Amy and Marsha’s eyes went wide. “Seriously?”
“Mmm-hmm.” Once again, Wyatt thought that she glanced his way, but he couldn’t be sure. And he looked down at his pancakes before she clued in that he was listening. “I met her on the stairs as she was leaving. Came flying down. Said that she was in now, and wanted to know if she got a trophy. Honestly, I was too shocked to answer. I just watched her race out the front door. I guess little Miss Young and Innocent was too embarrassed to stay with him after she banged him.”
“He’s sitting right there.” Amy’s low whisper was barely audible.
“Oh, shit,” Grace said, though she didn’t sound too perturbed. “Do you think he heard me?”
“He’s not looking,” Marsha said. “And there’s a book by his plate. I don’t think he heard a thing.”
“Oh.” Grace paused. “Well, that’s good, then. We should go. I reserved a court for nine.”
They stood up en masse and headed through the gate, their continuing chatter like so much noise in his head.
What the fuck?
What the horrible, awful, wretched, humiliating fuck?
He waited until he was sure they were gone, then he stood up, intending to leave. But he was too messed up to leave, so he sat back down again. Patrick saw him and started to walk toward him, but Wyatt waved him off, afraid that he’d fly into a rage if anyone came near. Or, worse, that he’d start crying like a baby.
She’d played him. She was just like all those girls his dad warned him about. The girls who only saw celebrity, but never saw him.
But no. Was she? Not Kelsey. Not really.
He couldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t believe it.
And yet all the evidence pointed that way. She’d disappeared on him. And she damn sure wasn’t going out of her way to let him know where she was.
He closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose. He was seventeen years old and he was leaving for Boston in just over a week. He was practically an adult. And yet instead of handling this like a grown-up, all he wanted to do was have his mom hold him and his father tell him it was going to be okay.
Well, fuck it, then. He was just going to have to go to LA.
“I’m so glad,” his mother said when he called to tell her he was driving down that morning. “We’re stuck down here for at least three more days, and I was afraid we wouldn’t have enough time together before you had to pack and head for Massachusetts.”
“I’m just going to grab my backpack. I’ll be there in time for a late lunch. Can we maybe go to Gladstones?” The Malibu restaurant was touristy, but he was in the mood to sit by the ocean.
“Why don’t you go with your father, and we’ll all three go somewhere tonight. I’m going to be stuck on the lot until tonight. The producers have notes.” She sounded less than thrilled, and he supposed he understood that. She loved writing, but hated revising to please the corporate know-it-alls.
“Sure,” he said, trying to sound like he didn’t care. “Dad and I will just gossip about you.”
“You do that. It’ll be good for him. He’s been in such a funk lately, and I hate that I’ve been so busy with work.”
“He knows, Mom. But I’ll entertain him. I’ll drag him out for a walk or something.”
“You’re a good kid, Wyatt. Love you, baby.”
“You, too, Mom.”
He called his dad next, but there was no answer. He left a message, knowing his dad never answered the phone if he was reading or working on a client’s spreadsheet. Then he went home, told his grandmother he was heading to LA for a couple of days, and hit the road.
He spent the drive trying not to think, and mostly managed that task by shoving a constant stream of CDs into the player. And whenever one of the songs touched on relationships or breaking up or broken hearts, he just pressed the button to pop to the next song.
By the time he reached their house in Beverly Hills, his mood had actually improved.
He left his car in the drive just past the gate, then walked to the front door. As far as Hollywood families went, the house was relatively small, but that was because his mom preferred cozy. Probably because she’d grown up in a mansion that required a map and a compass. They also didn’t have live-in staff, though his mother kept a chef on call, and a housekeeper came in every morning when the house was occupied.
He entered through the kitchen, and saw the note from Tilda on the island outlining what she’d done and when she would be in the next day. “Hey, Dad! It’s me,” he called, as he punched in the code to deactivate the now-beeping alarm. “You busy?”
No answer, but sometimes his dad wore headphones while he worked, and so Wyatt headed out of the kitchen and through the living area to the dark-paneled office that his father had claimed when his parents bought the house six years ago.
The door was shut, which was unusual, as Carlton usually kept it open when he was alone. Wyatt knocked twice, got no answer, and pushed the door open.
Or tried to. It moved about a half an inch, then stuck.
Annoyed, he shoved harder. The door gave, and he lost his footing and tumbled into the room, hitting his head on something in the process.
He broke his fall with his hands before twisting around to see what the hell had assaulted him.
His father’s feet.
Immediately, he leapt up, the sound of his own scream ringing though the room.
He’d hit his head on his father’s feet.
Carlton Royce had hanged himself.
Wyatt’s father was dead. He was really dead.
And behind him, a white note was taped to the door, the words printed large with black marker.
I’m sorry. I couldn’t take it anymore.
12
Wyatt looks up at me from where he’s adjusting his camera on a tripod. It’s aimed at a corner that’s draped in white cloth and illuminated by lights of differing intensities.
The middle drape is long and flows out onto the ground, forming a silky floor upon which sits a four-poster bed, perfectly made with deep red linens and at least a half-dozen decorative pillows. A matching side table is next to the bed with two half-full wine glasses and a bottle beside it.
It looks like something from a high-end hotel suite. Actually, it looks like a honeymoon suite. It’s a space made for romance, and my heart skips a beat as I look from it to the man behind the camera.
“You came.”
I swallow. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“Honestly, Kelsey, I didn’t have a clue what you would do. I don’t know you that well.”
He says the words blandly, but I hear the anger buried inside, and I force myself to stand up straighter. It doesn’t matter what he thinks. I’m only here for the job, after all. The more distance there is between us, the easier it will be to walk away once it’s over and he pays me.