***
The wave of paparazzi is constant, from the chateau to the hangar to the mansion in Los Angeles. I don’t go directly to the mansion, because we’re not filming anything today. I go home.
It might seem like I wouldn’t want to be away from Blake, because he’s dreamy, but I’m aching with relief when I finally turn my key in that lock and come trudging through those doors.
Home is a shabby, chic Hollywood loft apartment. Rent is astronomical, so we’re breaking the terms of our lease. It’s a two-bedroom, one bath. We have four upstanding women living in it. The four members of The Cabbage Splat Dolls: Iggy, green-haired and freckled, plays the drums, works at the zoo as a tour guide, and goes to UCLA. Pepper, with a pug-like upturned nose and straight auburn hair, plays bass, and is a pre-school teacher. Very straightedge. And Sam-o, pale with eerily white platinum hair, plays the accordion and sings back-up, got fired right before I left for England with the crew. She managed a shoe store in the mall, and took the nightly deposit to a party in her purse—which got stolen.
When I arrive home, we have a little jam session and make tacos. Even my roommates, who are not pop-culture divas by any means, are gushing about the scandalous ‘Easter egg’ in episode 3 and who owns the legs in that photo. I don’t say anything. I just smile and shrug.
No one texts me, which is fine.
I don’t think about Blake obsessively before I fall asleep in my old bed. I don’t have a silent orgasm against my hand, remembering how mercilessly he fucked me the other night.
I tingle with excitement, thinking about the possibility of sneaking off somewhere in the LA location, maybe even disabling some equipment for a few hours.
My phone vibrates in the morning, and I jolt excitedly, thinking that Blake is texting me now. Maybe the phones haven’t all been confiscated yet. Maybe we can have breakfast…
CANDACE: can u come in?
I roll my eyes, text back that I can, and go get dressed. I slip on frumpy, faded jeans that hang on my hips, a white tank top, and aviator shades. I don’t bother with makeup, and I head to the set, where Candace spends entirely too much time.
I don’t even bother with the face because I know that Candace is never going to let me within ten feet of Blake under her supervision again.
My phone vibrates again. I look down.
CANDACE: straight 2 office
I let myself in to Candace’s office, and she peers up at me from her desk, arms crossed on the wood. She looks different than usual. Her eyes aren’t hard and hawkish. She has her maternal luster back, somehow, and a jolt of worry strikes my system. Did something happen?
“You should sit.”
I gape at the chair in front of me. “I don’t want to sit,” I assert proudly. “If I don’t sit, you can’t tell me whatever the hell you’re about to say, because I might pass out, right?”
Candace nods. “Jared…” She lets the word just hang in mid-air while her eyes seem to be searching for the rest of the sentence. My heart squeezes, and my lungs deflate. I cling to the chair Candace offered me. “He’s been calling the studio and leaving some really… twisted voicemails. It’s like…” Candace’s face scrunches up like she’s tasting something rotten, and she hunts for the words.
“Like death threats and love poetry,” I breathe.
I fumble my way to the front of the chair and settle onto its cushion. My head pounds. I’m dizzy. And cold. It’s not possible. I came so far away. I never use the Internet. I did everything I could. In a world where you can find anyone on social media, I became a ghost.
It’s been five years, and that little girl is still inside me, trembling. Responding to him just the way he wants her to.
Wordlessly, Candace reaches forward and taps a white device, which appears to be just a speaker. It has a voice message queued, and Jared’s crackling, drawling baritone fills the room.
My blood slushes into ice water in my veins.
“I’m looking for a little kitten. She’s sweet. Her love is only for me. She’s sweet… and weak. Her love is on TV. She’s sickly sweet. She licks up the cream.” His voice chokes with tears. I remember his crying fits vividly. “I’d rather drown you than see this circus continue, Roxanne Epstein. They’re making a mockery of our sacred vows. Just like you did in front of the whole goddamn—”
I spring forward, shaking, and tap the device incessantly, trying to shut it off. The speakers go silent, thankfully.
“You know that’s him,” I whisper. “You didn’t need to play it for me.”
“Oh, I think I did,” Candace replies. “He says he won’t stop until he finds your address or a phone number. He said he wouldn’t stop until you are either dead or safely under his roof ag—”
“I’m not his wife!” I snap. My voice doesn’t even sound like my own. “I had a representative in court finalize everything between us.” I swallow. “This is harassment. We can file a restraining order.”
Candace’s mouth is open, but she doesn’t speak. It’s a weird thing to see. Normally, she has more words than her mouth can carry. “You know this isn’t the first time he’s had a restraining order on him,” Candace says. “I think it might be safest to move you to another studio.”
My jaw hits the floor.
“I really am sorry, Roxanne.”
This can’t be happening. How is it possible that he’s still ruining my life?
“I don’t get it,” I breathe. “I was in one episode. One stupid little show. I know he would never watch anything like this. My hair doesn’t even look the same!” I shake a fistful at Candace, as if to prove it. “How did he find me?”
“It looks like there are some theories that the girl from episode #4 is the girl from the random shot in episode #3. Pictures circulate that compare you to her—well, to you, actually. Similar skin tone. They can get a good look at the shape of your legs. He must’ve seen something and known.” She wobbles her head from side to side, seeming like a crazy snake lady. “The public saw the sparks in that episode—which I told you not to do.”
“Annette was sick!”
“Yeah, well, you’re very recognizable right now… if you’re standing next to Blake, anyway. We’ve got to get you out of here. Jared just brings the liability up a notch. Too much risk, not enough reward. Not for me, kid.”
“You got me this job,” I remind her. “You know how hard I work.”
Candace nods and sighs. “I put in a good word for you with this producer I know. They’re building a crew now, and I recommended you.”
“For what type of show?”
“I dunno. It’s a sitcom. Directed by Dominic Montana. They all work in a toy store or something. It’s cute. You’ll be fine. They shoot every week, just like we do. Regular check.” I grimace, thinking of Blake. I love my job, but… “Stop with the face. God,” Candace grumbles. “You can see him again after the show’s over if you want to. It’s just a new job. Come back on board with me next season.”