Royce Rolls Read online

  Bentley glared at her sister as she walked away. She couldn’t tell if Porsche was being paranoid—like the time she thought Kim Kardashian was trying to copy her nude lip—or if what her sister was saying could really be true. Bent couldn’t imagine a world where RWTR wasn’t on the air—was it even possible?

  She wondered.

  Hiatus hit right around the same time that networks like Lifespan made their programming decisions for the next fall. Winners got picked up. Losers got cut. And this year, for the first time ever, it wasn’t clear in which category the Royce family belonged.

  This year there was talk. Speculation. Whispers and Rumors, even. The word on the street was that the numbers were off.

  But if Rolling with the Royces was actually canceled, it could only mean one thing:

  Freedom.

  What was so wrong with that?

  * * *

  8 Per JG: Network wants to pair this scene with Porsche’s product line, Cuties by Porsche cuticle cream and Pores by Porsche facial mask. Pls pump up the product profile! —D

  9 Per JG: Network wants Cuticle Approval over hand models, after last month’s unfortunate “Fat Cuticles” incident. Jeff claims he is “Cuticle Switzerland.” Pls advise. —D

  10 Per JG: “Trashpirational! I still remember that theme song! ‘With that camo wedding dress, you’re my trash-pir-a-tion! In that monster truck hot mess, you’re my trash-pir-a-tion!’ ” —D

  11 “I Like Big Butts” could also work here, per JG. It’s his ironic karaoke song. Pls consider. —D

  12 “CGB” Jeff wonders if we’ve sent this through trademarks, suggests we go for universal rights to “cute,” “gay” and “brother” separately as well? Pls revise to include. —D

  13 JG points out if B had gained the weight B would never be back on camera. Delete as obvious/superfluous? —D

  Three

  THE BOY WITH THE MATCHBOOK

  June 2017

  Young Hollywood’s “HELP IS IN THE CARDS” Casino Night

  (Chateau Marmont on Sunset, west of Laurel Canyon)

  Given the choice between getting it together and getting out, Bentley almost always opted for the latter. Now Bent slipped through the crowded exit of the VIP tent, eyes on the ground, oversize Celine sunglasses on, even in the darkness.

  Ten minutes, she texted Bach as she fled. Then Uber.

  Fifteen, he texted back.

  Deal.

  She made it undetected down the tile staircase and out to the dimly lit grounds of the hotel. At the bottom of the stairs, she bumped into none other than Talullah, Jeff Grunburg’s scrawny preteen daughter, clomping slowly along in what had to be her mother’s Louboutin Pigalle pumps, four inches too high and three sizes too big.

  “Hiding, Royce?” Tallulah asked, her nose in the air. “Great idea. You do more of that, you guys are sure to be toast.” She teetered on her heels for a moment—

  Bentley caught her with one hand. “You okay there, kid?”

  “I’m fine.” Tallulah straightened up. “But if you want that renewal, Bent, you gotta give the people something to talk about. Something to remember.” The kid sounded like a forty-year-old studio head, which wasn’t surprising, given that her custody arrangement meant she spent three nights a week with one.

  Bent shrugged. “Who says I want that renewal?”

  “Yeah, right. Only everyone in this room, including the waiters,” Tallulah said, clomping off toward the valet. “This is Hollywood. We can smell desperation.”

  Bent called after her, “Maybe that’s just the truffle fries!”

  Only laughter floated back through the air. Bentley shook her head. She was glad to see the mini Grunburg go.

  Given the choice—mindless mingling versus being entirely alone—Bentley would always choose being alone, even if Porsche wanted her to stop playing wallflower and start playing wild child.

  Even if twelve-year-olds like Tallulah Kyong-Grunburg agreed with her.

  Even if Tallulah’s father was saying it too.

  If anything, the longer Bentley thought about it, the harder the idea was to shake: if acting out would help them get the show renewed, she was more determined to withdraw than ever before.

  Why shouldn’t she?

  After all, being alone might get the show canceled, and if the show were to be canceled, she might get to go to college.

  Being alone might give her a chance to figure out what BEING BENTLEY was actually supposed to feel like.

  Being alone would at least make it easier to unbutton the top button of her pants and slip off her shoes, and she was currently contemplating both.

  Freedom.

  The word lingered in the back of Bent’s mind as she made her way out into the deserted hotel grounds. The brick-paved pool deck was now dark and mostly empty—except for the shadows it afforded the occasional illicit smoker. It was much quieter out here, even if the striped cushions that covered the wrought iron chaises were damp to the touch. After trying a few seats, Bent found what looked like a strategic spot in the very darkest part of the yard. Perfectly dark, perfectly out of sight from any casual passerby.

  Perfectly perfect.

  Bent was the queen of the hiding place when it came to Hollywood parties. She had sometimes resorted to ducking into a coat closet, a bathroom stall, or even a service kitchen when it was really bad. But tonight wasn’t that dire. It was early summer, and the evening air was warm enough to make it pleasant. Plus, half the paparazzi seemed to have fled, which could only mean Beyoncé had posted a selfie from an identifiable club somewhere in town.

  Thank you, Queen Bey.

  Bent could easily wait for Bach out here. She dropped her bag—and her guard—

  and flung herself—

  “You mind?”

  RIGHT ONTO A PERSON—?!

  Some sort of warm, unsuspecting person, from the feel of it.

  It was a body, and it was moving, and Bentley was so startled she found herself yelping, and then shouting—

  “WHAT THE—”

  Bentley rolled awkwardly off what felt like a leg, or maybe a hip—and landed in a heap on the brick patio floor next to someone’s shoe. For a moment she panicked, imagining a crime about to happen, remembering the hooded figure with hidden eyes in the crowd of paparazzi.

  There’s your headline, Porsche—

  Then Bent’s rational mind returned. She was being stupid and she knew it. She tried to pull herself together—or at least up off the ground.

  A guy—unfamiliar, at least as far as she could see in the lightless yard—sat up on the chaise. He looked to be vaguely her age, but that was all she could tell in the shadowy yard. Only one thing was clear: he was not hooded, nor was he wearing sunglasses. So, not a criminal—at least not at first glance.

  Bentley sighed, relieved—and only slightly disappointed.

  There goes your headline, Porsche.

  “Maybe you should try that one,” the stranger said, pointing to the chair next to him. “It’s just a guess, but I think this one’s taken.”

  “No, really?” Bentley could barely manage to get the words out as she crawled up onto the next chaise. She tried to calm herself down, taking a deep breath. Her heart was still shouting. “Wow. I’m sorry,” she finally said. “That was super embarrassing, even for me.”

  She heard a sound like a laugh in response.

  “Yeah, you probably say that to all the guys you randomly sit on by hotel pools in the dark.”

  “You got me there,” Bent said, still poised on the edge of the chaise. She fought off the urge to flee, which wasn’t easy. Judging by the heat coming from her face, she was probably the color of a humiliated strawberry.

  I could look for a closet to hide in. Maybe a pool house. Wherever they keep the towels around here . . .

  “Don’t,” he said.

  “Excuse me?” She didn’t dare look his way.

  “Run for it.”

  “Ha,” she said. HA? Why did I say that
? Who says that? “I wasn’t.”

  “Good. You don’t have to.” He paused. “I mean, you can if you want to, whatever.”

  “Super. Thanks for the clarification.” Despite every screaming cell in her body, she took a breath and sat tentatively back in her chair.

  “That came out wrong,” he said a moment later. “Sorry. I’m really bad at this.”

  “Not that bad,” Bent said. “I mean, objectively speaking, you’re not the one who just sat on a faceless stranger in the dark or anything.”

  “Yeah, well. That’s a low bar.”

  “Not for some of us.” Bent sighed.

  He laughed. “See? I did it again. I don’t mean to be rude. I just hate parties. I suck at all the blah, blah, blah.”

  “I don’t know. You’re blah, blah, blah-ing okay right now, I guess.”

  “How about you?” he asked.

  Bent pulled her legs up to the chaise beneath her. “Me? I’m great at blah, blah, blah-ing, and I love parties.”

  “I can tell,” he answered, gesturing to the empty pool surrounding them. “You’re some kind of face-sitting social butterfly.”

  She laughed. “So why are you here, then?”

  “Why is anyone here?” he asked.

  Bent shrugged. Good question. “To be seen?”

  There was a beat of silence. “To see someone.”

  Right. Of course you are. Let me guess—a size negative 2 with an expensive blowout? It only threw Bent off for a moment before she pulled it together. “Yeah, well, I’m just here for the poker,” she said. “Obviously.”

  “Obviously.”

  Bent could hear the crickets in the bushy overgrowth that framed the pool area.

  Then the stranger spoke up again. “Makes me wish I played poker—it would have been less boring in there.”

  The more he spoke, the more his voice sounded familiar, but she couldn’t be sure. Bent shook her head in the shadows. “Not me.”

  “Is your brother still at the tables?”

  She looked his way, startled. “You know Bach?” There weren’t usually Roycers at these things, but she’d learned to be guarded.

  Do I know this guy from somewhere? Is he one of Bach’s minions?

  A flicker of light drifted past them—a candle, floating in the pool. Now she could see that the stranger had dark hair, slicked back behind his ears as if he’d just gotten out of the shower. Still, his face was mostly turned away, and she gave up trying to catch more than just a passing glimpse.

  “Is that his name? Bach?” The boy shrugged. “I don’t really know him. He lifted some poker chips off me back there, that’s all.” He laughed.

  Oh. Right.

  She hadn’t noticed anyone in particular at the poker table. Not outside of Bach and his boys.

  As if this whole conversation wasn’t already embarrassing enough.

  Good thing it’s dark.

  “Yeah, well. You have to watch out. My baby bro is kind of a card shark,” Bent said. It was true. “How did you know he was my brother, anyways?”

  Because you watch us on TV every week? Because you’ve seen us play chess in our pajamas? Because you really liked that one episode about the swimming pool?

  There were so many different creepy answers to that question, and she had heard them all. For a second, she almost wished the guy had been a criminal. It would at least have been a first.

  “I saw you guys laughing together, and he looks like you.” The stranger grinned—or frowned. It was honestly hard to tell in the dark. (She could see his teeth flash in the moonlight, however. They were admirably white, even for this town.)

  Does this guy really not know who I am? Whoa.

  “How long are you going to wait for him?” the boy asked. “I’ll keep you company.”

  Bent shrugged it off, though she was pleased. “We landed on fifteen minutes, but who knows? You don’t have to wait with me. You should probably save yourself.”

  “But then I’ll feel guilty when they find your skeleton fused to that lounge chair in a hundred years.”

  She sucked back a laugh. “Fine. Let’s make a run for it. Get out of here while we still have a shot. Cabo? Uber south to the border?”

  “Not Cabo, Tulum.14 Better surf.” He nodded—then sighed. “But too far. Morongo? Pechanga? Hit the Indian casinos? Since we both obviously love cards so much.”

  She pretended to consider it. “Too skeevy. How about Marfa, Texas? Art hipsters and grilled cheese? Texas is close to Mexico.”

  “If you’re a drug runner,” the boy said. “Now that’s skeevy.”

  “Hey, it’s a job. All jobs suck, don’t they?” Bent sighed. Especially mine. “Not that I’m complaining—but okay, I’m complaining.”

  “If you’re an aspiring drug runner, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to knock it. Sounds like solid, gainful employment.” He looked around the pool patio. “At least you have a future.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Not according to my dad. Not if I don’t apply myself. Like sunscreen or something.” People took sunscreen very seriously in this town.

  “Ah. Dads. That’s the one problem I don’t have. Mine is Mer—my mom.” Bent stumbled on the word. Then she was struck by the silence; she usually got a knowing laugh when she referenced Mercedes, but this guy didn’t say a word. Really? Nothing? You don’t really know who I am? She kept going. “You and your dad fight much?”

  “Nope. Not since I took off.”

  The sound of breaking glass echoed over the patio, followed by drunken laughter. The fools were all inside—she’d come out here to escape them, hadn’t she?—and yet something about this boy’s voice made Bent herself feel as foolish and giddy now as she had felt at her first Kids’ Choice Awards.

  “Idiots,” he said.

  She stole another glance at his face, what she could see of it. “Are you laughing? I can’t tell.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. I just wondered.”

  “Ah.”

  “At least you’re smiling. I think I heard it.”

  “You got me. Hold on—lean in.”

  Bent leaned toward him and smelled the tiny blast of sulfur just as she heard the match strike. He held it up between their faces, and they looked at each other.

  It was a quick look, nothing more. They only had a few seconds before the match burned all the way down to nothing.

  But there you are, she thought. The match only threw off a bit of light, but it was enough to get a partial sense of him. A glimpse of half a tanned face with angular bones, like he’d been drawn with a messy charcoal. Black hair. Luminous blue eyes. It’s you, she thought, even though she was certain they’d never met.

  Bent wasn’t sure what she was feeling, or even thinking. She couldn’t think of how she would know him, or anyone else he could be—at least, not who would be at this party.

  “Ow,” the boy said, dropping the match to the brick pool deck. He waved his hand in the cool night air.

  That was when Bent remembered that the boy had seen her, too, and she found herself beginning to blush. “What do you think?” She tried to sound playful, but inside she was freaking out. “I mean, about me?”

  He sat back in his chair. “Deep.”

  It had sounded like he was teasing, but she couldn’t be sure. “Deep?”

  “Yeah. You look deep. Anything wrong with that?”

  Now she was the one trying not to laugh. “I guess not. It’s just—I haven’t heard that one before.”

  “You look like you’ve got a lot on your mind.”

  “I do.”

  “Yeah? A lot of something deep?”

  “Sort of. I’m thinking about—” What am I thinking about? Lifespan? Mercedes? Second chances?

  “Poker?”

  “Change,” Bent said, surprising herself by answering truthfully. She wasn’t going to see him again. There was no reason not to confess all, here in the shadow of the Chateau.

  “What k
ind of change?” He sounded intrigued.

  She thought about it. “A paradigm shift. Or maybe a sea change—is that what it’s called? Whatever’s bigger.”

  He held up a fist. “I called it. Deep. Also, what are you talking about?”

  She tried to tap his fist with hers, but she couldn’t see it and missed entirely. “When everything changes. A brain departure. An experiential rupture. A transcendental experience. A mind journey.”

  “You mean like Burning Man?” He was teasing now.

  Bent shook her head. “No. I’m talking about a journey journey. Where you go away. From this.”

  “This pool deck?”

  “This everything.” She knew she sounded melodramatic, and she didn’t care. It was how she felt.

  “Okay, Frodo. Anywhere in particular?”

  She took a breath. It was her big secret, and yet here she was, laying it out in the dark to a perfect stranger. “College.”

  There. She had finally said it to someone, even if it was someone she hardly knew.

  “College?”

  “Next year. I think I want to go to one.” The words sounded strange now that she had said them out loud.

  “Not to be rude, but that was sort of anticlimactic.” He was chuckling.

  “Rude! Very rude! I bared my soul to you, and you’re laughing?” Bent scolded. She could feel her face getting hot.

  “You’re right, I’m sorry. Okay. College. So why don’t you just go?”

  Why don’t I?

  This time next year, I could be graduating high school and going to college. I could live in a dorm in anonymity. I could eat in a dining hall and do laundry with quarters. I could be like everyone else.

  It was something she’d only seen on TV (and everyone knew the college years of any high school series sucked) but there it was—and it was what she wanted.

  If only.

  She sighed, coming back to reality for the moment. “Maybe I will. I’m working on it. Getting there, I think. But I kind of have this weird job that gets in the way.”

  “Right. I forgot. The aspiring drug runner.”

  “Yeah, no.”