Royce Rolls Read online

  Happy. I can do happy.

  Finally, she smiled, kissing the hand that still caressed her cheek. “I guess I’d say, what are we waiting for?”

  “Beats me.” Asa Venice grinned. “All I’ve been waiting for is y—”

  Her lips met his before he could finish the sentence.

  WAITLISTED, NOT D-LISTED; BENTLEY ROYCE BECOMES A BRUIN!

  AP: Beverly Hills, California

  Via Celebcity.com

  One of the latest twists in what has to be the strangest story of this year is also one of the most encouraging: Bentley Royce, youngest daughter of the tempestuous Royce family—who rose to fame with their hit reality show, Rolling with the Royces, and then to infamy with the alleged Royce-White murder investigation—has finally gotten some good news.

  Bentley Royce, as of September 2018, will become a UCLA Bruin. The future freshman appears to have been admitted to one of the top public schools in California, as well as the nation, just off the waitlist this week.

  In a rare statement posted via her verified Twitter account @GetBent, Royce had this to say:

  “Don’t give up. Find your tribe and hold on, they’re out there. Also: the world is not a totally sucky place. Go UCLA BRUINS CLASS OF 2022!”

  A highly placed source familiar with the Admissions Department, while unable to comment officially on any one case, noted privately that the Royce Personal Statement was reportedly one of the more compelling that the school had ever seen. Other sources believe that the essay itself has now been optioned by the Lifespan Network, in an attempt to cash in on what is widely regarded as the most successful scripted reality season of all time.

  Alumni Trustee Diego Sanchez, a personal friend of Bentley Royce, has publically denied any involvement with the Royce admission decision.

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

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

  Twenty-Seven

  BEST SEASON EVER

  June 2018

  The Lifespan Building, Century City

  (Avenue of the Stars at Little Santa Monica Boulevard)

  Jeff Grunburg sat at his six-thousand-dollar midcentury modern desk, staring at the collection of miniature plastic robots that sat in a row along the farthest edge.

  They were a present from his tween daughter,91 though he had no idea what fandom or universe they were from, or even why she’d chosen them.

  With Tallulah, you never knew.

  Each one had a heart etched in the center, which he suspected she had intended to be some kind of ironic inside joke with his ex-wife.

  Happy Father’s Day, to the man with no heart.

  It wasn’t true, of course, and Jeff’s was beating like crazy at this particular moment. He couldn’t catch his breath, and if he hadn’t been forty-seven years old, he might not have even noticed.92

  He did today.

  Today, Diego Sanchez, the CEO of DiosGlobale, was coming to see him. And then, if things went as Jeff suspected, to fire him.

  He reviewed his argument.

  Really, as far as RWTR was concerned, six had been his best season ever.

  The numbers were crazy good.

  Ratings were way up.

  Product sponsorships had more than tripled.

  They’d had to get a new manufacturer for just the GET BENT merchandising alone, hadn’t they?

  And Jeff had done the impossible, hadn’t he?

  Sure, six hadn’t quite worked out as anyone had planned, but did it really matter? Sure, the season finale was supposed to be a celebration of love and family. So what if the network had gone with an exploitation of scandal and debauchery? They hadn’t had a whole lot of choice in the matter, had they?

  When it came right down to it, was there really that much difference between a TryCycle instructor and the head of a music label?

  He rubbed his hand against his still-aching jaw as he considered it.

  And so what if the most celebrated memorial service in modern television had been a sham? So what if the groom and the little sister had totaled a seventy-five-thousand-dollar car along the way? Was any of that in the network’s control? All Jeff had done was play with the cards he was given. Could anyone blame him for that?

  He wasn’t the one calling the shots.

  The girl was.

  This was her story line, and only hers.

  Jeff shook his head. He was starting to sweat. He had to get himself under control, before he had to change his shirt again.

  He couldn’t even bring himself to think her name.

  She always was trouble.

  If Sanchez wants to fire someone, he should fire her.

  Those were all things he found himself saying to Señor Diego Sanchez within the first five minutes of their meeting.

  No matter what Jeff said, though, the old man just raised his eyebrows and followed up with another irritating question.

  Just as he was doing now.

  “So you’re saying responsibility for the entire wedding story line falls on the shoulders of a seventeen-year-old girl?” Sanchez asked, sitting back in a four-thousand-dollar chair. (The nicest chair in the room should always be the one behind the desk. Jeff had read that in a book somewhere, and taken it to heart.)

  Jeff nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “And you expect me to believe that a teenage girl engineered this whole circus, without any guidance from your production staff, your writers’ room, your development team, yourself?”

  “The kid went rogue, I’m telling you.”

  “Interesting” was all the man said.

  “Right?”

  Now Sanchez stared at him. “Some could argue that a wedding is meant to be a private affair. A family time.”

  “Do you have any idea who you’re talking about? Mercenary Royce?” Jeff shook his head.

  On the other side of his desk, another eyebrow jumped in response. “Enlighten me.”

  Jeff thought about it. “Family time? They’re not a family anymore. I’m not sure they ever were.”

  The old man looked confused. “Tell me then, Señor Grunburg, what are they?”

  “They’re a distribution channel. They’re a content-delivery machine. Don’t you get it?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “It doesn’t matter how they feel, or what they say. It almost doesn’t matter what they do. It matters what they look like, what they wear, what they drive. Their water. Their shampoo. Their underwear.”

  Jeff pushed back his chair. He mentally prepared himself for what was about to come. Then he stood up.

  “Go ahead. Fire me. Fire me because you don’t like me. Fire me because you think I’ve jacked up your company. Fire me for the ten thousand times I’ve acted like the biggest jerk in the room.”

  The man tried to interrupt. “Mr. Grun—”

  “But you can’t fire me for what I’ve done with my show.”

  “Your show?”

  “Our show. Your show. It doesn’t matter what you call it. Six? This season? We killed it. Knocked it out of the park. Wait until Emmys. I’m—you’re—going to clean up.”

  He took a breath.

  “Are you done?” Sanchez looked at him.

  Jeff nodded.

  He wondered if he needed a box, or if they’d give him one. He wondered if they’d let him leave on his own, or have Security walk him out.

  If so, he should get ready—he had a few things (well, one) he’d need to take with him. He tried to mentally prepare himself now, but it suddenly didn’t seem as easy as it had previously looked, from over on his side of the table.

  Jeff glanced at his doorway, dreading the inevitable sight of Lifespan Security Specialists. He always had the Dirk (and Security!) walk people out after he fired them, but he suddenly had a new understanding for why that see
med like a Dirk move.

  Sanchez opened his stitched leather briefcase and slid a folder across the desk. “I’ve enjoyed our conversation. You’re an entertaining man, Mr. Grunburg. Truly.”

  “I am?”

  “Very funny indeed.”

  “Funny how?”

  “Fire you? Who said anything about firing you?” Diego Sanchez smiled, his teeth bright white against the warm brown of his face. “I’m here to promote you. You just delivered the biggest numbers the network has ever seen.”

  “You are?” Jeff was amazed. The panic receded like an ocean wave. “That’s wonderful.” He began to do the mental math. Run the numbers. What he wanted. What he’d take. What he could get. Why he was being robbed, no matter how good the numbers were . . .

  The old man tapped the folder in front of him on the desk. “Starting immediately. Get your things.”

  “My—what?” Jeff snapped back to attention.

  “You might need a box. Do you have a box?”

  “Why?” Now he was really confused.

  “Perhaps Security could help you?” Sanchez nodded encouragingly.

  Jeff felt ill. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Mexico City, of course. I can’t waste a man of your talents at a small-time cable network. You have four more years on your contract, and I want you to spend every day of them with me.”

  Jeff was stunned. He found he couldn’t form a sentence. Not even a word.

  “Luchadores, Señor Grunburg. Lucha Libre. Mexican professional wrestling. Tag team and trios. El Santo? Blue Demon? Man of a Thousand Masks? That’s where the real drama is.”

  Jeff began to laugh. “Are you out of your mind? I have a house in the Palisades. A month of golf booked at the Riv.” Now he was spluttering. “Sure, I’ll take a weekend at Las Ventanas, but if you think I’m spending the next four years babysitting masked men in tights—”

  “Ah.” The old man beamed and pulled a thick stack of paper from his briefcase. “Ironclad, Señor Grunburg. Your contract. Especially your non-compete clause. If you don’t work with me, you won’t have a job for five years. A very long time, in this town.”

  Jeff sat back, stunned. Sanchez was right.

  Five years?

  Five years in Hollywood might as well be fifty.

  Sanchez stood up. “Don’t worry. You’re going to love it. And you can take as long as you like—so long as your things are out by tomorrow. I have a new network head starting, and I don’t want to keep her waiting.”

  “You do?” It was the final insult.

  The old man winked. “Let’s just say you don’t want to make her angry. I hear they call her Mercenary Royce.”

  Jeff Grunburg looked up.

  Of course.

  Now it all made sense.

  There she was, standing in his doorway, towering over the room in four-inch heels and head-to-toe white.

  Mercedes Royce, looking like she already owned the place.

  And behind her stood her youngest daughter—the one who probably planned the whole thing just to get rid of him—the one he hated more than all his ex-wives put together. She was smiling, really almost laughing, at him.

  Bentley Royce.

  Right there in the hall, right behind her mother.

  Just like always.

  That was when he knew it.

  He was dunzo.

  He could cry about it later, but there was one thing he had to do first, and he had to do it quickly.

  It was time to activate plan B. B as in BE SURE YOU HAVE AN INSURANCE POLICY FOR YOUR INSURANCE POLICY.

  Even Darth Vader’s ship had an escape pod.

  Jeff lunged for his wall safe. It was hidden beneath a poster-size photographic print of himself shaking hands with Lin-Manuel Miranda—it had cost him five grand at a charity auction for some stupid New York orphanage, whatever—which now tumbled to the ground, cracking the glass across both faces. He fumbled as he tried to remember today’s seven-digit code for the keypad. (He changed it at least one digit daily, privately distrusting anyone with a man-bun, including Dirk.)93

  D-A-Z-Z-L-E-D

  There.

  He pressed ENTER—but the light flashed red when it was supposed to turn green. Something was wrong. It wasn’t working.

  What the—

  He hit ENTER again and again until he found himself smashing the front of the safe with his fist. “Come on!”

  “Are you looking for this?” The old man held up a DVD in a translucent sleeve. Written across its surface in black Sharpie were the words HOPE ¸ FLOAT, followed by more exclamation points than he would ever have publically admitted to writing.

  There it was.

  The only remaining evidence of the ill-fated D-day shoot.

  Of all his hours of collected B-roll footage, across all of his shows, this particular DVD was the one he had always thought would pay for his retirement.

  Thanks to plan B: B as in BLACKMAIL.

  But now, Jeff’s shoulders sagged as he watched his escape pod blow itself up in space.

  He was stunned.

  “How did you get into my safe? Nobody knows that code. I change it myself, every day.”

  Security Supporters (that was what Jeff had insisted they be called, as part of the New Positivity) appeared on either side of Diego Sanchez now.

  The old man pocketed the DVD. Then—still flanked by Security Supporters—he slowly reached down and hung the cracked poster back on the wall.

  “Safe? What safe? All I see is a picture of you and a man I deeply admire.” He tipped his hat to the face of Lin-Manuel Miranda. “And I guess I don’t like to waste my shot either.”

  By the time Jeff Grunburg and his plastic-hearted robot collection were escorted out to his Tesla, he was already plotting his revenge.

  At least, that was how it looked to Mercedes as she watched from Jeff’s old window—the one he’d had installed especially to spy on the parking lot. She wasn’t too worried. She’d dealt with worse. Jeff Grunburg wouldn’t have lasted two rounds at the Sevier County Demolition Derby, and his odds would have been terrible. Nine to one, tops. Still, she knew him well enough not to count him out for the whole gig. “He’ll be back.”

  “Jeff?” Bentley said, her feet already up on her mother’s new desk. “Oh, I’m sure he’s coming for us. He’d burn the channel to the ground before he’d walk away from it. Tallulah gives it six months.”

  Mercedes sat in a chair across the desk from her daughter. “If we’re lucky.”

  “Not a worry.” Sanchez shrugged. “We also have some openings in Bogotá? Cartagena? Medellín?”

  “No, let him try.” Mercedes said, her eyes on the Tesla as the aerodynamic driver’s door slammed shut. “I can’t wait.”94 95

  * * *

  91 Per JG: “TWEEN? TALLULAH?” Also: Jeff wonders if anyone ever uses that word without flinching? He suggests SUB-TEEN or PROTO-TEEN? (Could shorten to PREEN?) —D

  92 Jeff wonders if Production could get that number down in the next draft? (Spiritually, he feels he’s more of a 36. He says 34 would also work.) —D

  93 I really don’t either. —D

  94 Per MR: Mercedes wonders if we could bring some writers in to do a polish on a more rousing “moment of victory” speech? Maybe the Mullholland Hall guys? Or similar. —D

  95 Per MR: One more thing—Mercedes says to ignore all the previous notes! —D

  Epilogue

  GET BENT

  A Word from Bentley Royce

  As posted on the GET BENT blog and reposted by www.CelebPretty.com.

  It’s been four months since I was sentenced to community service for my racketeering charges, and I’ve loved every minute of it. Having the opportunity to serve the community has taken a gigantic weight off my shoulders: it’s made me feel a part of humanity instead of dangling precariously above it, and here’s what I’ve learned.

  Not all fakes are phony.

  Some of it goes deep, way deep dow
n, and all the way through.

  I’m surrounded by idiots. And I’m an idiot too. Because these idiots love me, even when it seems like they’re incapable of loving anything except their own flat belly buttons.

  I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.

  Love, no matter who or where it comes from, is a game changer. The highest of high concepts, as Production would say. A real name in lights moment.

  You’re not too good for love.

  Nobody is.

  At least I know I’m not.

  Love is legit. It’s the only legit thing, maybe. Even here in Los Angeles, my so-help-me-god home. The city of bony blond angels.

  Let me put it in terms my people will understand.

  Love is pearly-whiter than brand-new white AG jeans. More golden than the most expensive Clarins self-tanning gel. More fun than an Audi convertible with a top that never goes up. Sweeter than an Arnold Palmer minus the iced tea.

  Love is bread without carbs. A body without hips. A butt without cellulite. A vegan prime rib. A Barneys sample sale without other shoppers.

  It’s better than a Raquel Allegra sweatshirt right out of the dryer. Than the self-righteous buzz of waking up on an empty stomach. Than knowing you can eat all the freaking breakfast you want, and no one can say a word.

  Not even you.

  I love my awful, horrible mess of a family, and my awful, horrible mess of a family loves me.

  Whether or not they can say it, whether or not they can even know it.

  Mercedes, Porsche, and Bach.

  And now Asa Venice and Harry and Tomme and Sanchez?

  I don’t know what it is, but it’s something.

  And I’m in.

  Maybe sometimes the people who mess you up are the same people who fix you up. Maybe it’s all just two sides of the same old stupid mess, anyway.

  The way I see it, we’re all going down in this ship together. Why else have a ship? Why else have a together? To be in this catastrophe, with these people, is an honor. It’s a privilege.

  My privilege.

  We’re a family.

  A messed-up disaster of a family.

  Which is how you know one thing, the only thing that matters.