Royce Rolls Page 26
“Something we should have done months ago, Tomme—back when I first realized you were crushing on my sister, instead of just pretending to. We’re gonna blow this whole thing up.”
WHY, BENTLEY, WHY?
ROYCE SISTER MAY BE MISSING MASTERMIND
AP: Beverly Hills, California
Via Celebcity.com
BREAKING: Sources close to the White-Royce investigation are now reportedly saying that the mastermind behind the disappearance of both individuals may in fact be none other than seventeen-year-old Bentley Royce herself.
Royce, often referred to as the “troubled” daughter of the celebrity family starring on Rolling with the Royces—which has just completed a historic sixth-season run that culminated in the disappearance and presumed death of two recurring cast members—is now the most watched “docu-follow” reality program in the world.
The whereabouts of Bentley Royce and Tomme Torres are still unknown, though an LAPD task force meant to investigate the murder/disappearances has now been closed; no evidence of human remains were found at the crash site of Royce’s car. The charred vehicle was discovered in a ravine off Mulholland Drive, in the early-morning hours following a Royce family event.
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.
* * *
88 JG: “And probably still will!” —D
89 Finally, Jeff says. The moral of the story! —D
Twenty-Four
BENTLEY CATCHES A FLIGHT
May 2018
Long Beach Private Airfield, Long Beach, California
(The 405 South exit at Long Beach Airport)
“Man,” Whitey lamented, “I really loved that car. Did we have to kill it?”
“Obviously,” Bentley reminded him for the millionth time. “We had to give Grunburg an even bigger finale than the wedding. This is the only way.”
“There you are. What took you so long, B? I’ve been waiting for you forever.” The voice came toward them through the night fog. Bent heard it as she walked away from the taxi stand.
I know that voice.
Bentley stopped in her tracks. Whitey kept on walking. Bentley leaned forward, peering through the foggy night, trying to focus her eyes.
Trying to better see his face.
The face that belonged to that voice.
Asa?
Now?
After all this time?
His hair was slicked back, just as it had been that night at the Chateau. But tonight, it couldn’t stay down. Tonight, the underside of his hair twisted into rebellious waves that almost rivaled Venice’s crazy curls.
The longer she watched, the more she could see his hair fly in every direction, this close to the ocean and the runway.
He also had Venice’s voice—warm and affectionate and sharp and funny.
But this couldn’t be Venice.
He didn’t have any of his other tells, wasn’t wearing any of his clothes, wasn’t hiding his head under his favorite (and apparently, only) hoodie.
In fact, he wasn’t wearing his uniform black tattered hoodie at all—or shuffling around in busted-up Vans, or ripped-up jeans, or an old black T-shirt from a band tour she’d never seen or even heard of, usually.
This Venice wore well-cut jeans and a faded white button-down sewn from the good stuff, top-quality linen; she could almost see the thread count now, trained as her eyes had been from racks and racks of #RTWR couture offerings (even if they all were three sizes too small).
His shoes, his belt, even his watch—none of those things were Venice things. None of those things belonged to the boy who had stood by her when nobody else would. Who had listened to her on her craziest days. Seen her face in a newspaper and never forgotten her. Given her a nickname within a minute of meeting her, when nobody else in her life—other than Bach—had ever bothered. Bailed her out of jail, even though it had meant cashing in the only thing he had left from the family he’d left behind—his grandfather’s watch.
Venice was the one who had helped her put together this whole escape. She couldn’t do it without him now.
She needed him. And she wanted him. And she’d always known that, even when she’d been temporarily distracted by the bright blur of a single smile, lit by one flickering match.
The boy who was more comfortable at the public library than the Chateau Marmont.
That was the boy she loved.
Not this one.
Even though, at that moment, his hair flipped back into his crazy almost-Afro, and she was absolutely certain—for the very first time—that Asa and Venice were one and the same.
I should have known.
Asa Venice jammed his hands into his pockets and looked up at her. Shy. Uncertain. Almost nervous, as if neither one of them knew what was going to happen next.
Because they didn’t.
Bentley took ten steps toward him and stopped again. She shook her head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He approached her now, until they were standing face-to-face. They didn’t touch, and even right there, she knew she had never felt farther away from him.
His voice sounded wistful, almost sad, when he finally answered. “How could I tell you when you didn’t want it to be true?”
“You don’t know that.” She frowned. “How can you say that?”
“That you didn’t want to see him in me?”
She nodded.
“Because you would have,” he said simply. “The way that I saw you.” He reached for her hand, grasping her cold fingers in his warmer ones. “Why do you think I even went to that stupid party? I hate those things. But I had been sitting by you in the library for so long, I had to get you to see me in another way.”
Bent looked dazed. “You were already perfect. You didn’t need to pretend to be something you weren’t.”
She could feel herself tearing up now.
He shook his head. “You didn’t think of me like that. Not when I was just Venice. Not until after you met me as Asa.”
“That’s not true.”
“Really? Why didn’t you tell me the plan was a go? This plan?”
She rubbed her eye with the back of her hand and picked up her backpack. “I was trying not to involve you. You had already done enough, just helping me figure all this out. How did you know we’d be here?”
Asa Venice grinned. “How could I not know? I came up with this plan, remember? FedEx jet? Corporate cargo deliveries? Late-night paperwork, with tired border controls? A friend of a friend who could hook us up? This ringing any bells?”
Now Bent’s mouth twisted into a frown. “Funny. The way I remember it, we came up with this plan.”
“I was doing the planning. You were too busy mooning about some blue-eyed guy with a book of matches.” He shrugged. “It was hard to listen to frankly.”
Bentley rolled her eyes. “Mooning? Please. Who was mooning? What even is that?”
Asa Venice pulled a book of matches out of his pocket and held them up. “I think you know.” She stared at the matchbook as if it was her own personal shooting star. Then she smiled at him and he caught her hand, drawing her toward him.
Bent shrugged. “There might have been a little mooning.”
Asa Venice smiled and spun her in front of him. Suddenly they were dancing. “A little?”
“To be fair, I had a hard time figuring out which blue-eyed guy I was mooning about.”
Asa Venice spun her again. “Yeah, well, speaking for both blue-eyed guys?” Now he dropped her into a low dip. “That is exactly how I like it.”
He lowered his mouth to hers, and she let him kiss her the way she had always imagined it should be. At first warm and safe and soft—and then, a few heartbeats later, none of those things at all.
“Uh, guys?” Tomme shifted his backpack as he st
ood up ahead of them, by the front of the airstrip office, still drunk and smelling of whiskey. “We’re supposed to be on the run, remember? So maybe we should get . . . running?”
Asa Venice pulled back. “Don’t go. Forget the plan. It was a bad plan.”
Bentley smiled. “I thought it was your excellent plan?”
“I’ve got a new plan. It’s even more excellent. Forget whatever you had in mind. Come with me instead.”
“I don’t care where we go, so long as it’s off the grid.”
He nodded, a sparkle waiting in his eye. “How deep?”
“Deep.”
“Even better. I know just the place.”
“Done.” She picked up her pack again. “Tomme and I just need to lie low for a while.”
He took it from her. “And then? After that?”
She sighed. “I haven’t really thought much about after that.”
“That’s okay,” he said, starting to walk.
She looked at him. “We won’t disappear forever. Just until the media fallout ends.”
“I know.”
She smiled at him. “Don’t you have, I don’t know, a boardwalk to skate or waves to catch?”
He shrugged. “Venice isn’t the only beach in the world, you know.”
“You barely know me.”
“You’re the most regular date I’ve ever had. One hundred and three Wednesdays now.”
“You counted?”
“You didn’t? I thought it was important.” He smiled.
“Wednesdays? They were for me. I didn’t know you thought so. Then again, we barely know each other,” Bent said.
He raised an eyebrow. “Do you really want me to do this right now?”
“I always want you to do this right now.” She smiled.
He took her by the hand. “I know your favorite books. Your favorite cake. How you drool when you nap, at least, until the library security guards wake you up. I know the real you, Sweet B, and from what she’s like, I can’t wait to know the rest.”
He was right, Bentley thought. He did know.
It wasn’t the Bentley Bible.
It was the truth.
She looked at him sideways as they walked. “You really should be a lawyer.”
Asa stopped walking. “Come on, Sweet B. I just handed you that whole touching, romantic speech and you come up with lawyer?”
She shrugged. “This is new ground for me. Give me one hundred and three more Wednesdays to practice, and I swear I’ll come up with something.”
“Deal.”
Then they were kissing again, and walking, and laughing—and then Asa pushed open the gate to the hangar and gestured with one hand.
“I couldn’t get a pumpkin carriage, but you don’t really seem like the rescue-the-princess type, anyways.”
It wasn’t a carriage.
It was a Gulfstream G650.
ROYCE FAMILY ROLLS SOUTH OF THE BORDER; TULUM RESPITE DESPITE MISSING TEEN?
AP: Beverly Hills, California
Via Celebcity.com
The Royce family just keeps rolling.
Earlier today, Mercedes, Bach and Porsche Royce were seen boarding a Gulfstream Jet. Flight plans filed with the FAA list Tulum, Mexico, as the destination.
What’s going on? Why Tulum? Why now? Could they possibly be heading south of the border to catch up with missing sister Bentley Royce, now rumored to be hiding out in an undetermined location somewhere outside the United States?
If so, what happened to the missing boy toy formerly known as T. Wilson White, who claimed to be a music-industry mogul, but was ultimately revealed to be an impostor, a TryCyclist instructor known in reality as Tomme Torres?
Could this story get any stranger, or the show’s ratings any higher? Does the world even care that the only consistent truth to this family is their predilection for deception?
Only time will tell.
(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.
Twenty-Five
A ROYCE FAMILY REUNION
June 2018
Long Beach Private Airfield, Long Beach, California
(The 405 South exit at Long Beach Airport)
“What the—”
“That, Harry, is a Gulfstream G650. If you really want to know.”90
Mercedes had been busily narrating the finer points of private air travel since Harry had parked his police cruiser at the hangar. For someone who didn’t actually own a plane, she sure had plenty of opinions about them. On the other hand, Bach and Porsche hadn’t said a word, and Harry didn’t blame them. This whole week was only getting stranger and stranger. The Santa Ana winds were back, and the combination of the heat and the investigation and the media and the whole hectic pace of the last few days was starting to catch up with all four of them.
Which is why he hoped the small white jet in front of them now would lead them where he thought it would.
“I guess this is it,” he said, double-checking the directions he’d gotten over the phone.
Mercedes dragged her Vuitton bag toward him. Porsche and Bach followed a few yards behind her.
“You realize how strange this is? That we’re just trusting you,” Mercedes said, looking at Harry.
“Well, I am LAPD,” Harry said. “Got a badge and everything.”
“Says the dirty cop.” She sighed.
He laughed. “Ouch.”
She looked annoyed. “We could be kidnapped and held for ransom.”
“I guess. You’re not much more of a kid than I am, though,” Harry said, winking.
Mercedes pretended not to hear him. “You could be selling us on the black market.”
“I could try.” He shrugged. “You’d be surprised. It’s really a buyer’s market now.”
“You could harvest our organs.”
“Guess it depends on the organ,” he said, elbowing her. “You can probably keep that Hollywood liver.”
“My liver is in excellent condition,” Mercedes said, stopping to glare. “You, on the other hand, could be a madman.”
He stopped next to her. “Well, I can’t argue there. Do you want me to roll that for you?”
She shoved the handle of her bag at him. “We could all wake up in a bathtub full of ice.”
He took it, and they began to walk again. “Not in this weather.”
Now the two of them were staring up at the steps leading to the open doorway of the plane.
Even Mercedes looked impressed. “But I have to say, whoever your generous benefactor is, at least he has good taste.”
“Well, there you go. What’s an organ or two, if the plane is nice. Right?” Harry smiled. Mercedes smiled. They just didn’t smile at each other, exactly.
Not yet.
“I think you got a little something in your teeth,” Harry said. “Little black thing, like a peppercorn.”
“It’s chia.” Mercedes froze. Then, almost automatically, she smile-grimaced to show her teeth. “Where?”
“Over one.”
“There?”
“Now up.”
“Is it gone?”
“You want me to get it?” he finally offered. “I might have floss in the squad car.”
Mercedes’s cheeks went pink, as if she’d only just now realized what she was doing and who she was doing it with and where she was. “Don’t be disgusting. I barely even know you.”
As if for emphasis, she grabbed her bag from his hands and tried to lug it up the first step to the plane.
It ricocheted off, bouncing back down to the ground.
“I’ll get it,” he called.
“I can manage,” she huffed, shoving her bag back up onto the stairs. Her face was bright red, like some kind of alarm system had just gone off, somewhere in her body. She was radiating like a stoplight.
Harry looked back at Bac
h and Porsche, who looked as confused as Harry was starting to feel. “Is she always this much of a kick?” Harry asked Bach.
“A kick?” Porsche asked.
“Sure,” Harry said. “A kick. A hoot. Hot tamale. Splash of Tabasco.”
“Pretty much,” Bach answered.
Harry nodded and straightened his sun hat. “I can see why folks watch.”
The SUV had been waiting for them when they landed.
Now it curved down a long, winding road fringed with wild palms—taking them from the beach to a mountain overlooking it—and then the sea, of course the sea, on every side.
“Tulum,” Harry mused. “I’ve wanted to get down here my entire life. But you want to know something wild? Before today I’d never even been past Cabo.” He shook his head. “Things don’t exactly turn out the way you think they will, do they?”
Mercedes said nothing. Her face was glued to the window, although Harry could see in the reflection that her eyes were squeezed tightly shut.
He suspected she was thinking about her kid, as any mother would be. Porsche and Bach were quiet in the backseat, as well.
The only sound was the constant hum of loose gravel spinning beneath their tires on the asphalt road.
He let them have the silence.
A lot had happened to this family.
The rest was going to be up to them.
Bentley Royce took a deep breath. It had been a quiet week, if not a calm one. But now that time was over.
Now came the storm.
She braced herself for the fighting and the blame. She waited for the judgment and the fury. She wasn’t expecting to be forgiven. She was expecting the worst, but also expecting to tough it out, one way or another.
She knew she could, and more than that, she knew she would.
After all, she’d come this far—hadn’t she?
And she was a Royce—wasn’t she?
And Mercedes Royce’s daughter could handle anything— including herself—couldn’t she?
I can.
And this time it’s me who can handle it.
Not Bad Bentley.
Real Bentley.