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I sigh as I picture her back then. So carefree and happy. So sure of herself. So feisty.
And now? I’ve been in her life a matter of weeks—not even a month has passed—and I almost can’t find the old Grace anymore.
Did I do that? Did I force that change? Do I still make her sad?
I like the old Grace. No, I love the old Grace. I love her dirty mouth and her sassy self-assurance. I never wanted to tear that down.
You lie, Asher. You lie. That’s all you thought about. Taking her in the way that pleased you. Making her submit to your contract and your fetishes. Corrupting her sense of wellbeing to knock her down and keep her wanting.
I’m a sick fuck.
My phone buzzes a message in my pocket. Coming up the path, the text says.
Well, the bitch must live close, because that was only fifteen minutes.
I make my way back to the security building and then keep going right past it, down the hill a little ways.
The plan was to take her through the backyard of one of the houses below, and then leave her waiting next to an empty pool. So that’s where I’m heading. I’m quiet until I enter the gate that separates this path from that yard, and then I make a lot of noise on purpose as I wind my way through the overgrown tropical trees until I find the pool area.
She’s standing and on high alert when I enter the open space. There’s no light back here so I imagine she’s all sorts of freaked out.
Good. Bitch.
She lets out an audible breath of relief once she recognizes me and I take a lot of satisfaction in that.
“Ms. Keefe, I presume?”
“Yes, Mr. Asher.” She stretches out her hand but I ignore that gesture and take a seat in the old webbed lawn chair across from her.
“Hmm. Well,” she says as she sits back down. “This is some place you have here.”
“Yup. I love it. It’s the perfect place to have midnight meetings.”
“It’s three AM, Asher.”
“Discretion, Keefe. It’s all about discretion.”
“Perfect. Then I assume we’re going to make a deal here?” She fishes through her bag and comes out with a small digital recorder. “Mind if I tape this?”
“Tape away.”
She turns the little machine on until the red light blinks and then mutters some words into it and checks to make sure it’s working. “OK, we’re ready. Why don’t you start by—”
“Why don’t I start by telling you what’s gonna happen now?”
“Excuse me?” She looks up with fake doe-eyes. Like she’s stunned. Like she expected this to go her way.
She cannot be that stupid.
“How. This. Will. Go,” I repeat slowly. “It’s simple really. You can fuck off. You can print whatever the hell you want. Photos of my wife? Fine. Stories about me? Go for it. But before you do that, Keefe… just make sure you tell your star reporter that I’ve got pictures too. And that shit will hit the public the minute I see my wife in your magazine. Or on your stupid little cable TV network. Or anywhere else for that matter. If my wife’s private photos exchanged on Twitter appear anywhere, her past goes public too.”
Keefe clicks the little recorder off and shakes her head. “I thought you’d take the easy way out, Asher. I really did. But you’re gonna regret this. I can’t control her, I can only appease her. This was your only chance. I’m gonna let Amy go tomorrow. So whatever she does, it has nothing to do with me. And I could care less if you release things about her past. It’s not my problem.”
“Oh, it is your problem, Keefe. Because whether you know it or not, that secret she thinks I’m hiding is not about me.” I wait for her smug look before I deliver the last line. “It’s about you.”
“Ha,” she laughs. “Right. I have no idea what you two are talking about. I have no idea how you know each other so well. But I do know this. Your threats are as fake as your on-screen alter-ego. You having a superhero complex, Asher? Newsflash, asshole. The Invisible Man isn’t real.”
“Oh, he’s real. Keefe. He’s real. He might take the form of well-concealed video equipment these days. But he’s one hundred percent real.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? You don’t know me.”
“I know more than you think, Keefe. A lot more. You want to know what this is about?” I stand and she stares up at me. “You want to know what Amy has against me?”
“That’s why I’m here, Mr. Movie Star.”
“November, 14, 2005. Issue one of Buzz Hollywood. A press-printed paper circulates through the Hollywood clubs. Given out at the door while people wait in line.”
She narrows her eyes but the anger is replaced with confusion. She doesn’t see it yet.
“You ran a story that changed your life.”
“So?”
“It was a lie.”
“It was not,” she bellows, standing up like she’s gonna take the control back. I smile and nod as I stare her down. “I had proof of that shit. Frankie Miller did not kill DeeDee Cisco, it was a suicide. We proved it. Not to mention I knew him personally from my time at UCLA. He was my graduate school advisor. And if it was false, believe me, he and I would both be in jail right now.”
I stand up to take her down a notch as she is forced to admit how small she is compared to me. “He’s guilty as fuck, Keefe. And so are you.”
She’s shaking her head, like that will make it right. “You don’t know anything. You’re bluffing, to make us back off.”
“Honey,” I say, taking advantage of her confusion, “who the fuck do you think runs this town? You and the media whores like you? Really?” I laugh under my breath at her stupidity. “Come on, Carey. Step down off your pedestal. Take off the rose-colored glasses and see this shithole for what it is.”
She stares up like a befuddled child.
“Mine.”
“Liar,” she screams at my back when I turn away. “You’re a fucking liar. I’m telling Amy to go to print with those photos. They’ll be all over the internet in two hours!”
I stop so I can give her a sidelong glance over my shoulder. “And your precious tabloid will be bankrupt before the week is out. So choose wisely, Keefe. There will be consequences.”
I walk back onto the thick tree-covered path and climb back up the hill to the security building and wait for Ray. He comes through the door laughing less than five minutes later.
And now? I’ve been in her life a matter of weeks—not even a month has passed—and I almost can’t find the old Grace anymore.
Did I do that? Did I force that change? Do I still make her sad?
I like the old Grace. No, I love the old Grace. I love her dirty mouth and her sassy self-assurance. I never wanted to tear that down.
You lie, Asher. You lie. That’s all you thought about. Taking her in the way that pleased you. Making her submit to your contract and your fetishes. Corrupting her sense of wellbeing to knock her down and keep her wanting.
I’m a sick fuck.
My phone buzzes a message in my pocket. Coming up the path, the text says.
Well, the bitch must live close, because that was only fifteen minutes.
I make my way back to the security building and then keep going right past it, down the hill a little ways.
The plan was to take her through the backyard of one of the houses below, and then leave her waiting next to an empty pool. So that’s where I’m heading. I’m quiet until I enter the gate that separates this path from that yard, and then I make a lot of noise on purpose as I wind my way through the overgrown tropical trees until I find the pool area.
She’s standing and on high alert when I enter the open space. There’s no light back here so I imagine she’s all sorts of freaked out.
Good. Bitch.
She lets out an audible breath of relief once she recognizes me and I take a lot of satisfaction in that.
“Ms. Keefe, I presume?”
“Yes, Mr. Asher.” She stretches out her hand but I ignore that gesture and take a seat in the old webbed lawn chair across from her.
“Hmm. Well,” she says as she sits back down. “This is some place you have here.”
“Yup. I love it. It’s the perfect place to have midnight meetings.”
“It’s three AM, Asher.”
“Discretion, Keefe. It’s all about discretion.”
“Perfect. Then I assume we’re going to make a deal here?” She fishes through her bag and comes out with a small digital recorder. “Mind if I tape this?”
“Tape away.”
She turns the little machine on until the red light blinks and then mutters some words into it and checks to make sure it’s working. “OK, we’re ready. Why don’t you start by—”
“Why don’t I start by telling you what’s gonna happen now?”
“Excuse me?” She looks up with fake doe-eyes. Like she’s stunned. Like she expected this to go her way.
She cannot be that stupid.
“How. This. Will. Go,” I repeat slowly. “It’s simple really. You can fuck off. You can print whatever the hell you want. Photos of my wife? Fine. Stories about me? Go for it. But before you do that, Keefe… just make sure you tell your star reporter that I’ve got pictures too. And that shit will hit the public the minute I see my wife in your magazine. Or on your stupid little cable TV network. Or anywhere else for that matter. If my wife’s private photos exchanged on Twitter appear anywhere, her past goes public too.”
Keefe clicks the little recorder off and shakes her head. “I thought you’d take the easy way out, Asher. I really did. But you’re gonna regret this. I can’t control her, I can only appease her. This was your only chance. I’m gonna let Amy go tomorrow. So whatever she does, it has nothing to do with me. And I could care less if you release things about her past. It’s not my problem.”
“Oh, it is your problem, Keefe. Because whether you know it or not, that secret she thinks I’m hiding is not about me.” I wait for her smug look before I deliver the last line. “It’s about you.”
“Ha,” she laughs. “Right. I have no idea what you two are talking about. I have no idea how you know each other so well. But I do know this. Your threats are as fake as your on-screen alter-ego. You having a superhero complex, Asher? Newsflash, asshole. The Invisible Man isn’t real.”
“Oh, he’s real. Keefe. He’s real. He might take the form of well-concealed video equipment these days. But he’s one hundred percent real.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? You don’t know me.”
“I know more than you think, Keefe. A lot more. You want to know what this is about?” I stand and she stares up at me. “You want to know what Amy has against me?”
“That’s why I’m here, Mr. Movie Star.”
“November, 14, 2005. Issue one of Buzz Hollywood. A press-printed paper circulates through the Hollywood clubs. Given out at the door while people wait in line.”
She narrows her eyes but the anger is replaced with confusion. She doesn’t see it yet.
“You ran a story that changed your life.”
“So?”
“It was a lie.”
“It was not,” she bellows, standing up like she’s gonna take the control back. I smile and nod as I stare her down. “I had proof of that shit. Frankie Miller did not kill DeeDee Cisco, it was a suicide. We proved it. Not to mention I knew him personally from my time at UCLA. He was my graduate school advisor. And if it was false, believe me, he and I would both be in jail right now.”
I stand up to take her down a notch as she is forced to admit how small she is compared to me. “He’s guilty as fuck, Keefe. And so are you.”
She’s shaking her head, like that will make it right. “You don’t know anything. You’re bluffing, to make us back off.”
“Honey,” I say, taking advantage of her confusion, “who the fuck do you think runs this town? You and the media whores like you? Really?” I laugh under my breath at her stupidity. “Come on, Carey. Step down off your pedestal. Take off the rose-colored glasses and see this shithole for what it is.”
She stares up like a befuddled child.
“Mine.”
“Liar,” she screams at my back when I turn away. “You’re a fucking liar. I’m telling Amy to go to print with those photos. They’ll be all over the internet in two hours!”
I stop so I can give her a sidelong glance over my shoulder. “And your precious tabloid will be bankrupt before the week is out. So choose wisely, Keefe. There will be consequences.”
I walk back onto the thick tree-covered path and climb back up the hill to the security building and wait for Ray. He comes through the door laughing less than five minutes later.
