Dating You / Hating You
Page 70
Can we do this? I mouth, and while Amelia nods, Daryl is frantically shaking her head.
I’ve just taken my first step off the top landing when Eric’s voice echoes through the house. “Wait, Uncle Brad, I wanted to show you my scar!” he essentially yells.
I almost fall in an attempt to scramble back, arms and legs everywhere as we dart in different directions, each of us disappearing into a different room.
“Eric, what the hell is wrong with you?” Brad asks. “Are you taking drugs?”
“I’m . . . no . . . not drugs,” Eric babbles, his eyes widening when, behind Brad and on the landing, he sees my head peeking out from one of the doorways. He pulls Brad to him in a tight embrace, and motions for me to run. “I’ve just missed you!”
I slip across the hall to the guest room over the garage, slamming into the window when Daryl and Amelia sprint in behind and slide across the wood floor, right into me. I let out a grunted Oof.
Voices fall quiet downstairs.
“Who’s up there?” Brad asks.
“No one,” Maxine says. “It’s just us tonight.”
My heart is a hammer, my chest feels like glass.
“I know I heard something,” Brad says. “I’ll run up—”
“But we were just going to have something to eat!” Eric says. “You have to be hungry. Have you lost weight?”
“Brad, we never get a chance to visit. Come have dinner with us.”
There’s a moment of silence before footsteps retreat along the marble hallway and I squeeze my eyes closed in prayer as I slide open the window.
“What are you doing?” Daryl hisses.
“We’re going to have to climb out and shimmy down the trellis.”
“I’m so confused by the term shimmy down the trellis. How is that even po—”
Amelia ignores her. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?” she whispers in my direction.
I look out the window. It’s far, but I mean . . . it’s not like death far. And we need to get the hell out of here, now.
“Come on,” I say, throwing one leg over the windowsill. “Just do what I do.”
Crawling out, I step on the roof of the garage—gingerly at first, making sure my footing is secure—and then shuffle over to the vine-lined trellis. My greatest fear is allayed when I tug at the flimsy structure and it holds securely to the wall.
“Come on,” I urge again, returning to my downward climb when I see Daryl’s leg come over the side of the window, her body emerging onto the roof. Amelia follows right after.
Back in the bed of the truck, we lie flat, staring at the sky and silent but for our jagged, heaving breaths. I’m calmed by the warmth of Amelia on my left and Daryl on my right. Their hands come down, twining with mine.
“Thanks, you guys,” I whisper.
They squeeze my hands in unison as we struggle to catch our breath. Eventually, waiting for Eric to finish up his impromptu meal with his aunt and uncle, we manage to contain our maniacal laughter.
• • •
Carter shows up at my front door a little jittery, like he thought it might be a good idea to toss back an espresso at ten p.m.
Pushing past me, he heads straight for the kitchen and opens the cabinet with the plates. “Where do you keep the booze?”
“Erm,” I say, following him, “above the stove, but don’t get your hopes up. I think your options are Bacardi, Captain Morgan, triple sec, and . . .” I trail off as he pulls down a bottle of vodka I didn’t know I had, grabs a glass, tosses some ice cubes in it, and pours himself a hefty shot.
His throat bobs distractingly as he swallows. I’ve only been home for about thirty minutes myself and want to tell him about our badass 9 to 5 adventure (Dolly Parton would be so proud!) and what we found, but he seems a little preoccupied.
“What’s going on?” I ask, walking over and stretching to kiss his boozy mouth.
“I quit.”
I pull back, shocked. “Pardon?”
“You heard me. I quit. I have no idea what comes tomorrow, but I told Brad that I was out.”
“I . . . I. Wow.”
“I love you, but I didn’t do it for you,” he says, eyes wild. “I did it because I can’t work there one more fucking second. Brad is scum.”
“Well, yes,” I say, stepping back and watching curiously as he reaches for the bottle again.
“I went to Brad to talk about how things went down with you and him.”
I groan. “Carter, you don’t have to fight my battles for me.”
“I know this. If there’s one thing I definitely know, it’s that Evil Abbey can take care of herself. But . . . I had to say something. I couldn’t not. The way he acted was completely unacceptable.”
Well. He gets a kiss for this. It seems to calm him a little, too. I can’t blame him for the vodka now; his adrenaline must be up to eleven.
“Anyway, he wasn’t very receptive to the conversation—”
“I don’t imagine.”
“And it hit me,” he says, shaking his head, “I hate it there. I love what I do—I love you—but I hate P&D. It’s like trying to work in the middle of a dodgeball game.”
This makes me laugh, and I pull him out of the kitchen and into the living room. He sits on the couch, and I follow him, straddling his lap.
“So we’ve made a fucking mess of things,” he says, leaning to kiss my neck. “But I did hear from Dan today.”
He pulls out his phone, showing me a string of texts from Dan Printz.
Hey man.
Sorry I haven’t been around today.
I talked to Ted at Variety, he said the announcement came from some PR firm called Roar?
Who fucking knows. Bottom line: I don’t care what the agency is, I just want to work with you.
I have a press party I have to go to tonight so give me a call in the morning.
Let’s get some papers signed and make some movies.
Roar PR. I freeze. “Brad was the one who spilled?”
Carter’s eyes narrow. “What?”
I stretch across the couch, reaching for my laptop bag.
“Well . . . I had a bit of an adventure tonight.” I slide the computer onto the coffee table, boot it up, open Jess’s spreadsheet, and then turn the screen to face him.
“Okay?” he says, glancing from it to me again. “What’s all this?”
“Have I got a story for you.”
• • •
Former Price & Dickle talent agency executive Brad Kingman was arrested Tuesday in Los Angeles on charges of wire fraud, embezzlement, and identity theft.
According to prosecutors, Kingman set up a network of bogus companies, which he then used to submit fraudulent invoices to his agency for work that was never done. These bogus companies ranged from hair and makeup services to dog walkers and nanny agencies.
U.S. Attorney for the Southern District Emery Ridge said, “The FBI obtained emails and vendor contracts showing that Kingman used these stolen identities and tax ID numbers to submit fraudulent invoices and conceal his crimes. This isn’t a matter of an employee taking a few extra dollars from petty cash. So far Kingman is accused of skimming upwards of two million dollars.”
The print copy of the Hollywood Vine is laid out flat in front of us, and Daryl, Amelia, and Steph fall silent around the bar table. We’re all here for the Super Bowl, and television sets overhead broadcast commercials that make the assembled mass fall into a reverent hush, but none of us are able to look anywhere but at the article in front of us.
I’ve just taken my first step off the top landing when Eric’s voice echoes through the house. “Wait, Uncle Brad, I wanted to show you my scar!” he essentially yells.
I almost fall in an attempt to scramble back, arms and legs everywhere as we dart in different directions, each of us disappearing into a different room.
“Eric, what the hell is wrong with you?” Brad asks. “Are you taking drugs?”
“I’m . . . no . . . not drugs,” Eric babbles, his eyes widening when, behind Brad and on the landing, he sees my head peeking out from one of the doorways. He pulls Brad to him in a tight embrace, and motions for me to run. “I’ve just missed you!”
I slip across the hall to the guest room over the garage, slamming into the window when Daryl and Amelia sprint in behind and slide across the wood floor, right into me. I let out a grunted Oof.
Voices fall quiet downstairs.
“Who’s up there?” Brad asks.
“No one,” Maxine says. “It’s just us tonight.”
My heart is a hammer, my chest feels like glass.
“I know I heard something,” Brad says. “I’ll run up—”
“But we were just going to have something to eat!” Eric says. “You have to be hungry. Have you lost weight?”
“Brad, we never get a chance to visit. Come have dinner with us.”
There’s a moment of silence before footsteps retreat along the marble hallway and I squeeze my eyes closed in prayer as I slide open the window.
“What are you doing?” Daryl hisses.
“We’re going to have to climb out and shimmy down the trellis.”
“I’m so confused by the term shimmy down the trellis. How is that even po—”
Amelia ignores her. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?” she whispers in my direction.
I look out the window. It’s far, but I mean . . . it’s not like death far. And we need to get the hell out of here, now.
“Come on,” I say, throwing one leg over the windowsill. “Just do what I do.”
Crawling out, I step on the roof of the garage—gingerly at first, making sure my footing is secure—and then shuffle over to the vine-lined trellis. My greatest fear is allayed when I tug at the flimsy structure and it holds securely to the wall.
“Come on,” I urge again, returning to my downward climb when I see Daryl’s leg come over the side of the window, her body emerging onto the roof. Amelia follows right after.
Back in the bed of the truck, we lie flat, staring at the sky and silent but for our jagged, heaving breaths. I’m calmed by the warmth of Amelia on my left and Daryl on my right. Their hands come down, twining with mine.
“Thanks, you guys,” I whisper.
They squeeze my hands in unison as we struggle to catch our breath. Eventually, waiting for Eric to finish up his impromptu meal with his aunt and uncle, we manage to contain our maniacal laughter.
• • •
Carter shows up at my front door a little jittery, like he thought it might be a good idea to toss back an espresso at ten p.m.
Pushing past me, he heads straight for the kitchen and opens the cabinet with the plates. “Where do you keep the booze?”
“Erm,” I say, following him, “above the stove, but don’t get your hopes up. I think your options are Bacardi, Captain Morgan, triple sec, and . . .” I trail off as he pulls down a bottle of vodka I didn’t know I had, grabs a glass, tosses some ice cubes in it, and pours himself a hefty shot.
His throat bobs distractingly as he swallows. I’ve only been home for about thirty minutes myself and want to tell him about our badass 9 to 5 adventure (Dolly Parton would be so proud!) and what we found, but he seems a little preoccupied.
“What’s going on?” I ask, walking over and stretching to kiss his boozy mouth.
“I quit.”
I pull back, shocked. “Pardon?”
“You heard me. I quit. I have no idea what comes tomorrow, but I told Brad that I was out.”
“I . . . I. Wow.”
“I love you, but I didn’t do it for you,” he says, eyes wild. “I did it because I can’t work there one more fucking second. Brad is scum.”
“Well, yes,” I say, stepping back and watching curiously as he reaches for the bottle again.
“I went to Brad to talk about how things went down with you and him.”
I groan. “Carter, you don’t have to fight my battles for me.”
“I know this. If there’s one thing I definitely know, it’s that Evil Abbey can take care of herself. But . . . I had to say something. I couldn’t not. The way he acted was completely unacceptable.”
Well. He gets a kiss for this. It seems to calm him a little, too. I can’t blame him for the vodka now; his adrenaline must be up to eleven.
“Anyway, he wasn’t very receptive to the conversation—”
“I don’t imagine.”
“And it hit me,” he says, shaking his head, “I hate it there. I love what I do—I love you—but I hate P&D. It’s like trying to work in the middle of a dodgeball game.”
This makes me laugh, and I pull him out of the kitchen and into the living room. He sits on the couch, and I follow him, straddling his lap.
“So we’ve made a fucking mess of things,” he says, leaning to kiss my neck. “But I did hear from Dan today.”
He pulls out his phone, showing me a string of texts from Dan Printz.
Hey man.
Sorry I haven’t been around today.
I talked to Ted at Variety, he said the announcement came from some PR firm called Roar?
Who fucking knows. Bottom line: I don’t care what the agency is, I just want to work with you.
I have a press party I have to go to tonight so give me a call in the morning.
Let’s get some papers signed and make some movies.
Roar PR. I freeze. “Brad was the one who spilled?”
Carter’s eyes narrow. “What?”
I stretch across the couch, reaching for my laptop bag.
“Well . . . I had a bit of an adventure tonight.” I slide the computer onto the coffee table, boot it up, open Jess’s spreadsheet, and then turn the screen to face him.
“Okay?” he says, glancing from it to me again. “What’s all this?”
“Have I got a story for you.”
• • •
Former Price & Dickle talent agency executive Brad Kingman was arrested Tuesday in Los Angeles on charges of wire fraud, embezzlement, and identity theft.
According to prosecutors, Kingman set up a network of bogus companies, which he then used to submit fraudulent invoices to his agency for work that was never done. These bogus companies ranged from hair and makeup services to dog walkers and nanny agencies.
U.S. Attorney for the Southern District Emery Ridge said, “The FBI obtained emails and vendor contracts showing that Kingman used these stolen identities and tax ID numbers to submit fraudulent invoices and conceal his crimes. This isn’t a matter of an employee taking a few extra dollars from petty cash. So far Kingman is accused of skimming upwards of two million dollars.”
The print copy of the Hollywood Vine is laid out flat in front of us, and Daryl, Amelia, and Steph fall silent around the bar table. We’re all here for the Super Bowl, and television sets overhead broadcast commercials that make the assembled mass fall into a reverent hush, but none of us are able to look anywhere but at the article in front of us.
