by Arell Rivers
One of the uniformed officers asks, “Did you see him throw the rock?” Mike shakes his head in the negative, then says something I can’t hear.
Moments later, I’m alone in the house. Everyone other than me has streamed out onto the lawn. I didn’t go because I wasn’t invited, and also because I would only be in the way out there. About fifteen minutes later, Detective Mahoney and Roberto find me in the kitchen, having tea. Rather, holding a mug filled with hot water and a tea bag.
“Miss Bloomer, we’re taking the suspect in for questioning. We’ve added extra drive by patrols to your street. Are you planning on staying in tonight?”
“Yes.” I give the detective mental props for his tact.
He says something to Roberto, offers some consoling words to me and promises to be in touch. Nothing like having the police on speed dial.
At the front door, he stops. “I have a quick update about the robbery. Some of the items that were stolen from other houses are starting to surface, so hopefully we’ll have some good news for you soon about your ring.”
I tip my lips upward. My engagement ring from Chris was the only valuable thing stolen from me in the robbery. I nod, then say, “Please let me know if you find out anything about the kid who threw this note.”
After he leaves, I turn to Roberto. “Please tell me you have copies of that note.”
He looks uneasy, but he doesn’t disappoint me. “I managed to get a couple of shots.”
“Send them to me, please.”
“Rose, do you really want to see them?”
I raise my eyebrow at him. I know I’m going to hate whatever that photo is, but the threat was aimed at me, so I deserve to see it. “I promise not to interfere with your investigation. I’m also working for Cole, though, and, as his publicist, I need to know. Presumably there are copies.”
Roberto looks distinctly uncomfortable.
“My job could depend upon it,” I say, pressing him.
“Look, I’m going to tape up your window and stay in here on your couch tonight, if that’s okay with you.”
“Fine. I’ll get you some blankets. Send me the photos.”
Once I'm ensconced back in my bedroom, images of my previous encounters with Starr play in my head: “Stay Away Bitch” written on my car’s back windshield, a note and an email with similar sentiments and, of course, the single dead rose hit-and-run delivery. I take a deep breath and open up the attachment Roberto grudgingly sent. Even though I’m prepared, the pain that lances through my soul is excruciating.
Skimming over the marriage certificate, I stare down at Cole’s bare chest. Although his face isn’t in the shot, I’d know that torso anywhere. A female hand, not mine, is on top of it, tracing his happy trail. Thankfully, the photo ends at his bellybutton, although he’s obviously not wearing any pants.
Starr Nelson Manchester. All I can see of the woman is her right hand. She has long fingernails colored with fire-engine red polish.
I run my fingers over his chest in the photo, tracing every dip and curve. Swiping to the photo of their marriage certificate, I zero in on his name: Cole Manchester. The man of my dreams. Or not.
Monday morning
I WALK INTO the deserted office at half past six in the morning. Since I couldn’t sleep, I might as well be at work. Plus, McKenna’s arriving around seven tonight, so I will have to leave earlier than usual.
First things first, I need to start fixing the fallout from Cole’s Vegas weekend. So many thoughts are floating through my brain. Maybe a cup of coffee will help.
As I make my way to the kitchenette, the lights in another account rep’s office catch my eye. Who else could be here so early? Curiosity gets the best of me, probably because I’m procrastinating, and I walk down the hall toward the light.
“Hi, Shari.”
“Oh, hi, Rose. I didn’t think anyone else was here this early.”
“Yeah, well, I have a lot on my plate.” Shari nods in understanding. She’s obviously busy too, so I say, “I’ll leave you to it.” I turn back toward the kitchenette.
“Wait. Please come in.”
Surprised, I walk into her office and take a seat in front of her desk.
Dropping her voice, Shari says, “Rose, I think Greta’s being unfair to you. There’s no way you could have predicted what happened in Vegas, and you certainly shouldn’t be punished for it like this. I just want you to know that I’m on your side.”
Wow. I struggle not to let my emotions show. I’m on the brink of crying again. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
She gives me a sympathetic smile. “Please let me know if I can do anything for you. I’m sure Kim and Melanie won’t be too helpful.”
My lips rise at her understatement. “I’ll let you know. Right now I’m just trying to get a grip on everything that has to be done.”
“Well, good luck.”
After leaving her office, I get my coffee—twice my normal amount—and return to my desk. It’s nice to know that one person in the company has my back, even if it took this disaster for me to find out.
Might as well see what I’m up against. Not waiting for my daily alert to come through my email, I do a search for “Cole Manchester.” The results page is filled with news of his marriage. As an added bonus, numerous photos of him and Starr and their marriage certificate come up. Closing my eyes, I add another layer of bricks to the wall around my heart.
When I open them again, I skim down the page, looking for something different. Anything. An article in Record News, a major magazine in the music industry, looks promising. I click on it.
Amidst all the hoopla surrounding Cole Manchester’s surprise marriage in Las Vegas, the reason he was there—to promote his newest single—has been overlooked. His new song, “No One to Hold,” honors his late mother, and is his first new release since before her death last February. During Ozzy Martinez’s concert, Manchester took the stage and performed it in front of hundreds of excited fans. The song is a haunting tribute that gives us all a glimpse into the singer-songwriter’s private life. Judging by the crowd’s reaction, Manchester soon will be Number One again with this touching ballad.
At least this reporter, Jeremy Davis, got the story right. I print the article and bookmark the page, then send Jeremy a quick email thanking him for his article and review. He’s right that this song probably is Cole’s best so far. Before this weekend, my personal favorite was “Taboo.” However, that song isn’t public, and since he wrote it about me, it probably never will be.
Not wanting to waste time aimlessly jumping from task to task, I take out a notebook and start writing a to-do list. Ten minutes later, I have two pages filled, ranging from the big ticket item of finding out whether they really got married to relatively easy ones such as calling Jessie to inform her that Melanie is her account rep—for the time being, hopefully. That, at least, I can do right away.
I pick up my office phone and dial Jessie. Even though it’s well before eight, I’m sure she has to be on set for an early call. She answers right away. “Hello?”
“Hi, Jessie, it’s Rose. I’m sorry to call you so early, but I wanted to catch you before you got to the set.”
“Good morning, Rose. No worries, I’m on my way there now. How are you doing?”
“I’m fine.” Liar.
“I’m sure you’re not doing fine if even a quarter of what I’ve read on the internet is true. What’s going on with Cole?”
Fiddling with a stress ball, I respond, “I’m not sure. We’re trying to get to the bottom of it.”
“He certainly stepped into it this time.”
How much about our situation should I share with Jessie? She’s one of the only people connected to my professional life who knows Cole and I were together, but I can’t talk about that in the office. “Well, it’s sort of the reason that I called.” I clear my throat. “It looks like cleaning up this Cole situation is going to take up all of my time, so Greta has asked that I turn over your a
ccount and Brandan’s to another rep. Her name is Melanie Samuels.” I continue squeezing the stress ball.
“That explains the weird voicemail I got yesterday. It was from a Melanie. I didn’t bother to listen to it.”
My cheeks inflate. If only Melanie could hear this. “I’m sure she was calling to introduce herself to you.”
“Are things really that bad? Do you feel that you can’t handle my publicity, too? I’ve never worked with anyone but you.”
“I’m so sorry, Jessie. It was Greta’s call.”
“I didn’t think you’d dump me,” she says with a laugh.
“Not willingly, you know that.” I force a giggle to keep the mood light. “I gave Melanie your file with our strategy, so things should continue seamlessly.”
“Thanks, doll. So, how’s your man? Is this whole thing related to the stalker?”
I squeeze the stress ball hard. “We think this Starr woman is the stalker. It’s complicated.”
“I bet. Those pictures are Photoshopped really well.”
“Well, um, the photos are real.”
Silence.
Did I lose her call? “Jessie?”
“I’m here.” Her voice takes on an edge that wasn’t there before. “And the marriage certificate?”
Squeeze, squeeze. I’m going to break this stress ball. “He denies it.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, what happened between you two?”
“We had a misunderstanding.” Squeeze. Release.
“Hmmm.” Another pause. “Look, I know you’re busy, and I’m almost at the studio. Why don’t we do dinner this week and catch up?”
“I’d like to, but I have a friend coming to town. She arrives tonight.”
“Invite her.”
“She’s not in the business. It might be awkward.”
“Nonsense. I’ll talk with Amanda and text you the restaurant and day later.”
“Thanks. I’ll ask McKenna.”
“You do that. Just know that I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer. Talk to you soon.”
I return the phone to its cradle and shrug my shoulders. I’ll deal with that invitation when and if it comes. More than likely, she’ll stick with Cole. Taking my pen, I cross “Call Jessie” off my list. Brandan doesn’t answer, so I leave him a message introducing Melanie. “Call Brandan” is now off my list, too.
I miss my texts from Cole. Before, he would have already sent me a few by now. Even some sexy selfies. What am I thinking? That man has single-handedly ruined my life. Heck, I’m on probation at work because of him. I give my stress ball another workout.
Thinking about his texts reminds me that I never turned my cell phone on this morning. McKenna may need to reach me. I fish through my purse and grab my cell. Once it powers up, I hear the ping of a voicemail. I enter my password, and before I know it, Cole’s voice is pouring out of my phone, tearing me apart with the force of an unexpected hailstorm. “Rose, we really need to talk. I just heard about the rock thrown through your window. I’m home. Call me. Please.”
Just go away, Cole.
When I’m crossing another minor item off my To Do list, Greta walks into the office. Kim arrived about ten minutes before her. Nice timing.
“Kim and Rose, in my office.” Of course, she doesn’t bother to privately summon us. Everyone gets to bear witness to my shame.
I grab my notebook and precede Kim into Greta’s spacious office. The walls are covered with photos of Greta with her A-list clients. Plus a few framed shots from her modeling days. Greta certainly has been blessed.
“My private detective is coming in shortly. Kim, I want you to meet with him. Let’s find this Starr woman so we can make a deal with her to disappear for good.”
“Or for bad,” Kim interjects. I stop myself from rolling my eyes, especially since Greta’s gaze is on me.
Greta titters at Kim’s comment. “Well, it’ll definitely be bad for Cole’s wallet.”
“Have you reconsidered asking your PI to check Cole’s story that they didn’t get married?”
“Rose, you haven’t just fallen off a turnip truck. I don’t know why you’re going on and on about this. Either he was drunk out of his mind and doesn’t remember, or he doesn’t want to own up to what he did for whatever reason—hell, she could’ve slipped him a roofie for all I know or care—but this marriage does not fit into my plans for him. The public needs to think he’s dating that French model before he leaves for his international concert tour. A wife like this Starr woman is not going to increase his Celebrity Quotient.”
Kim looks at me. “Why do you care if the marriage is legit, anyway?”
Because he’s my boyfriend and he said he loved me. “I just think we should investigate whether Starr is lying.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Greta said loftily, waving a hand. “She needs to be found and handled. Rose, work on all the social media responses. Deny the marriage, post photos of Emilie with Cole.”
“Do you want me to reach out to Emilie’s people?”
“No need.” I disagree, but I don’t dare contradict her at this point. “Go, get to it.”
Both Kim and I leave Greta’s office, marching orders in hand. We don’t say anything to each other, but the smug look on Kim’s face tells me that she feels she got the better assignment. Whatever.
At my desk, I start with Cole’s Facebook account. The number of notifications is in the thousands. Deciding that the best course is for me to put out a new post, I write a denial of the marriage and upload it across all of his social media accounts, careful to include photos of Emilie from their recent time together in New York City.
After about an hour of sifting through the comments, my mind wanders. Cole denies that he got married; there must be an easy way to find out. What exactly is the process in Nevada? I do a quick internet search and get all of the particulars.
Their marriage certificate is from Lasso the Moon Wedding Chapel. I’m not supposed to be researching this angle, so I close my office door and call the chapel on my cell phone rather than my work line.
“Love Me Tender” grates on my nerves until a voice that sounds suspiciously like a bad Elvis impersonator says, “Hello, this is Lasso the Moon Wedding Chapel, where all of your wedding dreams come true. How may I help you?”
“Hi. My name is Rose Morgan, and I work for Greta VonStein, Cole Manchester’s publicist. I’m calling to confirm whether Mr. Manchester and Starr Nelson were married in your chapel early Sunday morning?” At least I didn’t gag on the words.
“Sorry, Miss Morgan, we cannot give out this information.”
I try another tack. “I understand. But I’m trying to do my job here.”
“I appreciate that, but I’m trying to do my job, too. I do have to hand it to you, though, this certainly is a different story from the hundreds of others that I’ve fielded.”
Great. His fans have been calling. And probably the media. “It’s the truth, Mr., ah, I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“It’s Mr. Elvis.”
Oh brother. The stress ball finds its way into my hand again. “Well, Mr. Elvis, can you tell me if Reverend Frisco Lemmon was working that night?”
“Why yes, yes he was.”
Great. Another piece of Starr’s story is verified. “So, if a couple got married at Lasso the Moon Wedding Chapel on a Sunday morning, say around three a.m., what’s the process for you to register the ceremony with the Clark County Recorder’s Office?” That’s the next step according to my research.
“You are a clever girl. We always follow the law here. Step One is for the couple to give us their official marriage license. Step Two is the beautiful ceremony. Step Three is for us to file all the completed paperwork with the county within the required ten business days. But we always give the couple an unofficial marriage certificate as a memento right after they say, ‘I do.’”
Isn’t that super special. “Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Elvis. I appreciate it.�
�
“No problem, Missy. Just remember, ‘Viva Las Vegas.’ Thank you, thank you very much.”
I hit “End” before I say something rude to him. Ten business days will bring us to next Friday. I put a huge circle around that day on my calendar. The wait is going to seem interminable, but at least I—and everyone else—will know for sure if they actually did get married. And whether Cole lied in addition to cheating on me.
When Greta stops by my office a little while later, I’m buried in my social media task. “Kim is hot on the trail of Starr Nelson,” she says. “Do you have the social media under control yet?”
“I’ve written a post from Cole saying he denies the marriage and is still very much with Emilie.” A thought occurs to me. “I am also going to search his fans and followers to see if Starr is one of them.”
Greta nods. “Let Kim know if you find anything. But we have the private investigator researching everything, so don’t waste too much time. Oh, and by the way, Kim’s going to instruct Emilie Dubois’s team to have her move into Cole’s house once Fashion Week is over in New York. That should counteract Starr’s story nicely.”
Emilie has runway shows all week, so she won’t be here until the weekend, the earliest. The stunningly beautiful Emilie is going to be moving into Cole’s house? The proverbial sand shifts beneath me. Again.
“Another thing. Set up a meeting between Marco and me.”
Wonderful. Now she’s after my boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. Crap, I’m all discombobulated.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Sure. I’ll find out when he’s available.”
“Good. Now I’m off to meet with some editors to try to get things back on track with Cole’s publicity.” She takes a couple of steps and pauses. “And make sure everything’s ready for Cole’s PSA on Friday.” With that edict, she exits my office.
Weeks ago, I had scheduled the taping of Cole’s anti-smoking Public Service Announcement, which will announce that Cole is donating profits from “No One to Hold” to the American Cancer Society in honor of his mother, who died of lung cancer.