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  They headed into the studio, where candles flickered in the darkness. Mercedes stumbled into the first row of bikes, then cursed as she gouged her calf on a spiked pedal in the second. By the time they got to the third row in the darkness, Bent was ready to flee, even if it meant her mother would never be able to find her way back to the one small square locker in the sea of identical small square lockers that hid her glasses.

  It would almost be worth it for that alone.

  As they reached their seats, Bent could hear her own stomach growling along to the whining steel-string guitar playing in the background. “We should have had breakfast.” She sighed.

  “We did.” Mercedes stopped at her bike. “This is mine, right?”

  “Yes. But seven blueberries and a tablespoon of chia seeds in half a cup of Icelandic yogurt is not breakfast.”

  “What were you expecting, toast?” Mercedes laughed.

  My mother is cruel, Bentley thought. She jammed her foot onto the pedal of the stationary bike. “I don’t see what’s so wrong about two pieces of bread, that’s all I’m saying. Bread is good for the soul.”

  “TryCycle is good for the soul. Bread isn’t good for anything. It’s just not necessary. And not even an ancient grain.” Mercedes lowered the seat on the stationary bike in front of her. The TryCycle room was dark, but not as dark as it was about to be. She cocked her head and listened. “Speaking of ancient, what do you think? Is that sitar? Or the lyre?”

  “I think it’s the sound of my brain shutting down.” Bentley shot a pleading look at her watch. They still had three minutes until Shandi’s arrival, which was more than enough time for this conversation to go very badly.

  “Don’t be nasty,” Mercedes said. “Just because I’m not a carbivore.”

  “You don’t have to eat it. You just have to admit that bread has been important to every civilization for a thousand years,” Bent said, hoisting herself up onto her seat. “Then I’ll agree to disagree.”

  “Civilizations don’t get the cover of Teen Vogue,” Mercedes said, wrenching loose another knob on the bike.

  “Neither do I.”

  “You won’t if you can’t get past this whole bread thing. You have to go for it. You’re not getting any younger.”

  “I’m seventeen, Mercedes.”

  “Seventeen is old for a model.”

  “Then I guess it’s probably a good thing I’m not a model.”

  “You have to start thinking about the future.”

  “I have. That’s why I want to go to college.” The words came rolling out before Bent could stop them, so she went with it. “I’ve already applied to UCLA, actually. I got a recommendation from Mrs. Reynolds, and she says it’s not a sure thing, but I have a decent shot. I still don’t know if I’ll get in, but—”

  “Seriously?” Mercedes looked like she had just been slapped in the face. “This is a joke, right? Because it’s not in any of the projected story lines, not for season seven or even eight.”

  Bentley shook her head. She didn’t know what she was doing. She didn’t blame her mother for freaking out. To be honest, she couldn’t believe she’d said any of it out loud. What the hell was wrong with her? Self-sabotage was not in the game plan. “I know. Forget it.”

  “I’m forgetting it,” Mercedes said.

  “I didn’t mean it.”

  “I know you don’t mean it. This is what you do.”

  “Is it?”

  “Even you couldn’t be that selfish. Not after everything we’ve been through. You’re just acting out.”

  Bentley stared at her mother. This time, she was the one who felt like she’d been slapped. “I’m not acting out on anything. I’m just telling you how I feel. And what does that mean, even me? You think I’m the selfish one?” she said, busying herself with readjusting her handlebars.

  “Exactly,” Mercedes said.

  There was no point trying to explain to her mother the irony of those particular comments, especially coming from her. Instead, Bent tried another line of questioning. “How is it selfish to want to get an education?”

  “Where is this all coming from? You’ve never rocked the boat like this before.”

  “How about from the fact that literally everyone else in my school is going to go to college except for the two actresses, the art school kids, and the girl writing the eating disorders memoir?”

  Mercedes glared.

  “And even the eating disorders girl is probably going to the UCLA Neuropsych ward, so technically that’s still a campus.”

  “Seriously?” Mercedes sighed.

  “You knew I wanted this. You just pretended not to know,” Bent said. “You never wanted to talk about it, and you didn’t care if I did.”

  “What is there to say? What do you want me to tell you? You can go to college when we’re in syndication.” Mercedes laid her towel across her handlebars.

  Wow, Bentley thought, now I know I was right to keep my college plans a secret. She pedaled on, telling herself that this was a good thing, that it meant she could trust her instincts.

  She wasn’t giving up hope yet.

  Mercedes could say whatever she wanted now. There was now, and there was later. If Porsche and Whitey became as big as they wanted to be—as big as Bentley had every hope of them being—nobody would insist on needing Bentley on-screen for season seven. That was what she told herself, anyway.

  Not even Mercedes.

  “It’s time, everyone. Let’s leave it on the wheel.” Shandi, their dreadlocked TryGuide, beamed from the spotlight, flopping her well-toned body back and forth as she cycled from a standing position on the stage at the front of the room. If Bent squinted, Shandi looked like some bizarre species of extremely happy, jumping fish.

  “I’ve got a special treat for y’all, TryCyclists! Remember our boy Tomme? He’s going to come up on the stage and ride with me today. Get up here, Tomme-boy!” Shouts and cheers drowned out the end of the sentence.

  Bentley sat straight up.

  A muscular boy in all-black spandex and a black bandanna hopped up onto the stage.

  Shandi beamed. “I know you’ve all heard the rumors, and guess what—they’re true. Tomme’s got a real acting gig, so let’s be extra supportive and give him a big TryCycle welcome home.”

  The class burst into applause. Bentley didn’t.

  Tomme stood up on his bike, pedaling as fast as he could. He nodded his black bandanna’d head, rocking out in time with the music. “You guys ready for some killer arms?”

  The class cheered. Bentley didn’t.

  She just held her breath and focused on his trademark black bandanna.66

  Then the lights went even darker and the music went up and there was nothing else Bentley could do but stare at T. Wilson White as he completed a full forty-minute TryCycle routine not twenty feet away from her unsuspecting mother.

  Mercedes tried to keep up with his killer arms, even if she couldn’t focus well enough to see his face. If she could have seen, if she could have put it all together, then she would also have known what only one other person in the TryStudio knew.

  What Bentley knew.

  That it was him.

  That his acting gig was on RWTR.

  And that the beloved former TryCyclist known as Tomme, he of the killer arms and the easy choreography, was also the fiancé currently known as Whitey.

  “I am going to freaking kill you,” Bentley hissed.

  Tomme stood there in front of her, panicking.

  He was frozen in place next to his locker with a half-toweled-off torso—and looked like he’d seen the ghost of his greatest enemy.

  Only I’m not a ghost, Bentley thought. Though you’ll wish I was by the time I’m finished with you.

  “How could you do this?” She was shaking. It had taken her all of ten minutes to coax Mercedes to the car without her, saying she had forgotten her earphones. In the course of those minutes, she had not become the least bit calmer.

  “
You don’t understand,” Tomme said. “I can explain everything. Come with me.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  He wagged his head toward a back room with a half-closed door, where Bent could just make out a mop.

  “Let’s go somewhere we can talk privately,” he said. He pushed open the door. “Half my old clients are in this hallway.”

  Bent glared and followed him inside. “You were right. I don’t understand at all. You’re supposed to be marrying my sister. You’re supposed to be the head of a major record label. You’re not supposed to be teaching spin class at TryCycle. You’re not supposed to be such a giant idiotic loser.”

  “I can see you’re upset,” Tomme began. Then the door creaked open a bit, as if someone was pushing it from the other side. Bent froze and grabbed Tomme by the arm. He swung the door slowly open—but no one was there.

  Bent slammed the door again. She was pale. “Upset? Of course I’m upset. MY FUTURE BROTHER-IN-LAW SLASH MUSIC MOGUL WAS TEACHING MY SPIN CLASS. While my sister thinks you’re doing, what? Golf?”

  He nodded, embarrassed. “Eighteen holes at the Riviera.”

  “Make that giant, idiotic, loser liar.” Bent shook her head. “What if Mercedes had been wearing her glasses?”

  “I’m sorry, Bentley. It won’t happen again.”

  “You’re right. Do you know how I know that? Because I’m going to go right home and tell my sister everything. Then it won’t happen again, because she’ll never speak to you again—and good riddance!”

  Tomme looked crestfallen. He picked his words carefully. “Is that really what you want? What about the show? What about the wedding? What about—Porsche?”

  “Don’t pretend you care about my sister.” Bent was furious.

  “I’m not pretending. I love your sister. I want to marry her.”

  Bentley slapped him as hard as she could.

  The moment she did, the door creaked open and Tomme slammed it once more. “We’re having a private conversation, here!”

  Luckily, whoever it was walked away, but Bentley was officially miserable.

  “Tomme. I don’t know what to say.”

  “I know, I know.” He rubbed his damp hair with his black bandanna, and Bent closed her eyes so the sweat wouldn’t fly into them.

  She didn’t want to see him, anyway.

  He looked like one of the small, drowned rats the pool guys dragged out of the Royce swimming pool with their long nets.

  “This has to stop, Tomme. Now.”

  “We have to figure out a way to break up Whitey and Porsche,” Bentley said to her brother, hours later, as they sat in the parking lot of In-N-Out Burger, mildly exhilarated off their successful (though temporary) escape from the camera crew.

  “Hell yes, girl. Screw that jerk,” Bach said, dumping ketchup on his fries.

  “I’m serious. I’m done. It can’t go on. This whole thing is getting out of hand.” She moved a pawn on their travel chessboard and unwrapped her grilled cheese.

  She wished she could tell Bach the truth. She wanted to tell him everything. Most of all, she wanted to tell him not just that their future brother-in-law was a fraud, but that he was also an idiot; if Tomme was stupid enough to try to lead a class at TryCycle, then other people were going to find out he was a fraud. And then all it would take would be one tweet, one Snap, one Instagram, and it was over. Everything. The wedding, season six, her entire existence.

  And a factory full of Lippies.

  Over.

  Bach took a bite of his burger. “You think anyone’s going to listen to us? In case you haven’t noticed, you’re not the one getting married. The bride’s a big girl.”

  “Don’t let her hear you say that.” Bent smirked. Porsche had the trainer coming up to the house every day now.

  “She knows what she’s getting into. She can take care of herself,” he said.

  If you only knew.

  Bach checked the board, moving a pawn before he bit into his Double-Double. “Besides, she’ll kill you if you mess up her wedding.”

  His phone buzzed. “I gotta take this. I’m putting together a game—”

  “Bach—”

  But he held up a hand to silence her. “Yeah. I got it,” he said into the phone. “We can handle one more guy, but that’s it, Jake. One. Cash only. Yeah, we’re changing things up a little. I’ll text you an address when I have it.”

  He clicked off.

  “Another game, Bach? That’s not cool. You know it’s getting out of hand.”

  He made a face. “God, you too now? I get enough of this unsolicited bullshit concern from Whitey.”

  “Whitey?!” Bent fumed. “Whitey does not have the right to worry about your gambling. I’m not Whitey. I’m your sister, your actual sister, your flesh and blood, and my concern is not bullshit. Unsolicited, sure. But bullshit, no.”

  When did everything get so complicated?

  “Relax, sis.” Bach shoved the rest of his burger into his mouth and swallowed. “Jeez. Are you going to move again or what?”

  “I’m going to move. Of course I’m going to move. I’m just still trying to figure out what to do,” Bent said.

  As she said the words, she realized they were true.

  It was her move, and she needed to make it.

  “Well, you let me know when I’m up,” he said, crumpling his wrapper and flashing her a wink that was less fitting for a little brother and more for a suave, professional gambler.

  “Oh, you’ll know,” she said. “You’ll definitely know.”

  But now he was back on the phone and setting up some other game and laughing, and she had plenty of time to contemplate the future and weddings and television and how to plot the perfect checkmate.

  * * *

  66 Per JG: Could we price mass production of the signature “Whitey” Black Bandanna? Look into trademarking the color black, also bandannas? He says “There’s something there.” —D

  Thirteen

  CLUB ROADKILL

  January 2018

  Wilderness Society “Hunting for Hope” Benefit, Four Seasons Beverly Wilshire Hotel

  (Beverly Boulevard at Rodeo Drive)

  Maybe there was something to it after all, this hunting stuff. As Bentley made her way through the crowded ballroom of the Beverly Wilshire, she felt her adrenaline spike.

  It was a rush, knowing that she had set out to do something dangerous. Something difficult. Something potentially life-altering—

  “What are you doing here?” A voice from behind interrupted her.

  “Nothing,” Bent said, before she even turned around to see Whitey standing there in jeans and a black tuxedo jacket. She knew he’d be here; the Wilderness Society was one of his assigned causes. “Are you okay?” He looked so pale and jittery that for a moment she forgot she was here to take him down.

  Whitey nodded. “I guess, sure. I’m here to ‘hunt for hope’!” Bentley winced at the name of the event—what were the odds of a hunting-themed benefit coincidentally named after the Royces’ own deceased—

  Don’t say it,67 Bent thought. Don’t even think it. Instead, she looked around the room and tried to make herself smile.

  Whitey assumed the smile was for him and grinned back. “Hey, you clean up pretty nice, sis.”

  I do? she thought, feeling only a little guilty about her plan. Too bad I’m here to break up you and my sister.

  She nodded, placing her hand on his arm gently. “Whitey, don’t take this the wrong way, but you seem really . . . off.”

  “Off how, exactly?” Whitey looked spooked.

  She tilted her head, looking him over. “I don’t know. You’re shaky, agitated. Like you’ve been hitting the Red Bull again. Maybe even . . . scared?”

  He whistled. “You’re good. I didn’t want to say anything, but Grunburg’s been up in my grill all night. I know I’m not supposed to touch the guy, but it’s like he’s baiting me, B, I swear.”

  “I believe i
t. The guy’s a menace.”

  “Like he wants me to blow it or something.”

  “I’m sure he does.”

  Whitey frowned. “But that’s not your problem,” he said. “I’ll shake it off, don’t worry.”

  Then someone caught his eye, and he pointed to the stage, where Joelynne Wabash was already sitting at a round table.

  “Check it out. Up front.” The Duck Diva was wearing so many spangled sequins, you couldn’t have missed her in a football stadium full of Christmas sweaters.

  Bentley shuddered. “Joelynne? How could I miss her?”

  “Not her, him. My buddy Sean.” Whitey was actually pointing to Sean Slotkin, the (balding) head of the Reality Channel, Lifespan’s rival company, who was standing there talking to the Duck Diva.

  Bent looked at Whitey, confused. “How do you know Sean Slotkin?”

  Whitey—or more accurately, Tomme—shrugged. “He’s been in the front row of my Thursday-evening class for, like, two years.”

  “Do not tell me that,” Bent said.

  “Let’s go say hi.” Whitey smiled, putting his arm around her shoulders. “He’s a great guy. Really strong core.”

  “What? No way.”

  “Why not?”

  Bentley froze, struggled to swallow.

  Because he knows you’re a TryCycle instructor, dumbass? Because it will blow your cover, as I’ve tried to explain a thousand times? Because he’s a tool, like they all are, and you’re too stupid to even know it?

  But she didn’t say any of those things.

  She knew she was going to have to act now if she was going to act at all. The plan in her mind was ready to be executed, but she couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt: Was this going to ruin things for her sister? Was it going to ruin Whitey’s—no, Tomme’s—life?

  Does it matter? You came here to get rid of him, she reminded herself, so do it.

  She forced herself to look Whitey—Tomme—directly in the eyes. “Because he hit on me,” she blurted.

  “What?”

  “Yeah. When I first got here. He, uh . . . he put his hand on my . . . butt.” It pained her to say it, but it was all she could come up with. She just hoped he bought it.