BLOCK: Social Media #3 (5 page)

She laughs nervously. "I hate confrontation too, so let’s just drop it and have a good time."

"But how do you cope? I mean the fact that you broke up his marriage? How do you trust him not to find another woman to take your place?"

"You don’t even know him, Grace. You have no idea what kind of man he is in private."

"Huh," I grunt sarcastically. "Where have I heard that argument before? Oh, right. The last guy I slept with, he was like that too.
Oh, the private me and the public me are two different things
," I say in a fake voice.

"Well, Johnny is a famous football player, so in his case, it’s actually true." She pins up the final strand of hair and then begins to curl them.

My blood is beginning to boil, because seriously. I grab a flute of champagne on the bar that’s been set out for us and give it a good long guzzle so I can control my building rage. "Kristi, I’ve never even met the guy. And I’m the wedding planner. He’s never around. I’ve been with you every day. When do you see him?"

"I just explained, Grace. He wants to keep it low-key until after the wedding. And I have no problem with honoring that request. I think it’s romantic and" —she actually stops to swoon here—"gentlemanly. He’s a gentleman."

I almost snort my champagne.

She curls the last strand of hair and then holds her arms out wide. "There, that’s pretty, don’t you think?"

I look at my updo in the mirror and shrug. "Yes, thank you. But look, I’m not trying to start a fight, but he’s playing you, can’t you see that? He’s a liar. He’s had how many wives before this? He was cheating on his last wife with you, Kristi! How the hell do you not see that he’s not any good?"

"Stop, OK?" Her face is turning bright red and the tears are building in her eyes. "There’s so much about me—about
us
—that you don’t know. And I can’t talk about it so…"

"You can’t talk about it because he’s got a gag order on you, Kristi! Can’t you see that? Why is that so hard to understand?"

"Grace, I don’t know why you’re so angry, but you don’t understand. You only have his ex-wife’s side of the story. I know the whole story. He and I, we know the whole story. And I’m not discussing this with you. It’s my wedding eve and I want to enjoy it."

I stand up and smooth down my dress with the palms of my hands. I’m shaking, I’m so enraged. "Maybe it’s wrong to tell you things, Kristi. But I consider you more of a friend these days than a client. So I’m just going to come out and say it. He doesn’t love you, do you understand that? You’re pregnant with his child. He got caught cheating. He’s desperate for damage control to save his football career. He’s a lying, worthless cheat and you’re falling for it one hundred percent. He’s playing you, Kristi. Asher is playing you!"

"Who?" she asks, equal parts confused and outraged. "You’re crazy, Grace. Maybe you’ve had too much to drink, but I don’t want my night to be ruined because you’re having some kind of emotional breakdown!"

"Breakdown!" Oh, she didn’t. "You think I’m crazy or something? Is that what you think? Because you’re a joke around Denver, Kristi. People talk behind your back and laugh. Haven’t you seen them pointing at you, the hushed whispers? The snickering?"

"You’ve lost your mind, Grace. Seriously."

"OK, you know what? You go ahead with your fantasy life, Kristi. OK? Because I’m living in reality right now and I see the writing on the wall. He’s not here today because you’re not important. He’s not here because he doesn’t want to be here. It’s the night before his wedding and who gets married on a Thursday?"

"It’s football season, Grace! He works on the weekends! How is that any different from anyone else who works on the weekends? He can’t just call in on Sunday and say,
Sorry, coach and teammates who depend on me, I’m not showing up for the game today
. That’s insane!"

"You’re insane if you think this is normal."

"Define normal? Just because it’s not normal for you doesn’t mean it’s not normal for us."

"Whatever, Kristi—"

A beeping noise comes from the foyer as a key card is fed through the lock. We stop our fight and look over to watch the handle turn and the door open. And who walks in?

Kristi squeals and runs over to her soon-to-be husband and he wraps his arms around her, kissing her on the head. "Sorry I’m late, babe." He looks over to me and smiles, stepping forward with Kristi hanging on his arm, his hand outstretched towards me.

I take it and shake.

"You must be Grace?" he asks with that winning smile they flash on TV every chance they get. "John Blazen. Nice to finally meet you. Kristi has talked about you non-stop for two weeks now, she’s your biggest fan. I can’t thank you enough for taking over the wedding and making her happy."

He actually beams a smile down on her and…

I wilt.

I die right there on the spot as I play all my nasty words back in my head.

I’m an asshole.

I bolt out the door and for once in my life, luck loves me. The elevator is open and waiting so I can make my shameful escape without having to explain myself.

There is only one place to go when your life implodes.

The bar.

Chapter Five

M
Y
phone buzzes in my pants more than two dozen times during the premiere of
Invisible Man 2
, and each time I check it, just waiting for that one call. But each time I’m disappointed. Unknown numbers, known numbers… but none of them are Grace.

The movie screening ends to resounding applause and I allow myself to feel a moment of satisfaction at what we’ve accomplished. The Invisible Man is a complex character. You never know if he’s the good guy or the bad guy, and most of the time he’s both. Moviegoers like to have a clear villain. They like to know who the hero is. But the Invisible Man can’t be boxed up like that and that’s why I can relate to him.

Am I good?

Am I bad?

Am I both?

Are all those things Jasinda is telling the world about me true?

I didn’t read the entire article at
Buzz Hollywood Online
, but I did read the one
Elite Lifestyles Magazine
ran today. And that one drew very clear parallels between the story Jasinda is weaving and all the past reports. Complete with a full-spread timeline. Like they’re piecing together the clues in a murder mystery.

My date for the premiere—my Disney ex from back in my teens, who is mostly known for her sex tapes and trust-fund money these days—clings to my arm like a leech. I only brought her to take all suspicion off Grace, and even with my world crumbling around me, that seems to have worked.

My phone buzzes again and this time it’s Ray. I pry the girl’s fingers off my arm and excuse myself, walking out the emergency exit. I do not end up outside, but in the bowels of the theater’s backstage. "Yeah," I say into the phone. "Any news?"

"She’s been drinking all evening, Vaughn. She’s in the Villa Privé casino hanging on the arm of some corporate guy from San Diego. But I don’t know how you’re going to get in. It’s a private rental."

Two weeks. I’ve forced myself to stay away from her for two weeks, doing my best to keep her out of this. I felt it coming and I’m never wrong about these things. But I can’t do it anymore. She has to have seen the tabloids. She has to be drinking because of me. I am a coward if I don’t set this right. A coward and a dick. She deserves to know the truth.

I
need
her to know the truth. When I decided to pull away from her, my understanding was that it would be temporary. But this doesn’t feel temporary anymore. This feels like my last chance.

"The staff said she’s talking about your tabloid news today, but they didn’t tell me exactly what she said. You want me to subdue her and take control?"

Fuck.

"Boss?"

"No, I’ll take care of it." I end the call and dial up my pilot, which goes to voice mail. "We’re going to Vegas. Tonight. Fuel the jet."

I don’t go back inside the theater, I’ll never escape if I do. Instead I push my way out the back doors into the alley and call my driver to come pick me up a few blocks away. It’s a forty-minute drive up to the airport and by that time the pilot is on his way, but not there yet.

I board the jet and collapse back into one of the leather seats with a sigh.

"Rough day, Mr. Asher?" the attendant calls from the small galley near the front of the plane.

I ignore her and she takes the hint and shuts up.

I spend the next two hours with my knee bouncing, my head pounding, and the internal dialog with Grace running through my mind continuously. The car delivers me to the front of the Bellagio and I get out, button up my suit coat, and straighten my sunglasses.

My personal concierge steps forward with his hand outstretched as I pass between the Asian lion statues that flank the entrance. "Mr. Asher," he says with his best customer-service smile. "I’m so happy to see you again. What brings you here on such short notice tonight?"

"Carl, I have a woman inside Villa Privé and I need immediate access. Her security detail tells me she is drunk."

Carl smiles that smile he gives me just before he says no. So I interrupt him with a squeeze of his shoulder. "Carl, listen. I know the rules, I know the party is private, I know the security is tight. But I’m going in to get my girl, do you understand me? I’m not leaving here without her. You do whatever it takes to make that happen and I will make sure you still have a job when it’s all said and done."

His smile falters and then disappears. He knows he has to try at the very least. He’s paid to try and give me whatever it is I ask for, even if it’s something outrageous like this. "Yes, OK, let me see. Let’s go to the villa level and make a plan."

We walk briskly through the lobby and I keep my sunglasses on, but the finger-pointing starts immediately. People start calling out my name, yelling insults, and a few women actually rush me and the security guards have to form a wall to stop them from getting too close.

Carl and I ignore everything, never slowing our pace, until we leave the bustle of the public areas behind and stop at the elevator.

We both exhale a long breath.

"Rough day for you, huh?" Carl asks as we wait.

"This is my life and I know people will never believe this, but it sucks. I am always guilty and never proven innocent."

He just stares at me for a few seconds and then the elevator dings and the doors open. He nods, telling me to enter first, and then he follows. The doors close and we pretend to listen to the elevator music as we go up.

"This girl is important to you?" Carl asks, his eyes trained on the digital numbers counting off the floors as we rise. The ride is short so the car dings again and the doors part.

"I’ve disappointed her today, Carl. I’m sure this is happening because she saw the news. And I need a chance to set it right."

He nods at me as we exit and then waves me into a lounge. "Have a seat, Mr. Asher. I will make my case and be right back."

My phone buzzes just as I take a seat on a plush burgundy couch. Felicity. "Please have good news," I say into the phone.

"Well," she says, "define good."

I shake my head. What else could go wrong today?

"I found out where Grace Kinsella is from. A tiny farming town in northeastern Colorado. I also found out something else."

She stops talking and I get a sinking feeling in my stomach. "Do I want to know?"

"No, Vaughn, I really don’t think you do. But since I know you’re gonna to ask, let’s just start with her real name."

Shit. This cannot be good.

"Does Daisy Bryndle ring any bells?"

"Should it?"

"Depends. Did you turn on a TV at all ten years ago? Because Daisy Bryndle’s family was murdered back when she was only thirteen. Daisy went missing and then showed up eight months later and spent the better part of a year locked away in a secret location. She was charged with the murders and was all over the news for months, then poof. Gone."

"What the—why isn’t she in jail?"