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#IMightRatherBeSquare

“S
O,”
the reporter says with a conspiratorial wink. “Do you want the good news or the bad news?”

Marjorie has been an acquaintance of mine for a while now—more than seven years—and in that time, she’s hardly aged a bit. Looks younger than ever, in fact. Her short bobbed hair is blonde with streaks of hot pink. Her clothes are minuscule, and her shoes could be mistaken for stilts, that’s how high they are. In other words, she fits right in with all the other businesswomen I have close ties with.

“Bad.”

“Hmmm,” she says, taunting me with her straw. I get a little distracted by her glittery lipstick before I look back up to her eyes.

“Just spill it, Marj.”

“They have a lot of dirt on you, babe.”

“Like what?” I know what. I just want to see if she knows what.

She shrugs. “I’m not one hundred percent sure, V. But if I had to wager a guess, I’d say it’s more of the kinky fuckery type stuff.”

“Bullshit. If they had
that
, they’d run it.”

“And,” she says, ignoring my defense, “that Jasinda bitch is still making the rounds with her baby bump.”

“Damn. I really thought she was lying about that. But I guess not, huh?”

Marjorie puts her hands up. “You tell me.”

I eye her. Just because I’ve known her for a long time and just because we’re having lunch together doesn’t put us on the same side. “I already told you. It’s not mine. I’m one hundred percent sure because I wasn’t fucking her when she got pregnant.”

“Well, this is what I’m telling you, hon. None of that has gone away. Now, there are rumors that you threatened Keefe over at
Buzz
. And if that’s true, well, that might explain why they are still gunning for you. I mean, come on, Vaughn. You don’t threaten the annoying fly on the wall. You crush it.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t.” She’s smug in the wake of her words. “Threatening with a fly swatter does not a crushing make.”

I close my eyes for an exaggerated pause to collect my thoughts. I knew it went too quiet. “What’s the good news?”

“Well, see… now that’s gonna cost you.”

“Cost me what? I already fucking pay you.”

“A date.”

“No way.”

“Yes way,” she counters quickly. “I need you to take me to a party.”

“What party? Larry never even gives me those invites because I never go.”

“The Black Bash.”

“Well”—I laugh—“I’ll have Larry check to see if I was invited, but I’m pretty sure that’s a no fucking way. I’d probably be arrested if I hit that one.”

“I need you to get two invitations and I need you to come with me, Vaughn. For real.”

“They’re not going to let us in, Marj. They hate you almost as much as they hate me.”

“It’s a masquerade, Vaughn. And the theme is iconic movie stars. We’ll dress up.”

“Just tell me the good news and I’ll pay you whatever.”

“No, the good news will be delivered next Friday at the Black Bash. So be there or be square, mister.”

And with that, she scoots out of the booth, grabs her sunglasses off the table, and walks off.

Do I care about her good news?

I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.

My phone buzzes across the table and I reach for it, palming the answer tab as I bring it to my ear. “Yeah.”

“Mr. Asher, this is Josey, your aviation coordinator.”

“Sure, yeah. What’s up?”

“I just wanted to make sure you knew that your wife went to Colorado today.”

“What?” Jesus fuck. My heart begins to jackhammer in my chest.

“Yes, sir. She scheduled the plane to Denver. And I provided a car for her, but she never showed up at the car.”

“She disappeared?” I can’t breathe.

“No, sir. We went through the security footage and she left with…” There’s a little pause as Josey consults her notes or something. “Bebe Chambers. Do you know her?”

“Yes. Thank you.” I end the call and take a moment to steady my heartbeat. Fucking Grace. I’m about to speed-dial her, but I stop myself.

Why do I have to keep tabs on this woman? Just why? Why can’t she call me for a fucking change?

Goddammit.

I tuck my phone away, stand up, throw a fifty down on the table, and walk out of the cafe lowering my sunglasses. There’s no paparazzi out here right now. And maybe that’s normal. I mean, if I think about it, nine weeks after the release of a movie, they taper off. They find someone else. They move along. Right?

But no. It’s not right. They usually chase me three or four days of the week. And now, nothing?

Something is not right.

But I don’t have time for it because I have a scene with Valencia this afternoon and I’m needed back on set in twenty minutes. I jump in my 911 and pull out onto Ventura so I can make it back in time.

My mind is racing all the way there. Grace. Marjorie. A party no movie star in Hollywood wants to be invited to. The absence of paparazzi. The past.

That’s what this is adding up to. The past. My past this time. Not Grace’s.

God, just thinking about Grace makes me agitated. I check my messages as I pull into the studio and navigate my way through the lot. Maybe she called to let me know where she was going while I was driving through the hills? Like a dead zone. We have a few of those on the way to and from the studio.

But no. There’s a few missed calls on there, but I purposefully ignored those.

Grace never called. She took off to Colorado and never called.

What the hell?

I pull into my parking spot and shut the car off so I can sit in silence for a few moments. A knock on the window startles me out of my funk and Valencia laughs at me from the other side of the window.

“What are you doing?” she yells through the glass. “Let’s go, hot stuff. We’ve got a love scene to practice for.”

I open the door and get out. “Are you excited about that?”

“Hell, yes. Do you know,” she says, looping her arm in mine as we walk to the studio doors, “it’s been fifteen years since I really kissed you?”

“I kiss you all the time, V.” Suddenly calling her V surprises me. Her too, from the look on her face. But then that shock is gone and happiness replaces it. That’s who we were back in our teens. She was my first girlfriend. They called us V Squared.

“Air kisses. Cheek kisses. Those are not kisses, V. And those kisses back when holding hands was considered a love scene… well, that’s not what this is and you know it.”

I hold the door open for her and wave her forward. “It’s acting, Valencia. I’ve kissed dozens of actresses for movies. Don’t get too excited.”

She stops and turns her head a little, just enough to give me a wink and a smirk. “I won’t be acting.”

And then she walks off towards her people who receive her and hustle her deeper into the darkness of the studio set.

Chapter Eight

#ThisIsNotTheSpankingYoureLookingFor

I
T
was hard to say goodbye to Bebe after our day trip into the past. Bebe knew coming out here to see my ex-family would be a mistake, but she came with me anyway. She took off work, showed up at the airport, and drove hundreds of miles with me just so I could see it for myself.

And maybe not all my family out in eastern Colorado hates me. I mean, I have cousins and shit. But whatever. They’re done with me and I’m done with them. You can’t choose your family.

Well, some of us can.

I smile big at that. I chose Bebe’s family. And I got to choose my name and remake myself at the age of fifteen. If I look at it that way, maybe I was lucky.

I mean, obviously, having your family murdered is not lucky. But everything that came after… that was good luck.

I should feel grateful. And I am grateful. There’s just a lot of unanswered questions rolling around in my head.

“We’re about to land, Mrs. Asher. Please put your seat belt on.”

I nod at the flight attendant. She looks as exhausted as I feel. It’s almost nine o’clock California time. And the drive home will probably take me an hour. Going anywhere in LA seems to take an hour. So I definitely missed dinner with Vaughn.

But he never called. He has to know where I am. Otherwise he’d be crazy with worry. Maybe he just wanted to give me space to do this on my own?

I watch the lights out my window as we land, taxi, and then finally come to a stop.

“I hope you enjoyed your flight, Mrs. Asher,” the attendant says as I exit the plane.

I give her a small thank you back. She looks pissed off, actually. I kept them waiting all day. I’m not sure what the protocol is for that kind of thing. Maybe I was supposed to call?

I walk quickly to my car, buckle myself in, start it up, and press home on my GPS so it can guide me.

Home.

Sorta.

I mean, Denver feels like home. When I’m in Colorado, I know where I am. I don’t need the GPS system to get me from place to place. But here, I dunno. LA is so big. So many freeways. So many neighborhoods. It just seems to go on forever.

I head out and weave my way through traffic. Even at ten at night, there’s congestion. An accident clogging up the flow of traffic. When I finally make it back up into the hills, it’s nearly ten thirty.

The house is dark. Not a light on in the place. Not even the porch light.

I press the button for the garage and pull in alongside Vaughn’s 911. He’s here. But why is it so dark?

I get out of the car and look around the garage, my heart beating like crazy. “Vaughn?” Nothing. Do I really expect him to be hanging out in the garage?

“Vaughn?” I call again, because it’s freaking me out. What if someone broke in? What if he’s hurt inside?

I walk quickly towards the door that leads inside and turn the handle. It opens without sound. “Vaughn,” I say again. But this time I whisper. I step inside and close the door behind me, and then tiptoe as quietly as I can towards the living room.

The moon is shining through the back window, illuminating the fact that the place is a complete mess. We don’t have a maid and I’ve been sorta useless as a wife since I moved in. And it shows. Even in the dark I can make out shadows of dirty dishes and papers.

“Vaughn,” I whisper again.

He must be asleep.

I walk to the kitchen so I can turn some lights on and that’s when I see him. A dark figure sitting in a chair, backlit by the moonlight. “Vaughn?” I ask. “What are you doing?”

He leans forward and the shadow that was covering his face disappears. He’s still wearing his suit, but the top buttons of his white shirt are undone, leaving his chest exposed. A dark tie is draped around his neck like he was thinking of taking it off and then changed his mind.

“Did you have a nice day?” he asks in a low voice.

I just stare at him. His blue eyes are piercing me, even through the shadows of night. “No, not exactly. I mean, parts of it were.”

“Which parts? The part where you took off in the plane? The part where you ditched the car that was set up for you? The part where you didn’t think to call me?”

I swallow hard. Because he’s pissed off.

“Come here,” he commands in a low, do-not-fuck-with-me voice.

I swallow again and my heart is beating so fast it might explode.

“I said, come the fuck over here.” He stands up and I step back.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Are you mad?”

“Am I mad?” he asks me back, taking a few steps closer to me. “Am I
mad
?” He continues walking until he’s one step away and I have to tip my head up to look him in the face.

I never realized how big he actually is. He towers over me.

“Do I have a reason to be mad, Grace?”

“I should’ve called,” I say meekly.

“Called? You think I’m angry because you didn’t call?”