Costars (New York City Bad Boy Romance) (18 page)

“No,” he says, “took a cab. People around
here drive like they’re taking acid or promethazine or something.”

“Promethazine?” I ask. “I think that’s an
allergy pill.”

“Whatever,” he says. “Whatever they’re on,
they’re on something.”

“Well, that’s great and it’s been a lovely
chat, but I think it’s time you got back on the road now,” I tell him. “You
don’t want to run into traffic.”

I wouldn’t mind it if traffic were to run
over him, but that wish doesn’t get answered.

I’ve tried.

“Listen,” he says, “I know you and I’ve
had our bad times, and I know I had
somethin
’ to do
with that, but I always taught you that family comes first, now didn’t I?”

“What do you want, dad?” I ask.

“See, that’s the thing,” he says. “I’ve
been
doin
’ real well at the factory lately—even got a
promotion. Thing is,
Jandi
–” that would be the evil
stepmother if we’re going to use such terms, “—needed this new car for work,
and I didn’t know she was going to go for the shorter financing period and we
just got into this new place and the mortgage payment’s been out of control and,
well, things are
gettin
’ a little tight.”

“You came all the way out here to ask me
for money because you and your wife can’t budget?” I ask. “Get the hell off my
property,” I tell him.

“Look, now we
ain’t
always
gonna
have each other,” he says. “A dad and a
daughter have a special kind of bond, and I want you to know that I’ve been
seeing a therapist, and he’s really helped me see where I’ve gone wrong in the
past—”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I interrupt. “Now,
get the hell off of my property and do not come back.”

“I’ll go,” he chuckles. “I just figured
that maybe after all these years,
you’d’ve
learned
that family still means
somethin
’ to some people.
With that rich boyfriend
ya
got, I bet you’re just
cleanin’—”

“Is
that
why you’re here?” I ask. “You heard that thing on the radio?”

“Nah,” he says. “I heard that on the cab
ride from the airport. Handsome fella,
ain’t
he.
Don’t seem too bright, though.”

“You know,” I sigh, “for someone who says
things like ‘don’t seem too bright,’ you’d think your gauge of another person’s
intelligence would be a bit more modest.”

“I’ll be at the Steam Hills Motel if
ya
wanna
get in touch,” he says.
“I got the room all week.”

“Funny how you have the money to travel
across the country to beg me for more money, but you don’t have enough to take
care of your own bills,” I scoff.

“Just missed it by a hair,” he says and he
walks off into the night.

I go back inside and lock the door.

This has got to be the most fucked up,
surreal day of my life.

When Damian shows up, I’ve already
forgotten that he was coming over.

“Hey,” I mutter, answering the door.

“Hey,” he says. “Are you all right? You
sounded a bit wound up over the phone.”

“You could say that,” I tell him.

I go on to tell him how my dad showed up
asking for money and how he’s staying at the Steam Hills Motel.

“You know,” he says, “I don’t know about
the money and all that, but it might be a nice gesture to have him stay at your
place while he’s in town.”

“That is the stupidest idea I’ve ever
heard,” I snap.

“Easy there,” he says. “I’m just saying,
you know, he came all this way. It might be nice to have family stay with you
for a little bit.”

“That’s not an option,” I tell him. “No
way am I going to let that happen.”

“I take it you and your dad don’t get
along so well, huh?” he asks.

“Brilliant deduction, inspector Jones,” I
answer.

“Well, there’s always time to fix that,”
he says.

“I don’t want to fix it,” I tell him.
“It’s been broken for a very long time and that is exactly how I like it.”

“You know, I’ve been seeing my ex-former-almost-father-in-law,”
he says. “Ever since I met the guy, he has hated me. Well, it’s not perfect or
anything, but we’re actually making some progress. I mean, we’re in the same
room and we’re making small talk. It’s not a lot, but it’s something.”

“Could you let this drop?” I ask. “I’m not
looking for a happy reunion with my father. That’s the end of the story.”

“Okay,” he says. “Why?”

“It’s not really any of your business,” I
tell him.

“Haven’t you been listening to the radio?”
he asks. “Apparently, I’m your boyfriend.”

“Oh, will you just stop it with that?” I
snap. “I know that I screwed up and I know you wanted to spend however long
avoiding that particular decision, but it happened, I can’t change it and let’s
talk about something else. Clear?”

“What is with you today?” he asks. “I know
you’re stressed, but jeez—”

“I shouldn’t have had you come over,” I
tell him. “I’m really not in the mood to see anybody and it’s not your fault,
but I think you should probably just go.”

He crosses his arms.

“So you’re kicking me out, huh?” he asks.

“If that’s how you need to take it then
yes, I guess I am kicking you out,” I tell him.

“You know,” he says, “I came over here
because I thought you might like to talk about what happened today. I’ve seen
this kind of thing happen before, and I wanted you to know that I’d stand with
you over the next few weeks while the story goes through the papers and all
that.”

“That is very sweet of you to come to me
in my time of tabloid nightmare, but I really think I’ve got this handled for
tonight, so I’ll talk to you later,” I tell him.

“What did he do to you?” Damian asks.

I cross my own arms.

“I thought we were changing the subject to
me kicking you out,” I tell him.

“Seriously,” Damian says, “what happened
that made you hate the guy so much? I’m sure he deserves it, but what could he
have done to bring out this anger in you?”

“Could I possibly make it any clearer that
I don’t want to talk about this?” I ask.

“I just think it might help if you get it
off your chest,” he says. “I know that when something’s really bothering me—”

“My dad was a fucking child abuser!” I
yell.

Damian’s quiet a moment.

“You mean like—” he starts.

“No,” I tell him, “nothing sexual, nothing
like that. He never even touched me. It was my brothers that got the beatings.
Me, he’d just lock me in my room all day and any time he would let me out, he
would constantly tell me what a useless little girl I was. My brothers,
though…”

“I’m sorry,” Damian says in a solemn tone.

“Yeah,” I tell him, “so am I. Maybe you
understand, maybe you don’t, but I don’t want him anywhere near my home. And
with Ben today and the picture and those bruises…” I trail off, sucked into the
numbing vortex that is my personal hell.

“Bruises?” Damian asks.

I come out of it quick enough.

“We’ve both had a long day and I think
we’ve talked enough,” I tell him. “I’m sorry I yelled at you, but I really
don’t want to talk about any of that right now. You’re welcome to stay if you
can live with that.”

“Well, as your boyfriend—” he starts.

“Get out,” I interrupt.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I can absolutely
live with that.”

I give him a good once over, looking for
any tells, but I’m not seeing any.

My dad doesn’t want money; he wants to
reassert his dominance now that it’s starting to look like I might not be such
a failure. Damian’s making progress with his
ex-not-quite-or-almost-father-in-law or whatever and that’s great.

Good for him.

I just don’t need someone like Shane
Roxy—surprised that’s my real name?—anywhere near my life.

Chapter Twelve

Falling Under

Damian

You wouldn’t believe how quickly a person
can go from being potentially famous to household name.

I’d never tell her this, but I’m finding
it quite entertaining to watch all of the speculation about our relationship.
Why anyone cares is still beyond me, but they seem to care quite a bit.

They’re even showing some of her old
movies on network television now.

Hilarious.

Things are still weighing on my mind after
the altercation with Emma last night, but I’m centered, focused and absolutely
prepared to go make a polished turd.

That’s when I see the horde of reporters
outside Emma’s gate.

Well, that should thicken the plot for the
viewers at home.

I couldn’t remember the code to Emma’s
gate, so I parked on the street last night. If I’d gotten up a little earlier,
I could have just caught a ride with Emma and maybe I could have avoided what
I’m about to do, but que sera, sera.

“Damian!” thirty voices yell almost
simultaneously.

I smile and I just keep walking forward.

If you lose your cool with them, they tend
to run the clip simply out of spite.

“Damian, so are you having a sexual
relationship with Emma Roxy, and if so, do you think this is going to affect
your ability to act in your upcoming movie together?” a random voice shouts as
I open the gate, push my way through and make sure it’s latched behind me.

“I think relationships between two people
are the business of those two people,” I answer. “I can tell you that filming
is going very well and we are all very excited to show you what we’ve come up
with. It’s really got quite a bit of heart.”

It means absolutely nothing and they just
eat that shit up. “Heart.” Right.

“So you’re confirming that you do, in
fact, have a relationship with Emma Roxy?” another one from the herd shouts out
as I try to navigate my way to my car.

“I’m confirming that it’s nobody’s
business whether I do or don’t have a relationship with Emma,” I answer.

For whatever reason, Emma still wants to
downplay this whole thing. I really don’t know why. I’ve come around.

“Do you think that—” someone else starts,
but I’ve had enough.

“I’ve got to get to work,” I interrupt and
finally succeed in making it through the herd and to my car door.

“How do you think this relationship is
going to affect Emma Roxy’s career?” someone asks.

“I hope her career is judged by her
strength as an actress and not who she spends time with,” I answer and I open
the car door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

I get in and, though the reporters are
kind enough to let me through, they don’t seem too happy about it.

I’m actually not on my way to work right
now. I should probably get there sooner than later, but I need to stop by home
and check on Danna.

For the most part, she’s recovered from
her relapse, but she still tires pretty easily and I haven’t been home to make
sure that she has everything she’s going to need for the day handy. She gets
frustrated a lot, but that’s just part of the process.

I get home and Danna’s standing on a
chair, reaching for something on the top cabinet in one of the kitchen
cupboards.

“What the hell are you doing?” I ask,
rushing in to—I don’t know, catch her if she falls? I just know that she
shouldn’t be up there and doing that when she’s this fresh off an episode.

“Calm down, little bro,” she says. “I just
needed coffee.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I should have
gotten back earlier so I could make sure it was made and—”

“I’m really feeling a lot better,” she says.
“I know it’s not good to overdo it, but I do need to start getting up and
moving a little bit more or else I’m just going to have a harder time later on.
You
should
start looking for a
fill-in for me, though. What was it with the last guy?”

“He suggested that I try out to be on the
cast of
The Lion King
on Broadway. He
seemed convinced it was a brilliant idea,” I answer. “He was a moron.”

“You’ve got to figure something out,” she
says. “You would be surprised how many people call for you and want you to do
things. It really is a fulltime job keeping track of it all.”

“I’m sure that whenever you’re feeling up
to coming back,” I tell her, “that you’ll be able to pick it back up and get
caught up in no time.”

“Oh hell no,” she says. “Whatever’s not
getting done right now is simply not getting done. I’m not going to go back
through every missed call to ask the person on the other end what they wanted.
That’s amateur hour.”

“So you’re saying that right now, I’m
basically functioning as if I don’t have an agent at all?” I ask.

“Pretty much,” she says, finally snatching
the coffee from the top shelf.

“Just leave that out on the counter,” I
tell her.

“Why?” she asks. “Is it because I’m too
sick and weak to get it down otherwise?”

“No,” I answer.

“Usually, people explain their reasoning,”
she says.

“You know,” I tell her, “if I’m getting
along this well without an agent, maybe I should start saving that fifteen
percent. You know,” I continue, “have something for when I’m all old and
disgusting and nobody wants to hire me because the only time I ever come up in
conversation anymore is, ‘Hey, remember when Damian Jones didn’t look like a
dumpster fire,’ and the other person says, ‘No,’ and they laugh about it—with
what I’d save from not paying you, I could simply withdraw from public life
completely and live in the mountains with a whiskey still and a shotgun.”

“That does sound like the dream,” she
says, “but if I left your career in your hands, you wouldn’t have a career for
me to put back together.”

“Your faith in me has always been
inspiring,” I tell her.

“I care about people,” she says. “It’s
what I do.”

Danna’s always been this way, whatever way
one might say that is. It used to be that she was taking care of me, but that
was a long time ago under very different circumstances.

Growing up in my house was a pretty rare
thing from what I’m told. My parents loved each other and we were a relatively
normal, happy family.

Dad and mom were the classic romantics.

He met her after he came back from the war
that she was protesting. He’d never really thought about whether or not the war
was a just thing or an unjust thing; he’d simply been called to serve in the
military and so he went.

They ran into each other later in the
afternoon that he walked by the big protest she’d organized and he recognized
her.

The two of them told the story often
enough that I can still remember how they said the conversation went.

She was in a diner that day and he walked
in and saw her. She was sitting at the counter eating blueberry waffles in a
bowl. The bowl was necessary for the amount of syrup in which they were
swimming.

“Hey, you were talking at that big
anti-war rally today, weren’t you?” he asked.

She looked up with a spoonful of waffle
and syrup and said, “Yeah. What they’re doing isn’t right.”

“I’m a soldier,” he said. “Does that mean
that we’d never be able to get along?”

She looked him up and down and said, “I
thought military guys knew how to shave.”

That’s the point in the story where my
parents would always start laughing and squeezing each other a little bit.

They used to go out, every anniversary,
and they’d have dinner at the same diner where they first met.

Then, one night when I was fifteen, they
went out for their anniversary dinner and they didn’t come back.

To be honest, I didn’t really notice until
after midnight. I’d been out partying with friends, and I was stoned when I got
home and Danna met me at the door.

She was crying and at first I couldn’t
understand what she was trying to tell me. When I finally got what she was
trying to say, my head cleared pretty fucking quick.

“They were walking to their car,” she
sobbed. “Someone in the diner said they saw a man run up to them with a gun in
their faces. Damian,” she said, her voice quivering, “they’re dead.”

It didn’t make sense. It still doesn’t
make sense.

We would go on to learn that the mugger
had told my dad and mom to give him all their money, but when they’d given him
everything they had, he just pointed the gun at my mother and said, “Sweet
dreams.”

I know what he said because they caught
the mugger. He was very proud of himself.

My dad had thrown himself in front of my
mother and caught the bullet that man meant for her. During sentencing, the man
described the scene, saying, “It was really kind of touching that he would give
his life for her. I almost felt bad putting that second bullet into her while
he was bleeding out.”

He got a life sentence.

There’s a reason my career was silent when
I was a teenager and there’s a reason why family is such an important thing to
me. Sometimes, the people you love—sometimes they’re just gone and that’s that.
The last conversation you had with them is the last conversation you’ll ever
have with them and there’s nothing that you can do about it.

That’s why I owe so much to Danna.

I’d still take care of her just because
she’s my sister and my twin and she’s sick, but ever since she helped me see
the other side of what happened to mom and dad, I’ve been very protective of
her.

Sitting on the couch now, Danna’s talking
about something which, even hearing it, I can’t begin to pronounce.

“…it’s supposed to make relapses less frequent
and less severe,” she says. “It’s really a wonder more people don’t know about
it.”

“Where do you get this stuff?” I ask.

“Oh, my friend Jade knows the holistic
healer that discovered it,” she says. “She’s going to introduce me to him
tomorrow—he’s coming over here. I hope you don’t mind, but I’m still not quite
ready to get out on the town and everything.”

“I wish you’d stop doing that,” I tell
her.

“Doing what?” she asks.

“Getting your hopes up every time some
charlatan tells you they’ve got the cure for MS,” I tell her.

I may be protective of her, but that
doesn’t mean that I’m always nice about it.

“I never said it was a cure,” she says.
“I’m just saying that, you know, if this stuff can even make things a
little
easier, wouldn’t that be worth
it?”

“You don’t know what this stuff is,” I
tell her.

“Of course I do,” she says, “it’s [enter
word I cannot pronounce or spell here].”

“And where does it come from? Is it a
plant or is it some kind of chemical? Have you done any independent research on
it to see what kind of effects it might actually have that people other than
your friend’s guru have documented?” I ask. “Danna, you can’t keep doing this.
Every time something turns out to be a waste of money, it knocks your legs out
from under you and I’m sick of seeing it.”

“It’s not like that,” she says.
“Everyone’s body reacts differently.”

Danna’s not the hippie type, but after an
episode, she’s always on the lookout for something, anything that might make
things easier. I don’t begrudge her that, but at the same time, it’s hard to
see her so disappointed.

“People’s bodies react differently to some
degree,” I tell her, “but something that’s actually as profound a medicine as
that crap you’ve already tried doesn’t just work for a handful of people you’ve
never met. They work for most people.”

“They worked for me a little bit,” she
says. “For a few days at least, I think most of them made some kind of
difference.”

“Yeah,” I tell her, “it’s called the
placebo effect.”

“Why are you being such a dick about
this?” she asks.

“I’m not,” I tell her. “I’m just trying to
get you to understand that sometimes the answers just aren’t easy. Sometimes
there’s just not some secret formula that’s going to make everything in the
world better.”

“You’re an asshole,” she says, getting up
from the couch, “you know that?”

“Danna, calm down,” I tell her, but she’s
already walking out of the room.

I could get up and chase her, but what
would be the point? We’re not going to agree on this and we’re going to end up
pissing each other off.

As long as the stuff she’s taking isn’t
actually going to harm her, I’m all right with it in principle, but every time
something new doesn’t work out it’s like she just got the diagnosis.

The doorbell rings and Danna yells, “I’ll
get it!”

I hear the door open and I hear distant
voices, but I can’t tell what’s being said or who’s at the door.