phone pings with a new text from McKenna. Glad you’re home. I need to get out of Vegas NOW. Hotel recommendation?
I can’t make her stay in a hotel when I don’t have a roommate yet. I type: I have an extra room. You can stay here, but I’m sorry that I won’t be able to show you around. Work exploded.
Immediately after I press send, McKenna responds: Thanks! You’re the best! I’ll send flight deets.
The timer goes off and I strain the pasta, smother it in sauce and sit down at the table. Alone.
I should be used to it by now. Until this thing with Cole started, work was my one salvation. I poured all my grief over Chris into my career. That strategy worked fine for me for years. It has to work again.
Sighing, I concentrate on hefting the fork to my mouth. It’s nothing like the gourmet dinners I’ve enjoyed with Cole. I look across the table at his empty chair. Damn, I miss him so much. How did we go from “I love you” to “Mrs. Starr Nelson Manchester” in less than a weekend?
Swiping the tears away, I open the text Cole sent at the beginning of the conference call with Greta and Kim. I don’t want another person on my team. Why did you add Kim?
Seriously? It’s not like I had a choice in the matter. An answer starts to write itself in my mind: Contrary to what you believe, Cole, Greta runs the show as you can see by how she added Kim to the mix. However, she’s trained me well. After seven years of working together, I’ve learned to anticipate her tactics, which is why you always think I’m in charge.
But that would only invite a response, so I delete his message instead.
His next text was sent at the end of the conference call: Rose, we need to talk. Call me.
Let me think about it. Yeah, no and thank you. Delete.
His last text was sent sometime later. To be clear, I think Starr is our stalker. She said things about you. You need to be careful. Stick with Kates’s guys. Call me. Please.
And doesn’t that just complete my night? This crazy Starr woman—Cole’s wife—is also his stalker who attacked me last week? At least he didn’t tell all this to Greta. Realizing I’m rubbing my shoulder where she pushed me while making her flower delivery a few days ago, I drop my hand. I delete this text, too.
Can I believe him when he says they didn’t have sex? And that they didn’t get married? If they didn’t, how do I explain the marriage certificate? My temples begin to throb.
McKenna’s incoming text startles me out of my prison of punishing circular questions. My flight arrives at 7 pm tomorrow. Send me your address & I’ll get a taxi from the airport. See you soon! ☺
After sending my address to McKenna, I clean up my barely eaten dinner and make the bed in the extra room. My former roommate, Tommy, left it for the next tenant, saying he was sorry to move out and leave me in the lurch. I don’t blame him, given the circumstances. He was home when the house was robbed, and the gang roughed him up.
Finished, I wander into my bedroom and collapse on the bed. I owe my mother a call. She’s partially to blame for my misery, but this conversation will only get worse the longer I put it off. I dial her number, and she picks up right away.
“Rosie, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m home in LA. Greta called an emergency meeting this afternoon, so I flew out of Las Vegas early.” I walk to the living room, open my duffle and pull out my toiletry bag.
“Is everything all right with your job?”
Now there’s a question. Back in my room, I put away my make-up. “Of course. Greta just wanted a strategy session to brainstorm after everything that happened with Cole.” I can’t tell her how tenuous my job is at the moment. She’d flip, and I don’t have the strength to deal.
“I’m glad. I wouldn’t want that boy messing with your career. I warned you about him. What happened in Vegas?”
Damned if I know. “Cole’s performance was great and everyone loved his new single. It’s just that afterward, he saw me with Marco and got the wrong idea. No thanks to your remarks at our dinner.” I open the vanity drawer and toss some items into it.
“Now, Rosie, Marco got you out to Vegas safely. He did you a favor.”
Who knew a drawer could slam so loudly? “Some favor.”
“I think you should give Marco a second chance. His mother tells me all the time how sorry he is you got away.”
“We’ve been over this. I’m not interested.”
Mom huffs. “So what’s up with Cole?”
I bring the bag into the bathroom. “He says he didn’t get married.”
“How does he explain the photos and marriage certificate?”
“We’re looking into that.” I’m not about to admit that he hooked up with that horrible woman.
“How are you going to fix this?”
“I’m not sure yet.” I arrange my shampoo and conditioner on the shelf in my shower. One container falls. Replacing it, I knock the other over and shampoo spills all over my hand and the shower floor. Great.
“Well, if anyone can figure this out, it’s you. Listen, honey, I know you’re upset with me for the way I treated Cole. I promise to try to be better.”
As if any of that matters now. “Thanks, Mom. I’m really beat and I have a very long day ahead of me. I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”
“Sure. Get some rest. Bye, sweetie.”
“Bye, Mom.” I disconnect the call and rinse the shampoo off my hand. The soapy trail spins down the drain. How appropriate.
Attaching my cell to its charger, I return to the living room and drag all the bags into my bedroom. Fishing into my duffle again, I pull out the T-shirt that I took from Cole’s house. Holding it up to my nose, I breathe in his musky scent. After Chris, I never thought I would believe in forever again, but Cole made me. And then he went off with Starr. Curling up in a ball on my bed, I hold onto his shirt and let the tears fall freely.
Somewhere in the back of the house, glass breaks.
Thud.
What the hell?
The alarm system goes off.
It takes me two tries to enter my alarm code, finally with success. The blissful silence is broken when house phone starts to ring. “Hello?”
“This is your security monitoring system. Password?”
Blinking back tears, I recite Cole’s chosen password: “Birthmark.”
“Is everything okay, Miss Bloomer?”
Exhaling, I respond, “I’m not sure. I think a window was broken.” Pounding booms from my front door, causing my already racing heart rate to skip a beat. Trembling fingers reach for my non-existent earring, and I tuck my hair behind my ear instead. “Someone’s at my door.”
“Do not open it unless you can visually identify the person. The police have been notified. I’ll stay on the line with you while you check.”
“Thanks.” With the cordless phone pinned against my ear as a makeshift shield, I peer through the peephole and see Roberto. Relief courses through my body. “I know the person who is knocking. I’m going to let him in.”
“Are you sure?”
I open the door as I reply, “Yes.”
Roberto pushes the door completely open and assesses me. “Are you okay, Rose?”
What is he doing back here? Whatever, I’m grateful and stifle the urge to hug him. He has a job to do. “I’m fine. I think something was thrown through a back window.”
He jerks his head to the side. “Mike’s checking out back.”
Roberto scans me from top to bottom, causing me to scrub my cheeks with my palms. I must look pitiful. I square my shoulders and look him in the eyes. “Didn’t you go home?”
“I went out to eat and brought Mike some dinner.
Over the phone, the security rep says, “Don’t hang up until the police arrive.” Although he can’t see me, I nod. “Are you still okay? Do you want me to send an ambulance?”
“No, I’m fine. It’s just been a very long day. The police are pulling up outside the house now, so thank you for your help.”
I hang up the phone and step aside to allow
the officers inside. Exhaling loudly, I say, “Hello.” They look familiar. I’m sure they were here when my house was broken into.
One of the officers asks, “Miss Bloomer, are you hurt?” I was right. He responded to the robbery.
“No. I was in my bedroom when I heard a crash. I’m fine, really.” The other officer goes deeper into the house to investigate.
Another car pulls up, and Detective Mahoney joins us. He investigated the robbery of this house, as well as the threats I received afterward. He knows all about Cole’s stalker. “I heard the call come over the scanner and recognized your address.” Nodding at his colleague, he asks, “What’s going on?”
After being briefed, the detective turns back to me. “Are you here alone, Miss Bloomer?”
“Yes.” He knows that Cole and I were together, and I really, really don’t have the energy to discuss what’s happened with him. Instead, I introduce Roberto to the two men.
The other officer returns to the living room wearing gloves and carrying what appears to be a rock. “Someone threw this through the laundry room window. A note is wrapped around it.” He takes the note off the rock, and carefully smooths it out. It’s Cole’s marriage certificate. So much for keeping my break-up to myself.
The detective looks at me. “Looks like someone is trying to send you a message.”
Oh, I got it, loud and clear.
With gloved fingers, Detective Mahoney carefully turns the paper over. A photo’s taped to it, but I can’t make it out.
I ask, “What’s the photo?”
The detective glances at me. “Nothing.” He puts the rock and paper into an evidence baggie.
I don’t appreciate his overprotectiveness, but the thought of what might be on there makes me cringe. “Cole said that he thought Starr is his stalker. I guess he’s right.”
Detective Mahoney glances to the floor and replies without meeting my eyes, “So it would seem.”
We’re diverted from pursuing this further when Mike walks into the living room. He’s marching a scrawny, pimply boy, who can’t be more than fifteen, in front of him.
“I caught him running away from the back of Miss Morgan’s property.”