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I’m just about to walk out and mind my own damn business when I have an idea.
It’s not an idea I’m proud of, but I have one and once it’s in my mind, I can’t not do it.
I go back to the computer and access that email with the ticket. I forward it to my own email account and erase the message. Then I erase the phone messages too.
It’s wrong, I know it. But I have a bad feeling about this party. And if people are coming out of the woodwork to warn him off, it’s my duty as his wife to help keep him away.
If he asks for it, I still have it. I’ll give it to him after we discuss.
But only if he asks.
I leave his office and go back out to the living room and have a seat. Put my feet up. Turn on the TV. Change channels for like five minutes. Turn the TV off.
I check the clock. It’s only three. I have five hours until Vaughn comes home.
I get up and check the fridge. Close it up after staring for two minutes. Sit back down at the bar. Flip through old mail—hey, there’s a letter from my bank in Denver. Open it and understand like two words on that statement aside from the bank balance, which has to be wrong, because it says ninety thousand dollars. Tuck that statement back into the envelope and put a sticky note on it with the letters WTF. Vaughn can deal with that. I have no clue.
Check the clock again. Three fifteen.
Scream.
Not really. It’s a sigh. But I feel like screaming, that’s for sure. What the hell am I supposed to be doing all day?
I list my possibilities. I have a car. I can go shopping. But seriously, I’m not a shopper. I don’t need anything. And I don’t like to drive in LA. It scares me. The people are crazy. The freeways are crazy. And they have so many roads. Like, in Colorado, you got two choices for freeways. The one going east and west and the one going north and south. Sure, there’s a few smaller ones, but basically, you’ve got two choices.
LA, you’ve got five ways to get somewhere, and all five ways are clogged with cars going the same way. I’m just not comfortable driving alone yet.
I could call someone. But everyone I know has a job.
I ponder things for a few moments, my eyes sweeping the room. I get up and feed the fish. Now that the tank is clean, I realize there’s a turtle in there. He’s soaking up some UV rays under the sun lamp. That makes me smile for ten seconds.
It’s hot out today, so the wall of windows is closed and I have the air-conditioning on. I could go swimming. But that’s about all I’ve done for the past few months.
I plop back down on the couch and grab the tablet from the coffee table. I could go on Twitter. Jesus, I haven’t been on Twitter since the kidnapping. I haven’t even thought about Twitter. My account was deleted, but the police made them put it back up so they could monitor it. I just never bothered to delete it again.
I navigate to the web and type in my profile link and then log in.
I have so many messages, it says 99+ in the message tab. Same thing for the notifications. I check the messages first, because those are probably all from the Filthy Blue Birds. I scroll all the way down my list and start reading chronologically. Mostly it’s a bunch of messages asking if I’m OK. Those are all timestamped the morning they found out I was missing. Then they get weird. Like some of them thought I was dead and were saying their goodbyes.
Creepy.
I click out of messages and go to notifications, and glance at the first one on top. A blue link appears above that notification, indicating that I have five new ones. What the hell? People are talking to me right now?
The first one makes little sense to me. It’s part of a conversation tagged with my @FilthyBlueBird handle. All it says is—You’re so right. It’s from someone I have never heard of.
I click the conversation link to see what they are talking about.
Editor @Realreporter00 - 15 min
@GrapevineHW You’re wrong. Asher is about done with his @FilthyBlueBird.
I hate reading Twitter conversations because you get the last message first, so you never know what the fuck is going on until you hunt down the original message. Which doesn’t seem to be included in this set of tweets.
I close out of that one and go down further, to tweets more than fifteen minutes old. I swear. I must look through a hundred messages before I find the one that sparked this convo. It was five hours ago and it came from @Buzz1Hollywood. That right there should tell me to leave it alone, but I’m human. If people are talking about me, I need to see it.
Editor @Realreporter00 - 5 hrs
Who wants to see @FilthyBlueBird doing the dirty solo for her man? We got the goods. Twitter pics are not private, Blue Bird.
Holy fuck. I want to stop myself, but I can’t. I have to know for sure. I scroll through every single notification looking for the “goods” but after hours of searching—like seriously, it’s after eight and the only reason I stop is because I hear the garage door open—I don’t find anything.
I do find several dozen references in the Buzz Hollywood feed to the Black Bash, which is happening this Friday.
Were they lying? Do they have these pictures or not? I’d forgotten all about that night we were phone- and Twitter-sexing back in Denver. It feels like years ago. How could I have known back then what my life would become in a few short months?
“Grace!” Vaughn calls out as he enters from the garage. I slap the cover closed on the tablet and stick it behind a cushion. He rounds the corner just as I cross my legs and look guilty. “What’re ya doing, Princess?”
“Waiting for you to get home.”
He grins widely at me and then joins me on the couch. “I missed you so much today,” he says, drawing me into his arms and nuzzling my neck.
Aww.
And before I can even tell him I missed him more, he’s got his hand up my shirt.
I should tell him about the pictures, but hell, I just want to soak up his attention. I’m so ready for company.
“Wanna go out to eat tonight? I got us reservations at Mastro’s.” He kisses me, his tongue doing a twisty little dance inside my mouth.
“Please, get me out of this house.”
He scoops me up and carries me to the garage door, then bends down. “Grab those flip flops.”
“I can’t go like this!”
“Hell, yes, you can. I’m starving for steak. And you, sweets. I need nourishment and girly conversation right now, or I might die. Grab them and let’s go.”
It’s not an idea I’m proud of, but I have one and once it’s in my mind, I can’t not do it.
I go back to the computer and access that email with the ticket. I forward it to my own email account and erase the message. Then I erase the phone messages too.
It’s wrong, I know it. But I have a bad feeling about this party. And if people are coming out of the woodwork to warn him off, it’s my duty as his wife to help keep him away.
If he asks for it, I still have it. I’ll give it to him after we discuss.
But only if he asks.
I leave his office and go back out to the living room and have a seat. Put my feet up. Turn on the TV. Change channels for like five minutes. Turn the TV off.
I check the clock. It’s only three. I have five hours until Vaughn comes home.
I get up and check the fridge. Close it up after staring for two minutes. Sit back down at the bar. Flip through old mail—hey, there’s a letter from my bank in Denver. Open it and understand like two words on that statement aside from the bank balance, which has to be wrong, because it says ninety thousand dollars. Tuck that statement back into the envelope and put a sticky note on it with the letters WTF. Vaughn can deal with that. I have no clue.
Check the clock again. Three fifteen.
Scream.
Not really. It’s a sigh. But I feel like screaming, that’s for sure. What the hell am I supposed to be doing all day?
I list my possibilities. I have a car. I can go shopping. But seriously, I’m not a shopper. I don’t need anything. And I don’t like to drive in LA. It scares me. The people are crazy. The freeways are crazy. And they have so many roads. Like, in Colorado, you got two choices for freeways. The one going east and west and the one going north and south. Sure, there’s a few smaller ones, but basically, you’ve got two choices.
LA, you’ve got five ways to get somewhere, and all five ways are clogged with cars going the same way. I’m just not comfortable driving alone yet.
I could call someone. But everyone I know has a job.
I ponder things for a few moments, my eyes sweeping the room. I get up and feed the fish. Now that the tank is clean, I realize there’s a turtle in there. He’s soaking up some UV rays under the sun lamp. That makes me smile for ten seconds.
It’s hot out today, so the wall of windows is closed and I have the air-conditioning on. I could go swimming. But that’s about all I’ve done for the past few months.
I plop back down on the couch and grab the tablet from the coffee table. I could go on Twitter. Jesus, I haven’t been on Twitter since the kidnapping. I haven’t even thought about Twitter. My account was deleted, but the police made them put it back up so they could monitor it. I just never bothered to delete it again.
I navigate to the web and type in my profile link and then log in.
I have so many messages, it says 99+ in the message tab. Same thing for the notifications. I check the messages first, because those are probably all from the Filthy Blue Birds. I scroll all the way down my list and start reading chronologically. Mostly it’s a bunch of messages asking if I’m OK. Those are all timestamped the morning they found out I was missing. Then they get weird. Like some of them thought I was dead and were saying their goodbyes.
Creepy.
I click out of messages and go to notifications, and glance at the first one on top. A blue link appears above that notification, indicating that I have five new ones. What the hell? People are talking to me right now?
The first one makes little sense to me. It’s part of a conversation tagged with my @FilthyBlueBird handle. All it says is—You’re so right. It’s from someone I have never heard of.
I click the conversation link to see what they are talking about.
Editor @Realreporter00 - 15 min
@GrapevineHW You’re wrong. Asher is about done with his @FilthyBlueBird.
I hate reading Twitter conversations because you get the last message first, so you never know what the fuck is going on until you hunt down the original message. Which doesn’t seem to be included in this set of tweets.
I close out of that one and go down further, to tweets more than fifteen minutes old. I swear. I must look through a hundred messages before I find the one that sparked this convo. It was five hours ago and it came from @Buzz1Hollywood. That right there should tell me to leave it alone, but I’m human. If people are talking about me, I need to see it.
Editor @Realreporter00 - 5 hrs
Who wants to see @FilthyBlueBird doing the dirty solo for her man? We got the goods. Twitter pics are not private, Blue Bird.
Holy fuck. I want to stop myself, but I can’t. I have to know for sure. I scroll through every single notification looking for the “goods” but after hours of searching—like seriously, it’s after eight and the only reason I stop is because I hear the garage door open—I don’t find anything.
I do find several dozen references in the Buzz Hollywood feed to the Black Bash, which is happening this Friday.
Were they lying? Do they have these pictures or not? I’d forgotten all about that night we were phone- and Twitter-sexing back in Denver. It feels like years ago. How could I have known back then what my life would become in a few short months?
“Grace!” Vaughn calls out as he enters from the garage. I slap the cover closed on the tablet and stick it behind a cushion. He rounds the corner just as I cross my legs and look guilty. “What’re ya doing, Princess?”
“Waiting for you to get home.”
He grins widely at me and then joins me on the couch. “I missed you so much today,” he says, drawing me into his arms and nuzzling my neck.
Aww.
And before I can even tell him I missed him more, he’s got his hand up my shirt.
I should tell him about the pictures, but hell, I just want to soak up his attention. I’m so ready for company.
“Wanna go out to eat tonight? I got us reservations at Mastro’s.” He kisses me, his tongue doing a twisty little dance inside my mouth.
“Please, get me out of this house.”
He scoops me up and carries me to the garage door, then bends down. “Grab those flip flops.”
“I can’t go like this!”
“Hell, yes, you can. I’m starving for steak. And you, sweets. I need nourishment and girly conversation right now, or I might die. Grab them and let’s go.”
