The Revenge Games Duet

by Kat T. Masen

  Wes snickers, retracting his hand with a satisfied smirk. Annoyed at his childish behavior, I offer her a genuine smile, ignoring the voices warning me this will end up in the headlines like everything else.

  The camera crew closely follow with the interviewer at their heels.

  Great—Hot Gossip magazine.

  I despise this group.

  You could say the sky is blue, and somehow they will capture that quote and make you a home-wrecking whore sleeping with Will Smith. Go figure!

  I manage to put on a smile as Wesley tilts his head toward me and carefully moves his fingers across his nostrils. Breathing slowly against my ear, he whispers, “I can smell you on me. When this is over... you’re mine.”

  Wesley Rich has a way with words. He also has a way with using them in the bedroom. I disguise my grin by covering my mouth and letting out a small cough. Knowing he’s suffering from lack of sex makes me feel better.

  I place my hand on his keeping it on his lap as the magazine starts interrogating our lives. We have our answers down pat, having done this hundreds of times. To add to this, we often prepped our answers to avoid being caught out. We are professionals. To the world, we are reality stars of the hit television show, but to us we are actors. Actors that happened to fall in love while filming.

  An hour passes, and finally, we’re done. Removing our microphones, Wes hops off the stool and pulls his cell out of his pocket the same time I do. There’s a dozen notifications, but the only one which catches my eye is the text from my mom.

  Mom: Big news, kiddo. Call me when you’re free.

  I love my mom, but she’s the most annoying woman to walk this planet when she vague-texts me, which is something she does often to prompt a phone call.

  “I’m going to call my mom,” I tell Wes. “I’ll meet you outside?”

  He nods, his head buried in his cell while typing quickly and barely acknowledging my presence.

  I wander toward the exit, smiling politely as I pass the crew. There are a few younger kids hanging around that stop and ask me for a selfie. I happily oblige, though desperate to find out what the big news is.

  At the end of the hall, there’s a small conference room which I slip into, closing the door behind me. I hit dial on Mom’s number and wait impatiently for her to answer.

  “Kid, can I call you back? I’m just in the middle of writing this complicated scene, and my characters are screaming at me,” she says in one breath.

  “Uh… no,” I argue back. “You don’t just vague-text me and leave me hanging. Hand your characters a Xanax and tell them to chill out.”

  Mom laughs, letting out a sigh. It’s the same sigh she often lets out when she’s caught in the middle of a deadline and brought back to reality.

  “Okay, you have my attention.”

  “Mom,” I yell in frustration. “What’s the big news?”

  “Your brother will be in town tomorrow. He has some news, and has asked if you can come home.”

  My brother, Ashley, hasn’t been home since last year, busy with his own life and career. This proved a point—as his twin sister—that we do not have the ESP thing going on. The last text he sent me was yesterday, and it was a picture of his injured foot which completely grossed me out.

  “He’s gay, is that it?” I joke.

  “Your brother gay? The tabloids have a fascination with his love life which all involve women. I don’t know how I raised a man-whore child.”

  I laugh softly. “Because it’s in your blood. You write romance novels, Mom. You’re a New York Times bestseller. Even when you’re not writing, you’re sending out this romantic vibe to everyone around you.”

  “Romance is one thing, kid, your brother is entirely another.” She chuckles. “So, can you fly back tomorrow?”

  My parents live on the east coast, in a small town just outside of Connecticut with my younger sister Tayla. As much as I miss being home and the quiet life, flying out is always a hassle. Over the past year, paparazzi have had a fascination with my movements and followed me wherever I go. A reason why I reduced the trips back home.

  “I guess I can swing it. We’re not filming till next week, and Wes is flying to Amsterdam for a photoshoot tonight.”

  “Great! I’ll get Daddy to pick you up at the airport. I miss you, kid, it’s been too long.”

  “I know, Mom.” I sigh, hanging up my cell after saying goodbye.

  You’d think that being a twenty-six-year-old woman I’d have my big-girl panties permanently on, but on occasions like this when something seems off and not right, I miss my mom a lot. Living across the country might as well be across the ocean. We have a relationship most people envy as I can easily call her my best friend. We text several times a day, anything and everything she knows about my life. I respect her opinion, and we rarely argue about anything unless it’s who might win The Bachelor.

  Growing up with a mother who writes romance has its ups and downs. I didn’t know it at the time, but Mom’s one of the most respected and successful romance writers in the world. Her books have been translated in every possible language, and she often attends signings across the globe.

  My first memory of her leaving us for the weekend was when I was five. I cried because Dad’s a shitty cook, and I didn’t want anyone to cook besides her. Self-centered and a brat.

  As I grew older, I became fascinated with her career and began reading her books in my teens. The only thing I skim is the sex scenes. Mom’s a great writer, but some things are best left a mystery in my opinion.

  People often ask her, “Where do you get your inspiration from?” and “I bet you live an exciting life.”

  Sure, Mom and Dad love each other, but Dad’s always the beer-drinking, nut-eating dad that yells at the television when his team lets him down. He’s a sports fanatic, who has very little time for romance. At least, that’s my observation.

  I make my way slowly to the interview room to find Wes waiting for me.

  Something’s amiss.

  His normally styled hair looks like he’s just run a marathon—it’s sweaty and stuck to his forehead. He’s quick to shove his cell in his pocket, focusing his attention on me. “Em, we have to go. My flight leaves tonight, and I’m not packed.”

  “Yeah, okay,” I respond while he reaches out for my hand. “Mom called me. She wants me to fly home for the weekend.”

  “To Connecticut?”

  “No, to the moon. Yes, to Connecticut. Something about my brother being in town with a surprise.”

  “I don’t like you going there alone.”

  “Well, I don’t like you going alone to Amsterdam, but you insisted,” I argue back.

  He squeezes my hand tighter, plastering a fake smile knowing all eyes will be on us when we leave the room. Not saying another word, we scurry past the few fans lined up and climb into the car. We buckle our seatbelts in unison then he starts the engine quickly, checking the rearview mirror before speeding off.

  “There’s just so much I need to do for the photoshoot, Em. I didn’t work out yesterday or today because of all these interviews. I’m not in my best shape.”

  I am not buying the excuse, and instead remain tight-lipped avoiding another argument. All we seem to do lately is argue. I’m fed up with his unorganized trips, and for some reason, he’s become more possessive over our relationship which frustrates me. We’ve had a few fights on camera which the both of us were forced to reconcile and put on a united front. I don’t know what it is about us, but I’ve pinned it down to the fact we’re engaged, and now sitting on top of our shoulders is a wedding which the network executives are eager to pay for knowing it’s their gold mine.

  “Listen.” He parks the car in the garage of our apartment block, resting his arm on the back of my chair. “I know things have been tense between us, but it’ll all die down soon. Maybe we need a trip away? A quick romantic getaway where I can fuck you all weekend long.”

  I smile softly. “You’re a jerk. T
hat’s the problem. Less jerk, more fucking.”

  Burying his face in my neck, he runs his tongue along my skin as I close my eyes. The sound of the leather seat squeaks when he shifts closer to me. I miss him already and wish he’d beg me to come on this trip. Throw all caution to the wind and be more spontaneous.

  “You’re mine,” he murmurs. “Remember that.”

  Here we go again. I humor him and then attempt to rile some sort of reaction.

  “I’ll try to remember that and let my other boyfriend know.” I chuckle.

  His smirk fades, brows furrowing. “You know I don’t like that joke. There’s a million guys lining up for you.”

  “Name one?”

  “I could name a dozen. You never know, Em. There’s probably that one guy out there completely obsessed with you. Would do anything to make you his.”

  “Tell him I said hello when you find him,” I say, deadpan.

  “Funny. Now shut up. You’ve wasted enough time. Get your ass out of this car and in our bed so I can fuck you till my flight leaves.”

  I let out a giggle, ignoring our fight as we both laugh and race up the stairs to our apartment.

  He throws me over his shoulder, opening the door with a youthful laugh until he stops and yells, “Fuck!”

  Dropping me to the floor, I turn around swiftly and see only one thing—George.

  With a mouthful of Wes’ expensive shoes.

  Without saying a single word, Wes’ face foretells our future.

  No one is getting laid tonight.

  Chapter Two

  “Home is where the heart is.

  And memories you forgot existed.”

  ~ Emerson Chase

  There’s nothing more satisfying than walking through the airport doors and smelling fresh air. Especially when that air is home.

  Even with my shades on, fans notice and beg for autographs and selfies. It doesn’t bother me since it only takes a few minutes, and they aren’t as ruthless as the paparazzi. I smile—happy to oblige—then worm my way out of the small circle that has begun to grow and draw attention.

  Dad meets me at the terminal, parked outside in his fancy Mercedes. The one Mom calls a mid-life crisis. It’s a nice car—sleek, black, and shiny. For someone in his mid-fifties, Dad scrubs up well. He hasn’t aged much over the years, still styling his silver-gray hair to the side with a thin beard to match. His piercing blue eyes mirror mine and my brother’s, though his are surrounded with slight wrinkles when he smiles.

  “I missed you, Emmy.” He smiles, placing his arm around me after he loads my suitcase into the trunk.

  “Miss you, too, Daddy-O. Bet you miss Ash more.”

  He releases a short grunt, quick to voice his opinion. “I don’t know what your brother is up to by coming home, but it doesn’t sound good. Especially when they have an important game next week.”

  “C’mon Dad, it’s not like he’s going to quit soccer. He lives and breathes that shit.”

  We both hop into the car, mindful of the parking attendant yelling at everyone delaying the traffic. In a quick second, Dad speeds off, and we’re on the freeway driving home.

  “So, how’s Wesley?”

  I shrug. “The same, I guess.”

  “Taking care of you?”

  “Dad, I’m twenty-six. I can take care of myself.”

  “I know that,” he states with a half-smile. “You’ve always been independent just like your mother. I meant… is he treating you well?”

  “Yes, Dad. I wouldn’t marry someone who’s not treating me well.”

  Just like I had predicted, George eating Wes’ shoes had left Wes in a foul mood. To top the night off, we got into another fight as the car service pulled up to the apartment. Wes was stepping out of the door while informing me of a party where he was scheduled to make an appearance. Normally, I wouldn’t mind, but then he told me who’d be attending and I was quick to voice my concerns. The group of actors who will be there are nothing short of trouble, dragging everyone’s name through the mud along with them. We left off shouting nasty words to each other and haven’t spoken since.

  Poor George—he witnessed the whole thing.

  “And the wedding. Has the program set a date yet?” Dad asks, veering right as he exits the freeway.

  “Not yet. They want to make sure it falls at the right time. The largest viewing numbers are during winter when people are stuck at home. So, maybe a winter wedding. Personally, I like the summertime.”

  Dad remains quiet, I know he isn’t a fan of what I’m doing with my life. In fact, he’s the first person to tell me I shouldn’t be part of such trivial and mindless television. Of course, he’d say that—Ash’s his favorite.

  When I signed the dotted line to appear on the reality show, we didn’t speak for weeks until I cried over the phone and told him that I loved him and needed him to support me. That moment defined our relationship. He admitted he wanted only the best and would support me as long as I was happy.

  The problem now—I’m not happy.

  But I keep it to myself, playing the part of the happy fiancée because I don’t know any different, and because the web I’ve weaved for myself seems so intricate and impossible to untangle.

  We drive through the leafy town of Green Meadows—a place which has been home since the moment I left my mother’s womb. It’s a gorgeous day—blue skies with a small array of clouds clustered in the east. The air outside is warm, so I open the window to feel the warmth against my cool skin.

  Every place in Green Meadows has a memory. The corner shop where I would ride my bike and buy candy with money I stole from Ash’s room, to the large oak tree which sits in the middle of the town square shading the playground equipment.

  Resting in the seat, I watch the familiar places as we drive by and head toward home. Turning the corner, the streets become wider and the houses grander until I see our home in full view. It still takes my breath away. The two-story red brick dwelling is partially covered with vines. When I was younger, it looked like a mansion. It’s funny how as we grow our perception changes.

  Dad drives the car along the driveway until we’re parked adjacent to the front doors. He exits and begins unloading my belongings.

  The door opens, and I see Mom peeking her head out. “Emmy!” Running out the door with a joyous smile, she impatiently waits for me to get out of the car. I quickly do so and jump straight into her arms, burying my head on her shoulder like I did when I was a kid. She still smells the same—lavender mixed with strawberries and vanilla. The same fruity, flowery perfume my grandmother used to always wear.

  With my face buried in her long black hair, tears fall down my cheeks as the reality of being home sinks in. This is just what I need—my family. Life has been so hectic over the past year that I ignored my desperate need to be here. A place that means so much more to me than brick and mortar.

  Mom pulls me back, studying my face with her palms pressed against my tear-streaked cheeks. “Hey kid, why the tears?”

  “Just... I...” I stammer on my words while trying to control my emotions. “I missed you.”

  “Gee, I didn’t get a greeting like that,” Dad mumbles under his breath as he walks past, carrying the bags inside and disappearing up the large staircase.

  “Don’t mind him,” Mom says softly. “C’mon, I’ve made your favorite cake.”

  “The rainbow cake vomiting the M&M’s?”

  Mom laughs, closing the door behind her. “You make it sound so… appetizing. Go get settled in your room and come down when you’re ready. And while you’re up there check to see if your sister is alive. I haven’t seen her all day.”

  I lean across the countertop, my hands moving toward the cake with delight. It’s just how I remember it—four colorful layers with cream filling in between. When you slice the middle open, the M&M’s pour out displaying its yummy goodness.

  ***

  I’ve showered and changed into a casual sundress with no plans to
go anywhere tonight. And just like Mom asked, I stopped by my sister Tayla’s room but was ignored. As usual. Apparently, she’s going through that teen attitude stage.

  At sixteen, she’s the baby of the family. Mom admitted to me one day, she was the result of a weekend away in Vegas with a bottle of Moscato.

  Now that’s something I didn’t need to know.

  The cake is calling my name, so I dig in, chatting with Mom as she stands opposite me. I may be biased, but Mom is insanely beautiful. She wears her long, black hair down as usual—her reading glasses perched on her head which pull the hair away from her face. Wearing minimal makeup, her skin is flawless and naturally bright. At family parties, my aunties all moan about the amount of Botox Mom’s apparently had injected, which amounts to—zero. They’re jealous women looking for any reason to pull down their little sister. I’ll never understand how jealousy can become such an unhealthy obsession that was until I started to mingle with the Hollywood crowd.

  “So, what’s happening, and what was that text last night about Wes being a moron?”

  Sliding my fork sideways, I scoop another piece of heaven and bring it to my mouth. “It’s not George’s fault. He’s bored, and we haven’t been paying as much attention to him as we should.”

  “Still, that dog of yours has expensive tastes,” Mom casually adds, sliding a glass of homemade lemonade over to me. She knows the way to my stomach.

  “I think he’s gay.”

  “You think your dog is gay?”

  “He only chews on Versace shoes. Plus, one time at the dog park, he totally just sat there and watched another male dog hump the streetlamp.”

  Mom laughs, almost spitting out her drink. “Hollywood dog parks seem more controversial than here.”

  “You’re telling me. Plenty of bitches.” I laugh with her. “And about Wes...” I pause with a sigh, “… I’m over his immature behavior. He wants to party and hang out with his so-called friends like he’s eighteen again. Haven’t we outgrown this phase? I’m all for a drink now and then, but grow up already.” I air out my frustrations, not realizing how heavy it’s being weighing on my shoulders. It feels good to chat to Mom in person because if anyone can understand me, she will.