The F List: A celebrity romance Page 16

  Those words literally came out, and if she needed any further proof that I had no game, all she needed to do was frame that statement and hang it in her foyer.

  She sighed and moved around me, opening cabinets until she found the one with coffee cups in them and pulled one out. I'm ashamed to say it was the one with breasts and a string bikini. I collected coffee cups, mostly because I was like a grandfather trapped in a twenty-seven-year-old's body, but also because they made me smile. It figures that she would reach past the periodic table of elements one and grab something that would make me look bad.

  "I'd just like to get through the next few weeks." She filled the mug and the hot liquid caused the bikini on the cup to disappear, revealing giant red nipples. "Please tell me that that isn't our breakfast."

  I looked down at the box of chocolate-chip waffles. "Well, I’m hoping there’s enough in here for both of us.” Pulling it closer to me, I pried open the lid and pulled out the bag, pleased to see that there were five left. She wanted to get through the next few weeks? What did that mean? I worked through our conversation as I pulled waffles out and stacked them in the slots of the toaster. By the time that the lever was down, and the pieces were cooking, I was face to face with the potential truth: Emma Blanton did not like me.

  It was a crippling diagnosis, especially given the fact that my house was empty, and there were no cameras in sight. We should be rolling around in each other’s arms while confessing every secret we had. I took a deep breath and tried to find another line of attack.

  “You’ve accused me of using you in the past to increase my fame.”

  I looked up. “Yeah?”

  She screwed the lid onto the creamer. “And you were right, with all of them. I did use you.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “I don’t want you to think that that is what this is.” She gestured between us. “Or with whatever this could be.” She blew out a breath, irritated. “Does that make sense?”

  Surprisingly, it did. The waffles popped out at the same time that a light bulb of understanding lit above my head. “So, you do like me.”

  “Well…” she hedged.

  "But you don't want the show to see it, or show it, because you don't want to get any extra attention or benefits from it, because you don't want me to think that that's why you're dating me?"

  “Correct. Assuming that you want to date me.” Her cheeks tinted with the statement.

  I wanted to date her, and if you’d read me that statement a month ago, I’d have laughed my ass off. I met her eyes. “I want to date you.”

  "You do?" She seemed equally baffled. "You heard the part where I said that I used you to climb the press ladder, right?"

  "Yeah. Like I said, I knew that already." I pulled the Eggos out and dropped them on the plate. "I'm willing to move past it if you can ignore my complete lack of cooking abilities."

  She studied the plate. “Do you have butter and syrup?”

  “I do.”

  She grinned and looked back up at me. “Then I think we have a deal.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  "The kind where I will kiss you on camera, but you understand that I am not kissing you for any reason other than I want to kiss you." She brought the coffee cup to her mouth, and I left the toaster behind and walked over, took the mug away, and kissed her.

  She tasted like almonds and coffee, and how I always pictured security and love. Her hands traveled up my forearms, and she rose off the stool, and she was so giving and responsive, like she was greedy for more. Like she'd never been properly kissed in her life.

  I knew she was trouble. I knew I couldn’t trust her. I knew that right then, despite all of our frank talk and confessions, there were probably still secrets she was hiding, press drafts her team had written, splashy articles that would flood social media as soon as we stepped out together.

  I didn't care. I didn't care as long as just some part of her was in this for the right reason and kissing her—I could feel a chemistry that couldn't be faked. Looking down into her eyes, I saw a vulnerability that—if this was all a game—she sold with a ruthlessness that I was willing to fall victim to.

  We inked the details of our deal over chocolate chip waffles drenched in maple syrup and a heavy coat of butter.

  She would stop fake-dating Layton on the show.

  We would real-date on the show, assuming the producers agreed.

  We’d keep our relationship out of the news for the next two weeks, then go public once the show wrapped—assuming we hadn’t killed each other or broken up by then.

  After breakfast, I took her to my bed, and we just laid there together. I held her in my arms and kissed the back of her neck. I told her about buying this house, and everything I wanted to do with it. She told me about winning the lottery and her first million followers, and we talked until the room was shaded in afternoon light, and we finally rolled out of bed and reluctantly headed back to the mansion.

  The producers were livid, and maybe that's why they unrolled the seventh episode the way they did. I don't know. One afternoon of playing hooky shouldn't have triggered that amount of cruelty.

  68

  #episode7

  EMMA

  Episode Seven was still a giant question mark, and the blank spot on the production board was stressing me out. Cash seemed unconcerned about it, but even the knowledge that he actually liked me (gasp) and wanted to date me (double-gasp) didn't ease the mounting fear that something was coming.

  Something big.

  Something dark.

  Something…

  “Oh my God, stop it.” Dion carefully pressed on the edge of my eye, pinning the false eyelash to the glue. “You’re getting worked up over nothing. I bet they’re dropping a sex tape or something like that. Which—yes—if you have a juicy reel of you getting gang-banged, then go right ahead with freaking out.”

  “No sex tape,” I said quickly.

  “Yeah, I didn’t think so.” She stepped back and surveyed her work. “Blink for me. Slowly.”

  I obeyed, and she flashed a thumbs up. "Okay, you're ready. Dana said they want you in the living room."

  I moved toward the living room and nodded to a production assistant that beamed at me as she passed. It had been three days since Cash and I had played hooky at his house, and the reaction from the crew had been surprisingly warm. Aside from Dana and Michelle, who had ripped into me with bloody claws, everyone else was clearly rooting for us. It was nice to be on the liked side, and I was holding my breath, certain that it would implode at any moment.

  This morning, I had woken to a hibiscus, slid under the door to my bedroom. Yesterday, he had pulled me into the pantry and stolen a few minutes to kiss. Cash Mitchell was looking at me like he couldn’t keep his eyes off of me and I was immediately addicted and instantly wary of how it all made me feel.

  I paused in the hall, halted by a text from Bojan. It was a pic of him, sitting on the edge of a pool, his arms around some bikini bimbo.

  Bojan: Ditch that show and come to Dubai. I heard you already punched Cash, so your work there is done.

  I grinned. Nice to know the press had gone worldwide. MTV’s publicity department had been working overtime, and House of Fame was on every gossip site and tabloid, every day. My numbers were growing and Edwin predicted I’d hit fifty million followers by the time the first episode aired, three months from now.

  Emma: Can’t leave now. And you better warm to Cash, because he

  I paused, unsure if I wanted to send my good news via text. I deleted the line, and started fresh.

  Emma: Can’t leave now, but as soon as you get back home, I’ve got lots to share. Behave!

  I waited on his response and it came quickly.

  Bojan: I never behave. Don’t let him break your heart. I can’t kick his ass from here.

  I locked my phone and worked it into my back pocket, smiling. He was the only person on earth who knew my complicated
emotions toward Cash and would probably be the only one unsurprised at the news of our dating. Whispers had already hit the internet and magazine covers, but weren’t going to officially announce it until the show wrapped. For all of Bo’s griping about Cash, he’d be supportive. And honestly, they’d probably hit it off.

  I entered the living room and halted, two steps into the palatial room. Thoughts of Bojan and Cash faded because there, framed by the giant windows that overlooked the palm trees and pool, sat my parents.

  Everyone knew how my parents felt about me. A month after I fired Vidal, they aired it all in a six-page long article that hit the centerfold in Celebrity Star magazine. Michelle got a copy of the contract, one that gave my parents three hundred thousand dollars in exchange for their tell-all tales of my childhood, adolescence, and rise to fame. My parents hadn't been privy or aware of that rise, but it hadn't stopped them from filling up the newsprint with hack jobs from various news sources.

  Celebrity Star hadn't done much to verify their stories, and I immediately filed a defamation suit against both them and the magazine. That was when I knew I'd lost myself to Hollywood. When I sued my parents, took money out of their pockets, then tweeted about it with a trendable hashtag. In my defense, I only took half of the money they earned from the article. Celebrity Star paid me ten times that, though they still came out ahead because that issue was the top seller of the year. People loved stories of my white trash beginnings, coupled with the most embarrassing moments of my life. When I was sixteen, I forgot a tampon inside me, and it rotted for four days. I couldn't figure out what the smell was and where it was coming from. My mom was the one who figured out the issue and rushed me to a hospital to check for toxic shock syndrome. That retelling, which included a graphic description of how the tampon smelled and looked, took up five lengthy paragraphs and wasn't even the worse of it.

  The worse was the venom in between the lines. I had, for much of my life, suspected that my parents were indifferent to me. But it was apparent from the interview exactly how much they hated me. Bitch was one word my mother used. “She was a deceitful bitch even before the money.” That’s an exact quote right there. I cut out that line and taped it to my bathroom mirror, just so I could read it each morning of the litigation and remind myself why I needed to sue.

  I’m not deceitful. I’m a lot of things. Selfish. Insecure. Opportunistic. Untrusting. But I don’t lie—not any more than anyone else does. And I can be bitchy at times, but I feel like deep inside, I’m a nice person. A good person. A mother is supposed to see those hidden parts of you, even if no one else does.

  I entered the living room and tried not to stare at my mother’s hair. She had dyed it red, and it looked horrible, like a blood orange mop on top of her head, the ends curling in front of her ears like horns. I looked away from them and to my dad, who flapped one side of his brown sport jacket as if he was trying to pull it free from his butt.

  The camera guy to my left moved closer, his shoes creaking as he crouched down to presumably zoom in on my face. Did I look shocked? I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from reacting. "Mom. Dad. What a surprise."

  "I was as surprised as you." My mom rose and made her way over to me, her steps awkward and gangly, due to the four-inch wedge sandals that were tied around her ankles with canvas ropes. I studied them warily, then stiffened as my mom wrapped her arms around me and squeezed much harder than was necessary. "To think—you're on a TV SHOW. Very, very, fancy Emma."

  “The lawsuit really wasn’t necessary,” my dad huffed from his seat. “Look at all of this!” He raised his hands, indicated the impressive room. “You obviously don’t need the money.”

  “It’s not my house, dad. It’s for the show.”

  My mom stumbled two steps to the right and not-so-gracefully sank into a chair. “Don’t talk back to your father. He knows that you don’t own this house. The point is, you’re living in a mansion, filming ads in your underwear, and you don’t even return our calls.”

  I looked at Dana, who was scribbling something on her clipboard. "Is there a storyline here, or are we just talking about what horrible people we are?"

  "Your parents are here to meet your boyfriend," Dana responded, fiddling with the knob on her walkie talkie. "So just give us a few minutes of small talk, and then we'll bring in Cash."

  “Uh—no.” I shook my head. “They aren’t meeting Cash.”

  "Of course, they are." Dana smiled at me. "You're going to sit on the couch, argue with them about your lawsuit for a bit, then tell them that you've met someone, someone you really care about." She peered at me. "Isn't that what you told me, when you ran out of here the other morning and let us all waste our entire day chasing you around?"

  "This is what episode 7 is? No one cares about this," I argued.

  "You wanted airtime, and I'm giving you an entire episode, so play nice, and we won't crucify you in edits. You know your contract. Sit down."

  My father raised his eyebrows at me like I should stand up for myself, like he had encountered situations like this in his tiny cubicle, editing articles on tomato fertilizer in summer months. Dana was right. I did know my contract. There were certain things I had veto authority on, but a simple conversation with someone I didn't like--that wasn't one of them.

  I sat down and tried not to recoil when my mom reached over and patted my arm. “I think it’s good that we’re getting this time to talk. Like your father says, you won’t return our calls.”

  Their calls had all hit Michelle’s voicemail, who had forwarded on the recordings to me. They were correct, I hadn't returned their calls. All three calls had been about money. What they needed. What I had. Asking what kind of ungrateful and selfish daughter didn't help out her parents in their moment of need. Their need, on the latest call, had been a hot tub, which my mother was certain would help with her restless legs and which my father had thoroughly researched and already put down a two hundred and fifty dollar deposit.

  “Maybe you should have called me before you took three hundred thousand dollars for an interview. Remember that?"

  “We aren’t here to talk about the article,” my father huffed out, as he used one pinky to clean out his ear.

  They must be getting paid. No way they came here to talk to me without some form of compensation. "Well, Dad," I said tartly. "That's what reality tv is. You do things you don't want to do."

  “You know, we were going to donate that money to charity,” my mom hastened, her eyes darting to the camera. “An AIDS baby program. I had the brochure and everything.”

  I'm not sure what an AIDS baby program was, but my mom used to drop pennies into the Salvation Army Santa's bucket and act like it was a hundred dollar bill, so I was going to call bullshit on that one.

  “Paula,” Dana began. “What made you do the Celebrity Star interview? What was it you wanted to say?”

  Yes, Mom. What did you want to say in those six pages? Because whatever it was, I missed it.

  “Well, you know.” She looked at Dana.

  "No, speak to Emma. Pretend like me, and the crew aren't here."

  "Okay." She swallowed and cupped one hand over the other on top of her knee. She had a fresh manicure, a coral shade that almost matched her hair, and the same tiny diamond set in a gold ring that Dad had given her when he proposed. "Well, Emma. We just felt disconnected from you. And hurt." She glanced at my dad. "Right, Ted? We were hurt. It was like, overnight, you just cut us out of your life, and we couldn't figure out why."

  I shifted in my seat, irritated with where this conversation was going. Unfortunately, she was correct. I did cut them out of my life. I remember being relieved when I did it, like I was shedding a bad habit and moving forward with a lighter step and renewed purpose. And why? They weren't like Cash's mother. They weren't monsters. They were selfish—like me. Self-absorbed—like me. Stingy and frugal and a little cold in their emotional connection—which wasn't that different than me. And maybe that's why dissected myself fr
om them. When I became Emma Blanton, I wanted to be different. I wanted to be interesting and beautiful and not Emma Ripplestine. I wanted to fall in love and be loved and not be that ugly girl from that rundown trailer whose parents didn't even like her that much.

  But how could I say that? I couldn't, especially not with the camera on, this moment captured in crystal clear 4k.

  I swallowed. “I needed a fresh start and—”

  “And you were ashamed of us,” my dad finished. “Right? We didn’t fit into your new image?”

  "I wasn't ashamed of you. We were crafting a narrative, and it didn't include a backstory."

  "Well, even if you didn't want to plaster our photos all over your social media, you could have still called us each week." My mom brushed her bangs to one side, and she was right. I could have talked to them each week, but what would I have said? I couldn't have told them what I was doing. The dental surgeries, the dialect classes, the clothes… they would have ridiculed me. They would have picked apart each of my actions and made me feel selfish and guilty for them.

  And maybe they should have. All of this was an extremely shallow and one-sided quest. I sank deeper into the chair. Five minutes with them, and I already felt like garbage.

  The sliding glass door squeaked along the track, and I sighed, turning as Cash stepped in, his gaze warily moving over the room and assessing the situation. He found me, and something warmed in his eyes. He smiled.

  I thought of him at the movie awards, scowling as he stood up and practically stomped down the aisle of seats.

  Him doubled over in mock laughter at the thought of me competing with him.

  Our first fake date, the moment he leaned over and called me white trash.

  I hammered the images into my heart, trying to wedge them in between my organs to stop the warm goo that was spreading across my chest. How had so much changed in the last four weeks? And how was I supposed to hold my own against a smile and look like that?