Wicked White
Page 54
Iris doesn’t speak, just simply shakes her head. “That’s not information that I’m willing to share.”
Linda leans in, like she’s really wanting to pick at poor Iris’s brain. “Do you think he’ll come back if he sees this, Iris?”
Iris shrugs. “I don’t know, but I’m leaving Willow Acres soon. The state is going to seize my home due to unpaid taxes, so I’m going back to New York and, well . . . I guess I just wanted him to know, and this was the only way I knew that I might have a chance to reach him since he isn’t returning any of my phone calls.”
Linda’s face morphs into a dreamy smile as the camera pans back to her. “It sounds like the two of you had quite the love affair. Tell me, Iris, do you love him?”
“Yes,” she whispers, and warmth spreads through my chest as I find myself leaning toward the television. “I love him very much. I just want him to know that.”
“I love you too, Iris,” I say, even though I know she can’t hear me, but wishing that she could.
“Let’s hope Ace sees this and makes contact with you. We’re all still worried about him,” Linda tells Iris and then looks into the camera and signs off with her typical catch phrase.
As soon as the channel flips to a commercial, the same thought runs through my mind over and over—getting back to Iris.
I’ve been absolutely miserable without her, but she hurt me bad. On one hand I want to prove to her that she’ll always be safe with me, but on the other I hate the fact that she’s able to believe that I’m some kind of monster after how much I’ve opened up to her. The woman knows everything about me.
The more I replay the things Iris just said on TV, the more I find myself getting angry. If she loves me so much and misses me, why did she push me away? It’s like she’s the one making decisions about our relationship. She gets to determine when I need to be pushed away and hurt, and then it’s also up to her when she gets to plead for me to come back by pronouncing publicly how much she loves me and that she’s sorry. I don’t like being someone’s puppet. I don’t like my feelings fucked with any old time someone feels like it.
She broke her promise to me about sticking by my side. Why isn’t it up to me to decide if I can still love her? She shouldn’t go on television and make me seem like an uncaring asshole who just ran off.
Besides, I don’t know if I can I ever trust her again after all this. How will I know she means what she promises after that?
Does she mean what she just said in the interview about being sorry and missing me and loving me, or is she somehow using me for publicity after I tried so hard to protect her from that very thing?
So many fucking questions rattle through my brain.
It would be so easy to pick up the phone and call her—to hear the words straight from her mouth that she wants me back and have her explain why she pushed me away like she did, but I can’t bring myself to do it. When I have any communication with her about what’s going on between us, it needs to be face-to-face. I need to see her expression when I ask her if she still loves me. I need to see for myself that she means it and isn’t bullshitting me for some fucking camera.
I flop back against the pillow and sigh heavily.
I shouldn’t have gotten involved with her. It’s complicated the hell out of everything.
It’s hard knowing that the media are tormenting her with questions about my whereabouts, because I don’t know if she’s enjoying the attention or if it’s beating her down the same way it does me. If it’s interfering with her life, it makes me feel even worse for being a selfish bastard and taking her. I knew that this scenario was probable the moment she agreed to be with me. I pray the havoc I’ve released into her life doesn’t affect her when she goes back to New York. The last thing I ever wanted was for her career to become overshadowed by the fact that she’s been with me. Hell, it’s already made national news, and the longer I keep holding out on facing my life, making everyone wonder where in the hell I am, the longer the press will continue to hound her.
Iris is so insanely talented and deserves every opportunity to achieve her dream without the likes of me tainting her chances.
But maybe if I fix things—clear the air with Mopar Records and Jane Ann—Iris might have a shot of getting out from under the press’s microscope and not have Broadway completely ruined for her.
My eyes snap to the prepaid cell phone that I bought when I first started my undercover adventure. I could take all this pressure off Iris with one phone call, exposing myself to the world.
My palms sweat as I pick up the phone. This is the right thing to do. Everything has gotten out of hand, and it’s time for me to fix it.
The moment I enter the numbers in and hit send, I close my eyes, waiting for the voice I’ve been dreading for the last four months to answer.
“Who is this?” Jane Ann’s shrill voice snaps onto the line.
“It’s me. It’s Ace,” I say. “I’m ready to talk now.”
The moment I get past the security checkpoint exit at LAX I’m nearly blinded from all the camera flashes. In the middle of all the madness stands Jane Ann, wearing a smug smile that matches the flashy sequined black dress that’s sure to attract attention from every angle. One of the security guys who usually accompanies Wicked White to events stands beside her, doing his best to keep the paparazzi away.
She holds her arms open wide to me and more flashes go off, all of the photographers hoping to catch our reunion on film. “Welcome home, Ace.”
Linda leans in, like she’s really wanting to pick at poor Iris’s brain. “Do you think he’ll come back if he sees this, Iris?”
Iris shrugs. “I don’t know, but I’m leaving Willow Acres soon. The state is going to seize my home due to unpaid taxes, so I’m going back to New York and, well . . . I guess I just wanted him to know, and this was the only way I knew that I might have a chance to reach him since he isn’t returning any of my phone calls.”
Linda’s face morphs into a dreamy smile as the camera pans back to her. “It sounds like the two of you had quite the love affair. Tell me, Iris, do you love him?”
“Yes,” she whispers, and warmth spreads through my chest as I find myself leaning toward the television. “I love him very much. I just want him to know that.”
“I love you too, Iris,” I say, even though I know she can’t hear me, but wishing that she could.
“Let’s hope Ace sees this and makes contact with you. We’re all still worried about him,” Linda tells Iris and then looks into the camera and signs off with her typical catch phrase.
As soon as the channel flips to a commercial, the same thought runs through my mind over and over—getting back to Iris.
I’ve been absolutely miserable without her, but she hurt me bad. On one hand I want to prove to her that she’ll always be safe with me, but on the other I hate the fact that she’s able to believe that I’m some kind of monster after how much I’ve opened up to her. The woman knows everything about me.
The more I replay the things Iris just said on TV, the more I find myself getting angry. If she loves me so much and misses me, why did she push me away? It’s like she’s the one making decisions about our relationship. She gets to determine when I need to be pushed away and hurt, and then it’s also up to her when she gets to plead for me to come back by pronouncing publicly how much she loves me and that she’s sorry. I don’t like being someone’s puppet. I don’t like my feelings fucked with any old time someone feels like it.
She broke her promise to me about sticking by my side. Why isn’t it up to me to decide if I can still love her? She shouldn’t go on television and make me seem like an uncaring asshole who just ran off.
Besides, I don’t know if I can I ever trust her again after all this. How will I know she means what she promises after that?
Does she mean what she just said in the interview about being sorry and missing me and loving me, or is she somehow using me for publicity after I tried so hard to protect her from that very thing?
So many fucking questions rattle through my brain.
It would be so easy to pick up the phone and call her—to hear the words straight from her mouth that she wants me back and have her explain why she pushed me away like she did, but I can’t bring myself to do it. When I have any communication with her about what’s going on between us, it needs to be face-to-face. I need to see her expression when I ask her if she still loves me. I need to see for myself that she means it and isn’t bullshitting me for some fucking camera.
I flop back against the pillow and sigh heavily.
I shouldn’t have gotten involved with her. It’s complicated the hell out of everything.
It’s hard knowing that the media are tormenting her with questions about my whereabouts, because I don’t know if she’s enjoying the attention or if it’s beating her down the same way it does me. If it’s interfering with her life, it makes me feel even worse for being a selfish bastard and taking her. I knew that this scenario was probable the moment she agreed to be with me. I pray the havoc I’ve released into her life doesn’t affect her when she goes back to New York. The last thing I ever wanted was for her career to become overshadowed by the fact that she’s been with me. Hell, it’s already made national news, and the longer I keep holding out on facing my life, making everyone wonder where in the hell I am, the longer the press will continue to hound her.
Iris is so insanely talented and deserves every opportunity to achieve her dream without the likes of me tainting her chances.
But maybe if I fix things—clear the air with Mopar Records and Jane Ann—Iris might have a shot of getting out from under the press’s microscope and not have Broadway completely ruined for her.
My eyes snap to the prepaid cell phone that I bought when I first started my undercover adventure. I could take all this pressure off Iris with one phone call, exposing myself to the world.
My palms sweat as I pick up the phone. This is the right thing to do. Everything has gotten out of hand, and it’s time for me to fix it.
The moment I enter the numbers in and hit send, I close my eyes, waiting for the voice I’ve been dreading for the last four months to answer.
“Who is this?” Jane Ann’s shrill voice snaps onto the line.
“It’s me. It’s Ace,” I say. “I’m ready to talk now.”
The moment I get past the security checkpoint exit at LAX I’m nearly blinded from all the camera flashes. In the middle of all the madness stands Jane Ann, wearing a smug smile that matches the flashy sequined black dress that’s sure to attract attention from every angle. One of the security guys who usually accompanies Wicked White to events stands beside her, doing his best to keep the paparazzi away.
She holds her arms open wide to me and more flashes go off, all of the photographers hoping to catch our reunion on film. “Welcome home, Ace.”
