Royce Rolls Read online

  He did.

  Whitey’s face dropped. “Oh, hell no. Nobody touches my baby sister-in-law without her permission. Screw that guy.” He balled up his fists, cheeks turning red, and started to walk away.

  One . . . two . . . three . . .

  “Whitey, stop! Where are you going?” she called after him. Protest. Make it convincing. You don’t want him to get himself into trouble.

  “I’m gonna give that guy a piece of my mind. I can’t let him get away with that—you may think this wedding is fake, Bent, but Porsche’s family is real to me, okay? So I’m taking care of this. You don’t worry.”

  Crap.

  She felt like crap.

  Big mistake, Bent! Abort mission! Abort mission!

  What was she thinking? Whether or not Whitey was right for her sister, he was a stand-up guy who cared about her and her whole family—and sabotaging him now just wasn’t a decent thing to do.

  Those twenty-eight million people were right. You really are the worst sister in the world.

  “Whitey! Wait up!” She tried to catch him, bumping into waitresses with wild animal noses carrying carefully balanced trays of champagne as she made her way through the crowded room.

  She closed the gap little by little, past wraps and shrugs and caplets and jackets, until she could make out his broad, cut shoulders directly in front of her.

  “Whitey!”

  She grabbed him by the arm—one of Tomme’s infamous killer arms—and pulled him toward her.

  “What—?” Whitey was startled, and so was the deer-nosed waitress standing next to him—and she shoved against him, and he against Bent—

  Until there they were, face-to-face in the enormous crowd, arms around each other. She leaned up to whisper in his ear. There was no other way to do it.

  CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK

  The sound of a thousand lens shutters sounded. The paparazzi covering the entrance to the ballroom went crazy—and Bent and Whitey turned around, looking like two guilty children, caught red-handed.

  CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK

  Whitey backed away, and Bentley fled.

  CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK

  But it was too late.

  CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK

  There was a word in Hollywood for what it looked like they were doing, and it wasn’t one Porsche Royce was going to want to see in print.

  CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK

  It was canoodling.68

  The next morning, Porsche yanked Bent out of her bed from beneath her comforter while she was still asleep.

  She fell to the floor in her jammies. “What?”

  “CANOODLING? ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?”

  Bent’s sister didn’t let go of her arm. Right away, Bent guessed the news had been bad. She could tell by Porsche’s iron grip.

  “It’s not how it—”

  “YOU GOT A CANOODLING CAPTION? WITH MY FIANCÉ?”

  “I know how it looks—”

  “CANOODLING?”

  “Okay, I see your point. That’s bad—”

  “Bad? It doesn’t look bad. It looks terrible. Beyond skanky. Desperate, even.”

  “I was just trying to—”

  “Trying to what? Trying to hook up with my fiancé? Is something going on with you two, Bent? Is that what this is about? Whose side are you on, here?”

  “No! God! Yours! I’m on your side!”

  “Your sister’s right,” Mercedes interrupted from the doorway.

  “She is?” Bentley looked up from the floor.

  “I am?” Porsche frowned, dropping her sister’s arm.

  “Wait. You’re taking her side?” Bent was suspicious.

  “My side?” Porsche repeated, incredulous.

  Mercedes folded her arms. “Of course I am. Any mother would. Bentley, you’re getting out of control. That’s it. I’ve seen enough. You’re grounded.”

  Bentley stared. “I’m what?”

  Porsche raised an eyebrow. “For real?”

  Now Bach was in the room, leaning against the doorway in his infamous boxers. “What exactly does that mean, Mercedes? Grounded?” He looked amazed, almost delighted.

  “You know exactly what it means.” She didn’t smile.

  “If you want to be mad at someone, why don’t you ground Whitey?” Bent groused. “This is so sexist.”

  “Because I don’t care about Whitey,” Mercedes said evenly.

  “If I’m grounded, that means I can’t go out in the public eye. I can’t do my job. I can’t do anything. That basically goes against everything you’ve raised me to believe in, Mercedes, so excuse me if I’m a little freaked-out here.” Bent had never seen her mother act this way.

  “You’ll still be in front of the camera,” Mercedes said matter-of-factly. “You’ll just be doing what you’re supposed to be doing. Planning your sister’s shower, like the good bridesmaid you’re supposed to be.”

  Porsche looked shocked. “I thought you hated Whitey. I thought you were opposed to this whole wedding thing.”

  “It is what it is. I can’t stop it now.” Mercedes turned to Bentley. “But I can stop you. No. More. Parties. For the show, and for the family. That story arc is officially finished. I can’t take another day of it.”

  Bentley was reeling. “Excuse me?”

  Bach exhaled. “Oh, thank god.”

  Porsche rolled her eyes. “Finally.”

  Mercedes stayed on point. “And Bentley, this means no more Whitey, period. I don’t care what your intentions were, you’ve set yourself up to look like an idiot.”

  “Yeah, I get that a lot,” Bent said.

  “It’s not funny.” Mercedes shook her head. “I told you T. Wilson White was a disaster waiting to happen. Porsche may be too far down the rabbit hole to save, but he’s not going to take you down too. I’d sooner toss that loser off a balcony myself than let that happen.” She didn’t smile, and she didn’t seem to be joking.

  “Too soon,” Bach said, shaking his head. “Poor Hopie.”

  “Way too soon.” Bent nodded.

  “Excuse me?” Porsche said, insulted. “That loser? Are you talking about my fiancé?”

  Bent didn’t know what to think.

  On some level, she knew this—the grounding, the lecture, all of it—was the nicest, most maternal thing Mercedes had ever said to her—and yet, on another level, it was also the least Mercedes thing her mother had ever said.

  What was happening to the Royce family?

  Bent was stunned. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

  So she did both.

  BENTLEY DENIES CATCHING GROOM’S EYES FAMILY FEUD OR MORE TEEN ’TUDE?

  AP: Beverly Hills, California

  Via Celebcity.com

  Proving that a Royce can steal the spotlight from anyone—even Joelynne Wabash, the so-called Duchess of Ducks, headlining her own fund-raising event—Bentley Royce made the news again Saturday night, when she was photographed in close proximity to T. Wilson White, her sister Porsche’s fiancé.

  Though the troubled teen daughter of the Rolling with the Royces television family has long been photographed doing the wrong thing at the wrong time, canoodling with her sister’s fiancé would represent a new low for the tight-knit family, even considering Bentley’s checkered past.

  Mercedes Royce, matriarch of the clan, took to Twitter to denounce the rumored Royce rift. In a statement issued via her verified Twitter account, @MercedesRoyce, she said:

  “Media wants to see dirt everywhere but not everything is a scandal, @Whitey is like a brother to @GetBent! There is no ‘Royce Rift.’ #GROWUP”

  Bentley Royce herself said, via @GetBent:

  “That’s gross and you know what I’m talking about. #EWW @PorscheRoyce @Whitey @BachRoyce”

  Bach Royce said, via @BachRoyce:

  “Seriously?!?!?!”

  Porsche Royce turned the focus to her latest product, SisterLippies by Porsche—a line of blush said to wor
k “not just for you but for when your little sister steals it from you!”

  T. Wilson White’s Twitter account focused mostly on his workout.

  Developing . . .

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

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

  * * *

  67 Per JG: Really, don’t say it. —D

  68 Per JG: Licensing tie-in opportunity: Canoodling Pasta? Canoodle the noodle? Canoodles and Cheese? Or similar? —D

  Fourteen

  RESCUE ME

  February 2018

  Residential Office of Dr. A.

  (South of Wilshire and Sepulveda)

  Weeks later, Bentley sat in therapy trying not to fall apart. The adult coloring books Dr. A. kept offering her were not helping, no matter how soothing they were supposed to be. Bent could color for a week straight, and everything would still be a mess; in fact, she was currently as messed up as she was grounded.

  Which was very.

  Bent knew what had happened. Her problem had a name. A few, actually.

  T. WILSON WHITE.

  TOMME TORRES.

  WHITEY.

  She just couldn’t bring herself to say any of those words out loud—and definitely not what she knew about them. She wasn’t exactly sure how patient-shrink privilege worked, and for a moment she had considered unburdening herself—but it was too risky. She wouldn’t even let herself think about it all, let alone talk about it.

  Dr. A. cleared his throat. He fluttered his fingers and Albie got up, padded over, and nosed his aging, white snout into Bentley’s hand. (Dr. A. was good with dogs; he was considering becoming a dog therapist—not just because the money was better, but the clients were apparently friendlier.)

  Go away, Albie. I don’t need your sympathy licks, Bent thought crossly, although she couldn’t help it. She stroked his apricot-gold fur and immediately began to talk.

  “What happened is something I can’t tell anyone.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s too terrible. I can’t handle it. Especially because it’s my fault.”

  “What is?”

  “Everything.”

  Dr. A. looked interested. He tapped his pencil on his empty pad. “For example?”

  “Bach is worse than ever. Porsche thinks I’m trying to steal her fake fiancé. Mercedes is so desperate, she’s reading mommy blogs for the first time in her life. We’re all falling apart, and I was supposed to be the one who was keeping us together.”

  “Sometimes falling apart is also progress.”

  “And sometimes it’s just falling apart. Personally, I think we’re looking at door number two.”

  “And? How does that all make you feel, Bentley? What do you want?”

  To disappear.

  I wish I could just disappear.

  She didn’t answer him, though.

  Not out loud.

  Instead, she stared into space.

  That’s what I want. I want to disappear.

  “Bentley? Are you with me?”

  “Oh, hi. Sorry. I was . . .”

  “Have you ever considered pet adoption?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I was just thinking, it might sound a tad extreme, but what if you had a companion, someone loyal, someone you could tell everything to, no matter what, and who would keep your secrets safe?”

  “You’re back on the pet thing again?”

  “You’ve often spoken of relating to shelter animals, feeling like you have a lot in common?” Doc A. tapped his pencil on his yellow legal pad.

  She looked at her therapist. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Why would you say that?” He tapped again. “Why don’t you head over there after our session and find yourself a confidant?”

  She sat up in her overstuffed chair. “Because I have actual problems, Doc. Grown-up problems. Not kid problems. Not the kinds of things finally getting the dog or the cat you’ve always wanted can fix.”

  “Have you?”

  “What?”

  “Always wanted a dog or a cat?”

  Really? “I don’t know what I’ve always wanted, Doc.”

  “I think you do, Bentley. I think we all do.”

  She scowled at him. “Well, whatever that thing is, it better not need a leash. Let’s just say, my family doesn’t have too great a track record in that department.”

  “How do you know?” Doc A. asked.

  Bent looked at him. “I was there.”

  “I mean, how do you know this won’t help until you try? I think having a creature to care for will do wonders for you, not to mention it will love you unconditionally.”

  There it is again. Unconditional love.

  Was she thinking about it because of therapy, or was it coming up in therapy because it was something she needed to think about?

  Either way, she knew right then she would be visiting the shelter.

  When she arrived home with two kittens, Bentley was, predictably, attacked. She had hoped Mac and Ted and JoJo would be around, shooting extra material up at the house—anything that could constitute some form of human buffer—but no such luck.

  “You don’t get to make those kinds of decisions alone, Bentley.” Mercedes almost sounded like a mother. “When you live under my roof, you live by my rules. That’s the way it has to be.”

  Wow, one good grounding and look at her go.

  Suddenly Mercedes Royce was embracing parenthood with arms wide open. Her voice echoed all the way through the kitchen, where they were sitting, out into the dining room and the front hall, where stylists were putting together the next day’s pull rack.

  “Why? Because I’m a child?”

  “Yes. And because you had no idea what you were doing, bringing home live animals.” Mercedes shook her head. “They’re going back.”

  “No, they’re not. They’re my therapy kittens. Dr. A. says—”

  “Bentley Royce! I don’t care what your therapist says. I’m your mother, and I say you will listen to—”

  “Excuse me, Mercedes? You’re my what?”

  “Calm down, Bentley.”

  “Don’t tell me to calm down. I don’t have to calm down. And don’t tell me I don’t know how to take care of someone, because I do.”

  “This is all about that stupid rabbit, isn’t it?”

  Bentley froze. She hadn’t even realized her mother remembered the rabbit. The fact that Mercedes did somehow made the whole thing worse, and it was all Bent could do not to burst into tears on the spot.

  “It wasn’t just a stupid rabbit. His name was Franklin, and he was my stupid rabbit, and I happened to love him. And you said we were going on television, and we didn’t need stinky rabbit pellets piling up beneath his hutch—”

  “We didn’t.”

  “And I said I would keep the cage so clean that there wouldn’t be any stinky rabbit pellets.”

  “It was just a rabbit.”

  “Not to me.”

  “I can’t believe we’re still talking about this.”

  “I can’t believe I came home to find the hutch was empty and Franklin gone.”

  “If you’re waiting for me to say I’m sorry, it’s going to be a long wait.” Mercedes wasn’t backing down. “You wouldn’t have been able to handle the responsibility. Another living thing, depending on you, all the time? Every day of its life—and yours?”

  Bentley knew her mother wasn’t just talking about kittens anymore.

  “We couldn’t afford it then, and you can’t handle it now.”

  Bentley stood up. “Oh, wow. Okay.” She was reeling, practically stumbling. Dr. A. always said she would know when she had reached her limit, and Bent had more than reached it. Bent had destroyed it. It was over. This whole charade called the Royce family had finally come to the end, at least as far as Bentley Royce was concerned.

  This
is the real bubble, and it’s finally popped.

  “Sit down,” Mercedes began.

  “Has it really been so terrible for you, all this time, Mother? Have we really been that much of a burden, Mom? Because I can just about buy my own kibble now, Mommy.”

  “No, you can’t. You know your money is all in a trust until you’re older.”

  “Still. Say the word, Moms, and we don’t have to pretend to do this anymore.”

  Now it was Mercedes’s turn to spring out of her chair. “That’s enough. This conversation is over.”

  “It’s not just this conversation that’s over, Momma. Don’t tell me I can’t handle the responsibility, Mommy, because you have no idea what I can handle, Mother.”

  “Really?”

  “Let’s just say, you would be surprised.” Bentley stepped between her mother and the No Kill cardboard cat carrier. “And if you come near my kittens, I’ll be gone so fast, you’ll never find out.”

  Bentley picked up the carrier and disappeared into her room before her mother could answer.

  Mercedes hadn’t ventured into her daughter’s bedroom, or even tried to, in as long as Bent could remember. She usually hovered near the door, which was the unspoken protocol and as far inside as she ever came. Bentley didn’t know—or couldn’t remember—which one of them had decided it had to be like that, or when. That was just how it was.

  Yet now there Mercedes was, two hours later, knocking on the door as if she was the sort of person who came into her children’s rooms all the time.

  “Bentley.”

  Bent didn’t answer.

  She had a few things on her mind and two sleeping kittens on her lap, so she wasn’t exactly in the mood to go running to the door.

  In fact, if Mercedes had asked, Bentley might have admitted she was counting down the minutes until midnight.

  That was when the first of her college admissions decisions was supposed to be posted, at least according to Mrs. Reynolds, her counselor.

  Regular parents knew things like that—and if they didn’t, they knew enough to ask. Not that Bent thought Mercedes would do either. And Mercedes didn’t.