Royce Rolls Read online

  For

  Melissa de la Cruz & Raphael Simon

  the only Angelena & Angeleno for whom I will drive the 405 & the 101 after 3 P.M. when Waze is down & I’m not even in the car pool lane.

  Contents

  One: THE WRECKAGE IS FOUND

  Eleven Months Earlier

  Two: THE FAMILY HIATUS

  Three: THE BOY WITH THE MATCHBOOK

  Four: THE GREAT WALL OF DIVA

  Five: ON THE BUBBLE

  Six: TURNT UP

  Seven: THE TREATY OF MAGNA PORSCHE

  ROLLING WITH THE ROYCES SEASON SIX: LIGHTS, CAMERA, REALITY!

  Eight: SECOND CHANCES

  Nine: IF YOU WANT WHAT YOU’VE NEVER HAD,YOU’VE GOT TO DO WHAT YOU’VE NEVER DONE

  Ten: LAST TIME

  Eleven: NICE NUMBERS

  Twelve: BLOWN

  Thirteen: CLUB ROADKILL

  Fourteen: RESCUE ME

  Fifteen: FIFTY SHADES OF PINK

  Sixteen: NOTHING’S FREE

  Seventeen: THE REHEARSAL DINNER

  One Week Later: DETECTIVE ON THE CASE

  Eighteen: WHAT THE DETECTIVE HEARS (PORSCHE ROYCE’S LAST CONFESSION)

  Nineteen: WHAT THE DETECTIVE HEARS (MERCEDES ROYCE’S LAST CONFESSION)

  Twenty: WHAT THE DETECTIVE HEARS (MAYBACH ROYCE’S LAST CONFESSION)

  Twenty-One: WHAT THE DETECTIVE HEARS (BACH MAKES A CALL)

  Eleven Months Earlier

  Twenty-Two: BENTLEY PHONES A FRIEND

  Twenty-Three: BENTLEY GOES TO THE REHEARSAL DINNER

  Twenty-Four: BENTLEY CATCHES A FLIGHT

  Twenty-Five: A ROYCE FAMILY REUNION

  Twenty-Six: GOOD TO BE HOME

  Twenty-Seven: BEST SEASON EVER

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  An ocean’s garbled vomit on the shore

  Los Angeles, I’m yours.

  —Colin Meloy, The Decemberists

  “Los Angeles, I’m Yours” (Her Majesty The Decemberists)

  One

  THE WRECKAGE IS FOUND

  May 2018

  Grunburg Residence, Huntington Palisades

  (Toyopa between Chautauqua and Sunset)

  On May 4, 2016, in the early hours of the morning on one of the better streets of the Huntington Palisades,1 Talullah Kyong-Grunburg (thirteen-year-old daughter of Lifespan Network president and chronic insomniac Jeff Grunburg2) saw the news on her Tumblr feed @AllHailMemeOverlord.3

  Sixty seconds after she texted her dad from her upstairs Tahitian-sea-grass-wallpapered suite, he was on the phone in his downstairs Balinese-bamboo-bookshelved office.

  The next twenty-four hours were a blur.

  THE LIFESPAN NETWORK

  To: Daniels, Dirk ([email protected])

  From: Grunburg, Jeff ([email protected])

  cc: Diaz, Barry ([email protected]), Pearson, Pam ([email protected])

  Subject: Problem

  Date: May 4, 2018 [3:14 a.m.]

  Lifespan Network Department of Publicity

  Media Pull: ROYCE

  Priority: High

  Guys, are you seeing this?

  Dirk, get me our guy at LAPD. Let’s all assume damage control until we see how the story plays out.

  Barry, get Marketing ready to pivot from A Very Special Wedding Special to A Very Special Funeral Special, just in case.

  Pam, identify Lead Mourners. Headliners only. Key message is “Golden Ticket Event.” I’m seeing Taylor Swift in a duet with one of the little Obamas. (How old is Hil’s grandkid again?) And, it goes without saying, bagpipes. (Does the Pope play bagpipes? What can the Dalai Lama actually do? Could we get Lin-Manuel Miranda to take a sick day? Let’s take a run at their agents, either way.)

  Or—new direction—we hire the cast of Amazing Race to sing “Amazing Grace”? (Same #amazingrace hashtag either way, you seeing it?) They have to find their way to the funeral in a new Ford C-Max? Winner gets to shovel the first dirt or whatever? There’s something there, stay on it.

  All of you, I want reports on the hour. We’re either totally screwed or we just won the lottery.

  JG

  JUNE GROOM MEETS DOOM—

  ROYCE ROLLS OFF MULHOLLAND CLIFF WEDDING DAY FOUL PLAY? LAPD WON’T SAY

  AP: Los Angeles, California

  Via Celebcity.com

  Bentley Royce, celebrity daughter of the Royce reality television dynasty, and T. Wilson White, heir apparent to the Whiteboyz music label as well as fiancé to Royce’s older sister, Porsche, are presumed dead this morning, following the discovery of burning wreckage in a cliffside ravine off Mulholland Drive.

  The vehicle, a white late-model Audi, is registered in the name of T. Wilson White, who appears to have given the wheel over to his teen companion. According to witnesses, these were the only two people in the car. Royce allegedly lost control of the Audi just after 1 a.m., only hours before White’s much-anticipated wedding to Royce’s sister was scheduled to take place. That ceremony was to be televised as the season six finale of Rolling with the Royces.

  According to sources, White and Royce were returning home from a wedding rehearsal dinner at the exclusive Soho House in West Hollywood when their car veered off the winding mountaintop road made famous by the death of Hollywood bad boy James Dean, dubbed “Deadman’s Curve.”

  A low-profile yet high-ranking music producer (known in some industry circles as “Whitey”4), White avoided the limelight much of his young life, though in recent months he often appeared in the public company of his future bride. His swift rise to the top job at the Whiteboyz label, upon the announcement of his father Razz Jazzy’s impending retirement, came as a surprise to many.

  In contrast, seventeen-year-old Royce’s turbulent teen troubles were often documented on her family’s show. Her own relationship with the media was legendarily uncomfortable.

  No further information has been provided at this time. “But I can say that the ceremony has been postponed,” confirmed Rolling with the Royces producer and spokesperson Pam Pearson, “due to the absence of the groom.”

  Veteran detective Harry Connolly, working with the LAPD’s Homicide Special Section, has refused to address overwhelming media speculation that the incident was not a simple accident.

  The balance of the family now remains in seclusion at their luxury home5 in Beverly Hills’ Trousdale Park gated community. The Royce family has yet to release a public statement. White’s parents have still not surfaced since their sudden move to an unnamed South American destination earlier this year, prompting rumors of a tax evasion investigation.

  The Lifespan Network issued the following comment, via network exec Jeff Grunburg: “Today the Lifespan family has lost one of our own. We are shocked and saddened by the events of the past twenty-four hours, and urge everyone to withhold judgment until the investigation concludes. We ask to be allowed to grieve in public [sic] at this difficult time.” The now-canceled wedding ceremony is rumored to have cost in excess of $3 million, the bulk of which was paid by corporate sponsors, including Porsche Royce’s own cosmetics line and the Lifespan Network.

  One of the biggest family success stories in Hollywood, the Royces (Porsche Royce; her mother, Mercedes; younger sister, Bentley; and younger brother, Maybach) rose to fame as the stars of their hit reality television show (known to fans as RWTR).

  Now concluding its sixth season, RWTR is currently the most popular serialized cable program in the 18-to-24 age bracket, recently edging ahead of the hunting season cooking show and cable newcomer Duke of Ducks.6 DOD was rated a mouthwatering first across all age demographics until Porsche Royce’s wedding coverage emerged to pluck the feathers from its crown.

  #Roycers, as fans of the show are known, are also making their
way to the Trousdale gates, leaving offerings of notes, flowers, candles and stuffed animals as they hold vigil in the memory of lives and loves lost so young.

  (Disclosure: Celebcity is a fully owned subsidiary of the Lifespan Network, which is a fully owned subsidiary of DiosGlobale.)

  Follow @celebcity for breaking details, or www.celebcity.com.

  * * *

  1 JG suggests “BEST?” But remember, these notes are just his SUGGESTIONS—after all, you’re THE WRITER! Nobody can take that away from YOU! —Dirk

  2 Per JG: Could we swap out CHRONIC INSOMNIAC for “POWERHOUSE PLAYER” and/or “TOP TINSELTOWN EXEC”? (Note: JG prefers both!) —Dirk

  3 Pls. include tumblr pages, digital posts & twitter feeds per LIFE SPAN’s social media mandate! And RE your GREAT Q—how much MORE MEDIA is “TRANSMEDIA” than “MULTIMEDIA”? It’s N/A: we’re now saying “ULTIMEDIA.” (GREAT Q, THO!) —Dirk

  4 JG isn’t LOVING the nickname. Could we bring in a few writers & tweak? We have a line on the guy who came up with “Beliebers” and “Roycers” if that works for you? —Dirk

  5 Per JG: The “Beverly Hills Post Office” neighborhood is now considered “luxury”? (Jeff is laughing.) —Dirk

  6 No, no, no. Do not mention Duke of Ducks. This is a Duck-free zone. (Jeff is not laughing.) —Dirk

  Eleven Months Earlier

  THE FABCASTER FOUR REPORT: FAB OR FAIL?

  AP: Beverly Hills, California

  Via Trendcaster.com

  ROLLING WITH THE ROYCES

  FAIL

  Lifespan needs to put down this dog of a show! Witchy mama Mercedes should unleash her flying monkeys; big sis Porsche is a D-list D-iva wannabe Marilyn; little sis Brat-ley needs a spanking (or military school); MayBach MayNot get by as just the CGB (cute gay brother) for much longer. What season even is this now? Fifteen? Fifty? Yawn! RWTR is one docu-(un)follow that has us running the other way!

  PRO TIP: Try New Reality Channel’s popular new hunting-season cooking show Duke of Ducks if you’re on the hunt for a laugh, starting with the show’s slogan: “This isn’t just gun violence, it’s DELICIOUSLY FUN violence!”7 Joelynne Wabash, the eldest daughter in the reigning duck-decorated Wabash family, is a hoot to watch as she skins animals—then eats them! No wonder this show is the newly crowned King of Cable.

  Follow @fabcaster for all the latest on Fab or Fail.

  * * *

  7 Per JG: “Fun violence is not what will happen if this DOD reference doesn’t come out.” —Dirk

  Two

  THE FAMILY HIATUS

  June 2017

  Young Hollywood’s “HELP IS IN THE CARDS” Casino Night

  (Chateau Marmont on Sunset, west of Laurel Canyon)

  Looking good, Porsche! Work it, girl! Oh yes, thank you, Lord! Bentley! Bentley! Over here! Why so serious? Mercedes! This way, hot mama! Maybach! Bach! Bach! You got a smile?

  The cameras kept flashing, but Bentley barely heard the paparazzi anymore. After years of red carpets, they were white noise. If she didn’t try to pick out one from the next—if she didn’t look at their faces—the effect was almost soothing. It was sort of like how the freeway could sometimes sound like crashing waves, if you didn’t listen all that closely. Bent was an expert at tuning things out, especially when it came to the three people standing next to her.

  She closed her eyes and felt a sudden pinch on her left hip, stinging like a wasp. She twisted away, but it was too late. Her mother’s gel manicure—color conveniently entitled “BLOODRAWN”8—could, in fact, draw blood.9

  “Ow!” Bentley yelped. “Retract your claws already.”

  “Tongue! Out!” her mother, Mercedes, said through her teeth. “Where’s my favorite angry teen?”

  “My mouth gets tired, Mercedes,” Bent muttered. They weren’t allowed to call her “Mom,” especially not on a red carpet.

  “Do you think Miley ever says that to her—Tish?” Mercedes pinched harder. She was gifted at scrubbing the m-word out, even midsentence.

  “Miley’s Tish doesn’t control her life. If Miley sticks out her tongue, it’s because she wants to.”

  Bent’s sister, Porsche, glanced over at her. “Told you, B. Should have worn the Spanx. Less to grab.”

  Mercedes hissed behind her pursed red lips (her signature selfie trout pout), “Stand up straight! Long necks are swan necks! Remember the golden string—it runs from the top of your head right down to your toes!”

  “Are you finally admitting we’re your puppets, Mercedes?” Bent’s little brother, Bach, the only boy in the family, snickered.

  Mercedes ignored him. “Now for the smiles, everyone—”

  Bentley sagged, despite any imaginary golden puppet strings. “Make me.”

  “I told you we should have used the back door,” Bach said under his breath.

  Porsche stuck out her lower lip even further (her signature selfie baby trout pout) and gave a quarter turn, angling her butt carefully to the left, so as to only expose its good side. (All cheeks, both upper and lower, had good and bad sides, according to Porsche; only amateurs forgot about their second pair.) “And I told Mercedes we should have left you both home.”

  Rude, Bentley thought, wondering why after all this time a classic jab from her big sister still got to her. Even though she knew Porsche was right—Bent and Bach weren’t easy to manipulate into camera bait and paparazzi candy, and they didn’t thrive off flashbulbs the way their mom and big sis did—it still didn’t mean Bentley liked it that way. At times like this, she’d observe Porsche’s stoic elegance and marvel at the way each camera flash, each intrusive holler, seemed to actually make her sister grow taller, more radiant, as if she were feeding off the harsh paparazzi vibes.

  Truthfully, Bent envied it. While the paparazzi and attention and fame strengthened Porsche, it degraded Bentley. The spotlight only made her feel smaller—inside and out.

  “Bentley—” Mercedes repeated. The stinging at Bent’s waist intensified, and now she regretted agreeing to wear matching Balenciaga leather jackets along with her brother and sister. Bent’s was cropped so that it exposed a good three inches of hip flesh that she desperately needed to keep out of her mother’s talon reach.

  “You know if you make me bleed, we’ll actually have to buy this jacket,” Bent said, blinking as the cameras flashed in her face.

  Mercedes loosened her grip on her youngest daughter.

  Bent raised her eyebrows, trying to dislodge her face from her own signature Bentley selfie-sulk. She sometimes got stuck that way. “And I was being serious, by the way. Make me smile. I can’t. I can barely breathe. These jeans are like four sizes too small.”

  Mercedes retracted her claws, and the four Royces stared out at the flashing bulbs in relative silence. Every bright flash left a negative imprint on Bent’s eyes.

  FLASH! The people became silhouettes.

  FLASH! Now they looked almost like skeletons.

  FLASH! Someone moved between them. Something.

  FLASH! Blinking, Bentley looked again. This time, she thought she saw a hooded figure, dark and still in stark contrast with the surging crowd.

  Weird.

  She rubbed her eyes. The figure wore sunglasses and stood hunched over, as if trying to be small, unnoticeable. But Bentley had noticed—even just that stance was so out of place, it had made her stomach flip. No one in this crowd wanted not to be noticed, and trying it only achieved the opposite. Nobody knew that better than Bent.

  Bentley blinked again, and just as quickly as it had appeared, the figure vanished. Even weirder.

  But she forgot about it a moment later, when she heard the familiar melody begin.

  “Landlord’s mad and getting mad-der, ain’t we got fuuuuuuuuun?”

  “Mercedes, no.” Porsche shook her head almost imperceptibly. “No singing allowed.” The singing stopped.

  Mercedes Royce had the worst voice of any human on the planet, and all she had to do to get any one of her children to crack
up was to sing a line from any song, ever.

  Though Mercedes’s good looks and firecracker personality were why she had been cast in the short-lived trailer park makeover show TRASHPIRATIONAL10—along with the fact that she was already living as a single mother in the same Southern Utah trailer park where they were shooting—her earsplitting voice was the reason she had been the first one voted out of the double-wide. (Even if she had won the shooting range challenge and nailed the demolition derby, dangit!) Still, her first short stint on television had taught Mercedes to use what she had, and if what she had was a face that made people look and a voice that made them laugh, then so be it.

  All of which was why, as usual, her silence was short-lived.

  “Times are bad and getting bad-der, ain’t we got fuuuuuuuuun?” Mercedes intoned again, sounding like a wounded animal.

  Bentley started to giggle, in spite of the paparazzi. Mercedes never looked away from the cameras the whole time she was singing. She could sing the entire national anthem without moving her lips or opening her mouth; after years of practice, she was just that good.

  “The rent’s unpaid, dear, we haven’t a buuuuuuuuus . . .” Bach chimed in, through his own clenched smile.

  “But smiles were made, dear, for people like uuuuuuuuus . . .” Porsche gave up, picking up the tune despite her own pouty pucker. Now Bentley was laughing in earnest—but even she couldn’t resist joining in.

  “In the mean-time, in be-tween time, ain’t we got fuuuuuuuuun?”11

  The Royce offspring broke character at the same moment, and as Bach threw back his head and laughed, Bentley grinned affectionately, and even Porsche dropped her forehead against Mercedes’s shoulder. Only Mercedes held it together, as usual.

  The cameras exploded to catch the spontaneous moment of Royce family togetherness.

  Just as Mercedes had planned.

  An hour later, sitting in the VIP room off the main bar at the Chateau Marmont, Bentley Royce was in a great mood. Truffle french fries in little paper cones were never a bad thing. And the cozy-candlelight, slouchy-vintage-hipster vibe of the Chateau Marmont didn’t get on her nerves as badly as most event venues. Plus, there were no cameras now that they had gotten inside—and better yet, Mercedes had disappeared with Porsche to stalk Jeff Grunburg and pitch ideas for season six.