Royce Rolls Page 22

  Porsche looked at the two of them as if she were deciding which head to rip off first. Then the screaming began:

  “ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME? HE’S LEFT ME AT THE ALTAR?! MY LIFE IS OVER! EVERYTHING IS RUINED! THE WHOLE WORLD WILL BE LAUGHING AT ME—”

  “Good news!” Bach interrupted, sticking his head through the door. “Tracked down the driver and had him bring back our groom. Sounds like Whitey just stayed on the bus. As of two minutes ago, he is back on the premises and in the bathroom getting cleaned up.” He smiled. “You’re welcome.”

  “Oh . . .” Mercedes said.

  “AND WE’RE BACK! MAKEUP! I NEED MAKEUP!” Porsche dropped into her chair in front of the mirror, her crew materializing out of the hallway, where Bentley suspected they had been hiding.

  Bach coughed. “Do you want the bad news?” His smile wavered.

  “Spill,” Bentley said, her eyes flickering toward the bride.

  “Bach?” Porsche’s eyes shot lasers at him, even through the mirror.

  “Apparently the bus has been parked at the liquor store down the street—and the groom is, well, plowed. See ya!” Bach ducked back behind the door, safely out of the bridal blast zone.

  This time, screaming could be heard on Sunset Boulevard, even above the sound of the choppers.

  Out in the vast dinner hall, Mercedes was greeting the guests, who seemed to be suddenly arriving all at once.

  She knew everyone (that mattered) and remembered everything (that mattered), including the Mayor, who had once ridden in the car in front of her in a Tournament of Roses parade that time she was (deputy) honorary honoree for the city of Beverly Hills. The Studio Heads who (normally) never returned her calls. The Stars who (mostly) froze her out at industry functions. The Recording Artists who (uniformly) made fun of Porsche’s debut single. The Designers who (utterly) mocked her style. And of course, the Agents who (best) understood the worth of her family, and fought (dirty) to gain her respect or at least attention, over and over again.

  As the bride floated into the sea of tables artfully covered in burlap and tulle and a thickly twisting double helix of white peonies sourced from three continents, the scene was almost perfect.

  Everyone who was anyone worth anything was here in this room, right now. Everyone, that is, except the groom.

  By the time Whitey did stumble in, everyone was already seated, including the bride—and all he could do was make his way—very carefully—to the one table that Porsche had made certain was visible from every seat in the room.

  Mercedes Royce had her eyes fixed on him the entire time.

  It was not a look of love.

  Neither was the look Porsche Royce gave him when he finally dropped into the chair next to her. The one her fiancé was supposed to have been in the entire night.

  The resulting fight began with whispers, escalated to hisses, and soon developed into full-blown screaming.

  “It’s our rehearsal dinner. You’re not just supposed to be here. You’re supposed to not leave my side. We’re supposed to be in love. This is supposed to be the eve of our wedding vows. This is supposed to be the night before the happiest day of our lives.”

  “If that’s true, then why am I drunk and why are you crying?”

  “Because,” Porsche said, “you’ve become a different person. You’re a stranger. And tonight, you’re acting like a giant ass.”

  “People change,” Whitey said with a sullen shrug. “Which makes me think,” he continued, only pausing to let a belch fly, “that this whole damn thing might be a giant mistake, Sweet Thing.”

  As he spoke that last unfortunate (and really never very clever) nickname, the nine-hundred-dollar-a-plate dishes began to fly.

  “I HATE YOU—” A salad plate went whizzing past Whitey’s head.

  “YOU’VE RUINED MY LIFE—” Cutlery hit his chair like a dartboard.

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE DOING THIS TO ME—” A half-empty gravy boat sailed across the table.

  “I’LL MAKE YOU PAY—” Only Bentley seemed to see the pained look on his face as the groom crawled to safety beneath the table.

  Thank god.

  In many ways, the evening was considered a huge success.

  The rolled caviar-and-blini cigars were called daring (especially when they emitted tiny puffs of actual steam).

  The tiny hand-worked burratas formed in the shape of rosebuds were widely hailed as inventive; guests seemed to particularly enjoy their edible gold thorns.

  The cold lobster cereal, served in lobster-shell bowls, was declared whimsical.

  The boba micro-meatballs, speared with a single straight pin, were triumphant, and the single thread of spaghetti wrapped around them, an inspired touch.

  And no one, no one had believed the incroyable artisanal baguettes-minces. The baguette toothpicks, no larger than a slender child’s even-more-slender pinkie finger, were the subject of more illicit Instagram photos than the bride herself. (SO THIN! SO INCREDIBLY DELICATE! AND YET—SO IMPERTINENT—TO SERVE BREAD!)84

  It was, in so many ways, an exquisite evening.

  If it weren’t for the fact that the bride had gone missing for a full half hour in the middle of the sorbet course, or that the groom and his mother-in-law-to-be were overheard screaming at each other inside the Sub-Zero, where they thought they couldn’t be heard, or that Jeff Grunburg had fired the entire valet staff after they couldn’t locate his Land Rover, then called in a temp agency to replace them, you might not have wanted to change a thing at all.

  Bentley stood outside the back security exit to the venue with her mom and brother while her sister curled up into a weeping, quivering ball on the cold cement.

  Whitey stumbled up behind them, smelling like the bathroom at a biker bar, especially now that he had thrown up in the bushes just next to the valet.

  Bentley looked at her mother and brother. “What are we going to do, guys? You want the bride or the groom?”

  “Get her home and get him out of my sight. We can figure the rest out in the morning,” Mercedes said.

  “Okay, but who’s taking which sad sack, and in what car?” Bach asked. “I call the sobber, not the puker.”

  Porsche wept harder.

  “No one’s takin’ thissad sack anywhere,” Whitey slurred, “I’m goin’ home and gettin’ far away from you people, okay? Mister Valet! I got my card righ’ here.”

  He waved the blue cardstock ticket in the air, and the valet plucked it hesitantly from his hand.

  “You can’t drive!” Bentley laughed bitterly. “You’re beyond wasted.” She looked to her family for backup. Porsche only cried. Bach looked at the ground. Mercedes shrugged.

  “He’s fine to drive, as far as I’m concerned,” Mercedes said. “I hope he drives off a cliff. See if I care.”

  “This family is a very special type of dysfunctional,” Bach said, feeling in his own pockets. “And on that note, I left my valet ticket inside. I’ll be right back.” He disappeared inside the club.

  As he did, the valet drove up in Whitey’s sparkling white Audi R8. The rear window had even been painted with the words JUST MARRIED. Whitey lunged for the keys before anyone could stop him.

  “No!” Bentley shouted. “You can’t let him drive! Whitey, stop!” She picked up her ridiculous gown and hobbled toward him. “I’ll drive you home.”

  “Oh, no you will not,” Mercedes protested, gripping her daughter’s shoulder.

  “Are you kidding me? We don’t have to like the guy, but I’m not letting him drive off to his death, all right?” Bent shook her mother loose and hurried into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut.

  “Bentley, no!” It was Porsche this time, standing up out of her catatonic state. “Get out of that car right now. You’re not going anywhere with that pig.”

  “God, Porsche, I’m not taking his side, I’m just keeping him alive. Let me just get him home safe, and I’ll Uber home. It’s not like he even lives that far.”

  “S
eriously?” Mercedes yanked off a shoe and for a second, Bent thought she was going to throw it at her.

  “I’ll be home in an hour, and he’ll be taken care of, all right? Let’s get this over with. Then we can put the whole thing behind us.” Bent rolled up the window, glanced over at Whitey—now passed out soundly in the passenger’s seat—and hit the gas.

  “Bentley!” Porsche shouted.

  Bach looked up as he walked back to the valet.

  The car didn’t stop.

  Their sister’s silhouette in the darkened Audi window was the last Porsche and Bach saw of Bentley, before they awoke to the news that the very same Audi had been found at the bottom of a ravine.

  HOLLYWOOD MOURNS, WHOLE WORLD WATCHES BIGGEST RATINGS IN NETWORK HISTORY

  AP: Beverly Hills, California

  Via Celebcity.com

  Today, Hollywood mourned the loss of its own—in true Hollywood style. Early reports indicate that a record-shattering number of viewers tuned in across the globe to see grieving would-be bride Porsche Royce lay to rest not just her fiancé, music industry exec T. Wilson White, but also her only sister, reality celebrity Bentley Royce.

  At Porsche Royce’s side throughout the Beverly Hills invitation-only (and packed to capacity) memorial service were mother Mercedes Royce and brother Maybach Royce. While overwhelming crowds gathering behind the police barricades at times threatened to shut the proceedings down entirely, the steady flow of celebrities into the chapel itself was nothing short of dazzling.

  So, too, was the program; Bentley Royce’s close childhood friend (and former Teen Choice Awards Breakout Pop Star of the Year) Justa Beatbox opened the service with “Amazing Grace,” while readings and reminiscences were offered from many of Royce’s “young Hollywood” peers, including Zoey Deutch, Alden Ehrenreich and Thomas Mann, as well as multiple musicians from White’s record label. Eulogy was given by Jeff Grunburg, an executive of the Lifespan Network with whom both Royce and White were said to have close personal ties.

  White’s coffin was draped with his signature black bandanna, as were the shoulders of his former fiancé. Lifespan may not have gotten the chance to broadcast the RWTR dream wedding, but even while forfeiting the allegedly multimillion-dollar live television event, the network should still come out on top; insiders predict that with exclusive rights to broadcast the memorial service, Lifespan will actually be back in black for the balance of the season.

  (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.

  * * *

  79 Some of our top sellers, Jeff notes. Great product placement! —D

  80 Jeff thinks you’re describing a gummy bear. (But—an amazing one!) —D

  81 Per JG: “Do we have this? Can we?” —D

  82 JG points out that this chapter does not precisely mesh with his personal recollection of that night’s events. He suggests Legal will work it out. —D

  83 Jeff is volunteering to play himself in this scene. He feels he’d make a good Jeff. —D

  84 Gluten-free? JG asks. —D

  One Week Later

  DETECTIVE ON THE CASE

  Eighteen

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

  May 2018

  Rampart Division, Homicide Special Section, LAPD

  (110 North to West Sixth Street, DTLA)

  Porsche Royce was frustrated. Harry knew the feeling, but that didn’t mean their work here was done. And it didn’t mean she was being straight with him.

  “You don’t get it. Something’s wrong. Something doesn’t make sense.”

  “It seems your sister and your fiancé pulled over on the side of the road for some time. We have two eyewitness accounts who can put a white sedan on Mulholland during the hour after they left you at the club.”

  “Why would they have pulled over? He could barely speak, and she was exhausted. She was just trying to get him home.”

  “Once again, you weren’t fighting with your sister? Only the groom?”

  “I’ve said it a thousand times. The last time I saw her, my sister was kinder than she’s ever been to me in my entire life.”

  This time around, something about the bride’s sob story slid a millimeter to the side—finally snapping into place in Harry’s mind.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Ever?”

  “What?”

  “Were you being literal? Was that actually the nicest your sister ever was to you in your entire memory of your entire life?”

  Porsche thought about it. “Well, actually, we’d been getting along a lot better the last few months, but that night things just felt different. It felt like the trailer days. I mean, except for all the tear-filled rage.”

  “Trailer?” Harry asked. How is that not in the files?

  “The network doesn’t like us to talk about it, so you won’t see it online, hardly anywhere. But we—Mercedes and me, and the babies—we used to be pretty dang happy in a double-wide.” The dang just sort of slipped out.

  “Where was this?”

  “Southern Utah. Richfield. Sevier County. Prime sheep country. Until Mercedes realized she was distantly related to some pretty fancy people, including a congressman.” Porsche shrugged.

  “And?”

  “So we moved when I was eight. Bentley was two, and Bach had just been born. Mercedes—my mom—says she looked at him and said, ‘This is not a boy who will make it in a trailer park.’ But I also think it had something to do with a falling-out between Mercedes and our dad, who she never, ever talks about.”

  “Anything else you can recall?”

  “I don’t know. Just stuff. There were raspberries in the summer. The dirt was red. We ran around in bare feet and played with the other kids in the trailer park.”

  “And you were nice to each other?”

  “Yeah, but it was different then. The babies were just babies.”

  “And as best you can remember, aside from happier days in the trailer, your last conversation with your sister was the easiest moment of your relationship?”

  She looked up at Harry.

  Maybe she was getting it too. You never know. Either way, he could already tell that starting her talking was going to pay off.

  Thank god for the good old days and the raspberries and the bare feet and the babies. Everyone has their own way of telling it, but it always gets to the same place.

  Now Porsche looked stricken. “You think she was—saying good-bye? You think they drove off that cliff on purpose?”

  “That’s what we’re here to talk about. You tell me. You were there—I wasn’t.”

  Porsche’s eyes immediately began to well with tears. “Can I see my—Mercedes now?”

  “Soon, Ms. Royce. The way we do things is, I gotta talk to the three of you separately.”

  “But you’ve already done all that.”

  “And now I’m doing it again.” Harry shrugged. “Things change.”

  She shivered when he said the words, but even then, she didn’t look at him.

  “I wish people would stop saying that. I don’t want anything to change. I don’t want them to be gone.” The tears were flowing freely down her face now. “And it is my fault, you know.”

  “What’s your fault, Ms. Royce?”

  “All of it,” Porsche said glumly.

  He slid his hand beneath the thick steel table and pressed a hidden switch. If she thought she was at fault, he was ready to hear why. You never knew when the ex was going to start talking, and Harry had learned the hard way that it was better to be prepared.

  “All of what?” Harry asked.

  The green light at the top of the room, next to the clock, flashed on—and the session was now being recorded.

  “I pushed him too hard. I fell in love with him, or at least I thought I did. It wasn’t supposed to be like that, and everyone ke
pt warning me. Bentley more than anyone. But I just didn’t want to see it.”

  “And?”

  “And I guess I drove him away. It was the night before what was supposed to be just a TV show, really. And I acted like it was our wedding, our real wedding.”

  “So it wasn’t real?”

  “No, it was. I mean, legally and everything. It just wasn’t supposed to matter. Not to us. Not like that. We were going to split up.” She sighed. “That would have been our guaranteed ticket to season seven, I guess. Not that it matters now.”

  “But that all somehow changed?”

  “For me.” She bit her lip and looked right at Harry. “I get it now. It only changed for me.”

  “I see.”

  “I don’t think you do—I drove him away. I was being selfish, and desperate, and I just wanted him to feel what I felt, even when he didn’t.”

  She pulled a tissue from her bag and balled it up against her eyes.

  “And?” Harry pressed.

  “And then I punished him for it.” Porsche shook her head. “He had to drink a bottle of whiskey just to get up the nerve to tell me something I already should have known. That it was a fake wedding. That I was a fake bride. That we didn’t have to pretend it was something it wasn’t.”

  Harry checked his notes. “It says there was some throwing of china and cutlery, is that correct?”

  She nodded. “That’s putting it mildly. I think I jammed a tiny baguette up his nose, actually.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m not proud. I sucked him into my twisted little reality television world under what turned out to be false pretenses, and then I humiliated him in front of everyone we knew. I might as well have killed him myself.”

  Harry reached down and pressed the button beneath the table. The light by the clock switched back to red, and then died out. “Did you douse the car in gasoline and roll it off a cliff, Ms. Royce?”

  “No.”

  “Then it’s not your fault, ma’am.” He leaned back in his chair, studying the girl. She seemed legitimately torn up.

  Harry felt a pang of guilt. He’d known it was going to be like this when he’d called them all back in today, but he didn’t really have another way around it.