Royce Rolls Read online

It was true. Real Bentley was a survivor. She’d learned that the hard way—which she now knew was the only way anyone ever learned anything at all.

  She stepped out of the shadows of her villa doorway and went to face the bright afternoon light.

  Bach reached her first.

  His arms were around Bent before she could get a word out, his face buried in her shoulder.

  Before Bent could say a word, Porsche piled on top of both of them, leaping up onto her little brother and sister as if they were once again wrestling on their old couch-cushion fort.

  Muscle memory being what it was, Bentley went for her sister’s armpits, while Bach kicked the backs of his sister’s knees—until Porsche collapsed into a hysterical heap, a squirming, ticklish tangle of family.

  Bentley looked up from the dog pile.

  “Mom?”

  Mercedes stood a few feet away, watching her children be with each other in a way she never had been, and never could be.

  “Mom?” Bentley repeated the word. She reached out her hand.

  Mercedes took it. “Baby B.”

  Mercedes tried to smile, but she stumbled over her words, and then everything inside her ruptured into what felt like chaos and fire and the end of the world—but turned out only to be tears.

  Tears that came out, slowly and shyly at first, then uncontrollably, and without any sign of stopping.

  Mercedes Royce cried at her children.

  She cried because she missed them, and she cried because they missed her.

  More than anything, she cried because she didn’t know how to say it, or what to do about it.

  Then her own children swarmed her, and as it turns out, she didn’t need to know how to do anything more than stand there and let them.

  Harry watched, satisfied.

  He’d seen lots of families before, in lots of different pieces. Before and after. Together and apart. Some eternally fixable, some forever broken.

  The Royces, they were all of those things.

  One big piece of work, that family.

  It was a good one.

  It was finally Diego Sanchez, standing in his pressed white suit, who cleared his throat. “Welcome, Mercedes. Porsche. Maybach, of course.” The old man smiled at Bach, whose eyes widened at the sight of him.

  Bent stood up and took Mr. Sanchez by the hand. “Mercedes, you know Mr. Sanchez, right?”

  Mercedes just stared.

  Bent smiled. The Diego Sanchez name, especially for Lifespan employees, was no different from Willy Wonka. She also knew her mother, almost better than anyone, and Mercedes Royce was not used to being a mere Oompa-Loompa.

  Yet here they all were.

  Because Diego Sanchez, majority shareholder in DiosGlobale, parent company to Lifespan Network, owner of Rolling with the Royces, the top-rated reality program in the world, was Yoda himself.

  The old man from the Lifespan lobby, whom she and Bach had met when he refused to pay thirty-eight dollars for a parking validation in his own building.

  When he told them how to really play the game.

  When he taught her how to pitch her own family, and her own life, not just her show.

  When he listened to her crazy idea about a TryCycle instructor who wanted to be an actor, and who looked like ready-made ratings (especially in the bicep region).

  When he set her up with the head of a record label who was only too happy to help out his largest principal investor—for an even bigger investment (especially if it meant taking an extended holiday at the Copa Palace on Rio’s fabled Copacabana Beach).

  When he’d watched and advised from afar as the season exploded—only intervening in the case of one right hook to the jaw.

  When he’d welcomed her into his home, and—miracle of all miracles—stood by her side as he hugged his long-lost grandson for the first time in three long years.

  Because Asa’s story was every bit as long and convoluted as her own.

  Because Asa was bound and bound again with her life, in so many different ways.

  Because Asa was Diego Asa Sanchez III, son of Diego Sanchez II, grandson of Diego Sanchez himself.

  Asa (Venice) moved out from the shadows of the immense oak tree to take Bentley’s hand. His grandfather slid his arm around his shoulders, smiling at both of them.

  When he spoke, he spoke directly to Mercedes.

  “Bentley is my friend, Mrs. Royce. She’s not just a remarkable person. She brought my only grandson back to me.”

  Bentley looked at Asa, and he intertwined his hand with hers. She spoke slowly but clearly, as if she’d just woken up from a long sleep—which in a way maybe she had.

  “I was just trying to keep the show going, at least in the beginning. And, to be honest, I was hoping to build the show around Porsche and Whitey so that no one would notice when I went off to college next year. But I—”

  “Wait, you got into college?” Bach asked.

  “Yep.” Bent beamed, glancing briefly at her mother. “A few of them, actually. My essay explaining that all my Get Bent behavior was a ruse to help my family was apparently super touching.”

  Mercedes covered her mouth with shaking fingers.

  “But after everything with Bach and the police and the wedding,” Bentley continued, “and Porsche falling for someone who didn’t even exist in real life—I panicked.”

  Asa squeezed her hand.

  She took a breath and looked at her family. “I’m sorry. I know you must have been worried out of your minds. It’s just, I knew it was my mess, and I knew I had to fix it.

  So I ran, and I got Tomme to come with me. I thought that was the only way I could help, but Asa convinced me I was wrong.”

  He nodded. “We made a deal. First we’d face my family. Then we’d face hers.”

  Mercedes raised an eyebrow. “And she somehow talked you into coming back to rough it on eleven acres of beach-front real estate, with a dock and a chef and more villas than I could count as we drove in? I can’t imagine the hardship.”

  “No families are easy, Mrs. Royce.” Asa smiled.

  Mercedes waved him away. “Oh, please. Nobody calls me that. Mrs. Royce was my mother. Call me Mercedes.”

  Porsche snorted. “Last time I checked, your mother was Lucille Blatter from Blatter’s Gas and Go, in Richfield—also known as the Gateway to Southern Utah.”

  Mercedes turned red—but other than that, she took it all in remarkable stride. Bentley realized then that the past months had changed her mom more than she would ever know. And she reached out and grabbed her mother’s hand.

  Mercedes looked at both daughters, equally surprised, but all she said was one word. “Lucille?”

  Porsche nodded. “I read my birth certificate when we went to get our marriage licenses. Lucille’s name is on it, as my grandmother. And it looked like she was the only witness to my birth.”

  Mercedes shrugged. “Well, of course she was. It was her gas station.”

  “What happened?”

  “We had a falling-out, and I picked up the three of you in the middle of the night and ran away.” She looked up at the bright sky. “I can’t remember why, of course. That was sixteen years ago now. But I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. As you might imagine.”

  Her eyes were bright and shining. There was more, so much more, Bentley knew.

  But not for today.

  For today, there had been enough.

  Diego sighed happily. “So you see, Mercedes. You have your family again, and I have mine. Bentley reunited me with Asa, and I owe your daughter everything.”

  “Did she?” Mercedes said, looking from Bentley to Asa.

  Then she looked at Diego and smiled. “Do you?”

  “Mercedes—” Bentley said. It was a warning, and like all warnings issued to Mercedes Royce, it went entirely unheeded.

  “When you say, ‘owe her everything,’ Diego,” Mercedes purred, “could you be a little more specific?”

  Diego smiled. “Perhaps o
ver café?” He nodded at Harry, who was mopping his brow with his sun hat. “Would your gentleman friend care to join us?”

  “Gentleman friend?” Bent whispered to Bach.

  Bach shrugged. “It’s new. I give it five minutes.” His eyes flickered over to Asa. “Speaking of new . . .” He lowered his voice. “Is it serious?”

  Bent smiled. “You know what they say. Never underestimate a Blatter.”

  “I never do.”

  Bent put her arm around her brother and pulled him close. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you, Bach. And I’m sorry I left. And . . . I missed you.”

  “I get it. It’s just . . . well . . . I’m starting to think you Blatters are just a bunch of big softies.”

  Bentley shoved him.

  He laughed.

  Asa cleared his throat. “Hey, is that your wallet?” he asked awkwardly, pointing to the ground next to them.

  Bach looked down and nodded, picking it up from the grass. “Thanks. Guess I dropped it.”

  Bent saw that it was made entirely out of red duct tape. She smiled, because she’d made it for him.

  “It’s pretty cool,” Asa said. “I guess.”

  Then he pulled out his own wallet.

  It was made entirely of silver duct tape.

  Both boys laughed.

  From then on, Bent wasn’t worried at all.

  Porsche Royce walked across the lawn to the swimming pool, where someone was practicing his nearly perfect front crawl.

  When he came to the edge of the pool and burst up from the surface of the water, gulping in air, her face went pale, and then red.

  She dropped her handbag, kicked off her Chloé flats, and threw herself into the pool, Isabel Marant sundress and all.

  Before Tomme Torres knew what had hit him, Porsche Royce was kissing him as hard as she could, two arms flung around his slippery, well-muscled torso. (And the arms! Those infamous arms!)

  The fighting would come later.

  So would the explaining, and the apologizing—and the story of a well-meaning fitness enthusiast slash actor, who had gone looking for a big break but found only a broken heart.

  Now wasn’t the time for that.

  Now was the time for kissing and crying—for both former fake fiancés.

  Or formerly former fake fiancés.

  What did that make them now? What had they become?

  Actual real fiancés?

  As they sank below the surface of the water, Porsche knew there was nothing fake about the way either one of them was feeling.

  And she knew something else.

  She could do more than just love.

  She could do forever.

  ROYCE RETURNS, EXPRESSES REGRETS; STUNT WAS NOT ‘RESEARCH’ FOR UPCOMING ROLE

  AP: Beverly Hills, California

  Via Celebcity.com

  The reality television celebrity, now sensation, has made her first statement regarding her recent disappearance. Short, sincere and sorrowful, the televised apology—broadcast via the Lifespan Network, and filmed on location in Tulum, Mexico—has been widely hailed as one of Bentley Royce’s greatest performances.

  A record number of viewers tuned in to the live press event, which is reportedly the highest-rated celebrity apology in a crowded field this year.

  Wearing boyfriend jeans, rustic leather sandals and little makeup, the fresh-faced Royce daughter seemed a changed person. Gone were her signature rainbow-tipped locks, as the young celeb debuted a chic-but-carefree pixie chop. When asked who was responsible for her new coif, the cryptic answer was “The scissors were from Home Depot Mexico, I think.”

  Royce’s message may have been brief, but it was emphatically apologetic. “I know there’s a rumor out there that I was researching an upcoming television role, but that’s not actually true. If I’ve researched anything this year, it’s who I am when I’m not on any screen.”

  Royce went on to take full responsibility for the bizarre events surrounding her disappearance earlier this month. “I hurt a lot of people, and I’ll be doing everything I can to make up for that from now on. All I can say is that I’m grateful for my family and friends and for second chances.”

  At the conclusion of Royce’s statement, her mother, Mercedes Royce, stepped forward to clarify the future of the show. “Of course the Royces will keep Rolling. A Royce always Rolls!” As a result, the hashtag #RoyceRolls is now trending worldwide.

  (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.

  * * *

  90 Jeff says he does. He really does. —D

  Twenty-Six

  GOOD TO BE HOME

  June 2018

  LAX

  (Exit at Century off the 405 South)

  LAX was a zoo. It smelled like a bowl of cigarettes left outside in the sun too long. That, and gasoline and flowers. They’d left the world of private jets and private airports behind with the rest of their families, who were staying for a particularly good luchadores event the next day, per their host’s insistence.

  Ah, it’s good to be home, Bentley thought as she stood at the traffic light next to Asa Venice.

  The comforting surge of Latin Asian Americans rolled past her, pushing off the curb and crashing into the oncoming traffic. Everything was dirty. Everyone was a mess. Still, the sun shone weakly and the sky above the potholed streets was an almost startling blue—way more blue than the Santa Monica Bay had been in years and would ever be again.

  In this horribly imperfect paradise.

  A lone, scraggly palm tree on the far side of the taxi zone tried not to give in to the desolation of the never-ending concrete construction around it. Beneath it, hunted, exhausted-looking smokers snuck cigs, ducking away from the cops while Bentley watched.

  The cops didn’t care. Wearing their fluorescent-yellow vests, they were too busy waving along the lurking cars and bully cabs, knocking on hoods and windows.

  Yeah, yeah. This is LA. You’ve seen it.

  Now get on the freeway and haul your butt into that slow-crawling traffic.

  In other words, she was home.

  Bentley was back.

  Asa Venice looked at her. “You’re sure you’re ready for this?”

  The light changed colors.

  She nodded, taking his hand, dragging her carry-on behind her until they reached his car, which he’d kept in long-term parking for the better part of a month now. When Bentley had expressed shock that anyone could live in LA without a car, Asa Venice had just looked amused. “We have a bus. We have a train. We even have city bicycles. Why do I need a car?”

  When Bent saw his car, she understood; an old Mustang with a ripped convertible top, it didn’t exactly look like it could handle the daily abuse of rush-hour traffic. The back was full of wet suits and dirty laundry and rank-smelling, mildewed, still-damp towels. Mercedes would have a heart attack if she knew her daughter was about to even stop in front of it, let alone ride in it.

  Bent shook her head. “I can’t believe you had a car this whole time.”

  “Not much of one,” Asa Venice said.

  “And an apartment.”

  “With only the one broken window covered in cardboard. The rest are actual glass,” Asa Venice said.

  “And a family.”

  “Yeah, that’s sort of an as-is situation,” Asa Venice said.

  “And here I was worried about you living on the streets.”

  “Well, uh . . .” His cheeks turned red. He didn’t have a comeback for that.

  Bentley smiled as he pulled open the car door for her, which only took three tries. “It’s okay, Venice—or I mean, Asa. I still like you. With or without the car.”

  “It’s not like it’s a fancy car or anything,” he said, slamming the door after her. “It only runs, like, sixty percent of the time.”

  “What do you do the other fo
rty percent?” Bent asked.

  He slid behind the steering wheel, reached up to the dashboard, and retrieved a plastic card. “I told you. It’s called the bus.”

  “Bus? I don’t believe I’m familiar with that word.” She examined the ripped passenger seat. Foam padding was busting up through a slit in the faded leather.

  He handed her his bus pass. “It’s like a big car with lots of people on it at the same time. You should try it. It’s great.”

  “I’ll add it to the bucket list.”

  “Then you should look into trains. They’re like roller coasters, only slower. And hopefully without the loop-the-loops.”

  “Do you happen to have a third secret life as a worker for the Department of Transportation?”

  “Don’t even joke. No more secret lives, B.”

  “Well, that frees up a lot of time,” she said.

  He twisted the key in the ignition, and the car coughed and choked to life. “Come on. We don’t have to go straight back to your mom’s house. I’ll show you around my LA. I love this town.” He reached out to ruffle her hair with his tanned hand.

  She leaned her head against his outstretched hand. “I already know plenty about this town. Too much, you could say.”

  He smiled. “Nah. Not my part of town.”

  She looked at him. “Palm trees. Sunshine. Taco trucks. I got it.”

  “You ever see the murals beneath a freeway overpass? Float a boat on the Silver Lake Reservoir? Take the Red Line to Chinatown? Hang in Union Station while a commercial’s being shot?” He moved his hand against her cheek.

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “Downtown it is. We can hit up the Pantry. Never closes. Or Philippe’s, for a French dip sandwich the size of your head.”

  Bent sat up in her seat.

  “Philippe’s? That’s where those matches were from?” Her eyes welled up with tears. “It’s a sandwich place?”

  Venice looked at her shining eyes, not understanding. “Whoa, okay. You don’t like French dip? How about pastrami on rye? So big, it takes two days to get it down? What would you say to that?”

  She stared at him, trying to let herself feel it.