Royce Rolls Page 9

  “Wait!” Bach crawled up next to the two of them and lay down again, using Porsche’s leg for a pillow. “Okay. Now you can tell us.”

  “Porsche?” Mercedes was impatient. “What’s going on here?”

  Porsche put an arm around her brother and sister. “I’m getting engaged,” she said, barely pausing to deliver the news. She squeezed them so hard, Bent almost yelped. “Surprise!”

  “EXCUSE ME?” Mercedes gaped.

  Bentley’s jaw dropped. “What the—”

  Bach scrambled to his feet. “You’re not serious.”

  “Now. Car. All of you. We have a meeting with Jeff Grunburg at the network in fifteen minutes. Code Red.”

  “Wait, Porsche,” Mercedes blurted. “We have to talk about this. You can’t just—”

  But Porsche was out the door.

  The Porsche SUV (the one Porsche used to drive the family around, not her beloved two-person coupe) shot out of the driveway, with the third Porsche (the girl) sitting behind the wheel.

  “Why? What do you mean, why? Why wouldn’t I get engaged? Somebody has to do something to save our family’s neck. Our neck and our show and our house—not to mention a factory full of lip gloss in Shenzhen.”

  “You mean, something aside from Bent lighting herself on fire for every paparazzi in Hollywood?” Bach asked. As always, a team of paparazzi-driven cars swooped up alongside the SUV.

  “Yes, Bach. Something aside from that.” Porsche sighed.

  Mercedes was white-faced. Bach was red-faced. Bentley didn’t know how to react.

  “You can’t just get married,” Mercedes said. “It’s not that simple.”

  “Actually, it is. I am getting married, and this is how we’re getting renewed.” Porsche slammed the car out of reverse and into drive. “I’m kind of into the whole idea, if you want to know the truth.”

  “Roll down your windows!” the paparazzi shouted to try to reach the Royces, to get a rise out of them, to get a juicy photo op. The Royces automatically tuned them out.

  SCREEEEEEEECH—

  “And the simple fact is, we don’t have a choice. So get with the program. This family is about to throw a wedding, like it or not.”

  A wedding.

  As the words sizzled and popped like a lit stick of dynamite, the car rounded another curb.

  SCREEEEEEEECH—

  Bentley found herself holding her breath. She couldn’t believe it was actually happening.

  In the backseat, Bach’s cards went flying. “Walk me through this again. You’re getting engaged . . . to be married.”

  Porsche sighed. “Yes, Bach.”

  “But—to a person?” Bach asked again. “This family cannot get any weirder.” He shot Bentley a look.

  “Ridiculous.” Mercedes shook her head.

  “Bentley!” The paparazzi honked from the next lane, continuing their campaign of harassment. “Hey, Bent! Give us a smile! Bentley! We know you’re in there! Is it true you’re off your meds?! Are the rumors true, Bentley?!”

  Meds? thought Bentley. What are they talking about? And why were they shouting her name? They never shouted her name when Porsche was around; it had always been Bent’s sister they wanted.

  Then it hit her: the plan was working. Operation Train Wreck was attracting exactly the type of attention she needed.

  Great, she thought, her stomach sinking. Just great.

  SCREEEEEEEECH—

  Porsche glared. “I’m getting engaged—to a person—and everything’s going to change.” Her eyes flickered over to her mother. “It’s not ridiculous. I’ve outlined things. I’ve made a plan. A beat sheet. A whole season arc. Are you excited for me? Say you are. I am.”

  Mercedes looked out the window. More silence. Bentley could tell excited was probably not the word. Furious might be a little closer.

  Porsche spun the wheel, annoyed.

  SCREEEEEEEECH—

  “I’m pretty sure this is when you start squealing and tell me I’m going to make a beautiful bride,” Porsche said, sounding bitter.

  “What are you doing, Porsche?” Bentley leaned forward in her seat with a frown on.

  “More importantly, who?” Bach looked equally disturbed.

  Porsche sighed. “Whitey.”

  Mercedes sounded disgusted. “Whitey who? That’s not a name. What are you marrying, a cat?”

  “Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” Bach said. “I mean, if that cat was cute. Do you know how many hits cute cat videos get? It’s bananas.”

  Porsche ignored both of them. “I’m not an idiot. His people came to Pam—”

  “How do I not know about this?” Mercedes was furious. “And Pam does?”

  “They all knew you’d make it personal.”

  SCREEEEEEEECH—

  “It’s my child’s wedding. It’s personal, Porsche.”

  “Oh please, Mercedes.” Porsche rolled her eyes. “This is me you’re talking to. Cut the crap. It’s only personal because it wasn’t your idea. It’s my wedding, and I’m fine with it, so maybe you should let it go.” Porsche looked in the rearview mirror for help, but neither Bentley nor Bach said anything.

  Nobody knew what to say.

  A moment later, Mercedes sat up in her seat. “Hold up—THEY? ALL? How many people know about this, Porsche?” Before us. That was the implication.

  “Nobody. Hardly anybody. Like, ten? Twenty? Thirty, max? Just Casting—and Production, obviously—and then we had to check it all with Marketing—and I guess Sales.”

  “And Jeff?”

  SCREEEEEEEECH—

  Porsche didn’t seem to know how to answer. Bentley thought her sister must have sensed, correctly, that it was a trick question.

  But Porsche just shook her head. “Twenty million dollars is a lot of money, remember? I’m telling you, Mercedes, it’s a solid proposition. I talked to Casting. I had them check him out. And I told Pam to put together a Wedding Bible for today’s pitch meeting.” She sounded defensive. (Bentley wished for a fleeting moment that her sister would also drive that way.)

  “Let’s get back to the cat groom. Could this cat also walk down aisles? Or wait—ride a Roomba down one?” Bach looked at Porsche. Bent knew he was babbling because he was nervous. “Or maybe wear a tiny bride’s veil?”

  SCREEEEEEEECH—

  Bent looked at her sister. “Seriously? You got your fiancé through Casting? So you could pitch your wedding?”

  “That’s not where I got him, obviously,” Porsche said. “He reached out to Bernie, through the agency. Bernie passed it along to me.”

  Mercedes frowned. “You met your fiancé through your agent? And you told your producer before your family?”

  “A catnip bouquet? A little kitty tux, with a hole cut for the tail?” Bach suggested. Porsche reached over and flicked him in the head.

  Mercedes was in shock. “And you’re telling us this now? On the way to meeting the network about it?”

  Bent realized her mother was shaking.

  “You know what you’re like.” Porsche sighed. “I knew if it wasn’t your idea that saved us, you’d freak. Like you are right now.”

  Mercedes pulled an ecru-colored cosmetic bag out of her ecru-colored Birkin bag and unzipped it. (Her stylists had agreed that when accessorizing her all-white signature ensembles, nude and ecru were the best option for her secondary leather highlight colors.) She found a jar of gummy melatonin and popped two into her mouth.

  “It’s nine in the morning, Mercedes. You know those are for sleeping, right?” Bent took the jar away from her mother.

  “They better be.” Mercedes said. “I’m out of Xanax, and I’m trying to put my nerves to sleep.”

  SCREEEEEEEECH—

  Bent braced herself against the door.

  “Honest to god, Porsche”—Bach put his hand over his heart—“I fear for the lives of all drivers when you’re behind the wheel.”

  “Stay with us, Mercedes,” Porsche snapped. “You have about ten minute
s to get on board before we start selling it to the channel. Especially since the ceremony’s going to be televised live as our season finale.” She glanced over at her mother, who was silent.

  “Really? You have nothing to say?” Porsche looked like she wanted to reach across the clutch and slap her.

  “Give me a minute,” Mercedes said, staring out the window. “I’m thinking.”

  “Think faster.” Porsche tightened her grip on the wheel. “I had the network run the numbers, if that helps. You know what we stand to make on this? Do I have to tell you? We’re talking Lippies money.” She said a number. It was staggering. The effect on the car was the same as if she’d opened her mouth and puked gold: everyone sat up, startled.

  “That’s all Lippies money?” Bach sat up. “Really?”

  “Is that even possible?” Bentley said incredulously. “In one year?”

  “Close enough,” Porsche said, looking back at Mercedes again.

  Mercedes clamped her lips together. Bent could almost see the wheels turning in her mother’s head. As Porsche’s mother, the news was horrifying. As Porsche’s manager, it was thrilling. As the guarantor of Porsche’s (and thus the family’s) massive mountain of debt, it was probably all of those things at the same time—exponentially.

  Finally, Mercedes sighed.

  “We’ll need to rebuild the entire product line around the wedding,” she said. “And we won’t have a lot of time.”

  “But?” Porsche asked.

  Mercedes looked out her window, thinking. “Here Comes the Bride. Here Comes the Nail Polish. Here Comes the Foundation and the BB Cream and the Home Facial and the Bubble Bath . . .”

  “Here come the sponsors,” Bach said. “They’ll be lining up.”

  “As will the magazine covers. Here come the wedding magazines,” Bentley said.

  “And the Lippies! Here Come the Lippies,” Porsche added, looking relieved.

  “Here comes the money,” Mercedes said, finally starting to smile.

  That was it. They all knew then that it was over. Mercedes was on board. Bentley didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She looked at her phone.

  Eight minutes.

  That was all it had taken her mother to sell her first-born to someone she’d never met. It had to be some kind of record, even for a family like theirs.

  “Aren’t you sort of skipping one thing?” Bach said seriously.

  “What’s that?” Porsche asked.

  “We have no season six yet?”

  Porsche looked at her little brother in the rearview mirror. “You leave that to me. Step aside. Here comes the freaking bride, baby.”

  Porsche sounded like the Terminator, and Bent shivered. She wouldn’t want to be Jeff Grunburg right now.

  On the other hand, she wouldn’t want to be this Whitey person either.

  But the person she most didn’t want to be was her sister, and that wasn’t something she could bear to think about at the moment.

  “You,” Grunburg said, the second he saw Bentley. He pointed to her. “Keep it up and you might get your own line of boxers. Even Tallulah’s been impressed. That’s a first.”

  “Thanks,” Bent said. “In fact I’ve been thinking . . .” But he had moved on.

  That you’re a giant loser.

  But at least she and Bach had been allowed inside the room for this pitch. Porsche’s doing, Bent was sure.

  “So, let’s hear it,” Jeff said, turning back to the room. “The Wedding Pitch for season six. Dazzle me.”

  Dazzle me. It was one of his favorite lines, probably because it made everyone else so uncomfortable. (Bentley wondered if there were actual statistics somewhere—hard data—that showed the degree to which hearing the words dazzle me impacted the dazzler’s ability to dazzle anyone at all.)43

  “Let’s go over the basics,” Pam said briskly. She was not remotely dazzling and did not seem to care. As the producer of RWTR, she ran the production meetings, which is what this technically was. Pam was all about the basics. From her plain navy T-shirt to her awkward jeans to her unfortunate dishwater-brown hair, it was easy to see why she’d built a career out of keeping cameras pointed away from herself.

  “The basics?” Mercedes raised an eyebrow. “Starting with the groom?”

  “It’s all there, in the folders in front of you,” Pam said.

  Jeff flipped his open. Everyone else in the room—production teams from both the Lifespan Network and Whiteboyz music label—did the same.

  “Pass,” he said. “I don’t care about the basics. I want the rush, the sting of the shark bite.44 I’m not feeling dazzled yet. Talk to me.” He looked up, impatient. “You want season six, sell it to me.”

  “That tone—” Mercedes began. (Somewhere around season two, she seemed to have decided that when it came to Jeff Grunburg, the only strategy was to never agree about anything, and put up with even less—which made these meetings potentially difficult but also sometimes hilarious. When people took notes in this room, they were mostly for the purpose of recounting Grunburg v. Royce skirmishes on social media.)

  Porsche interrupted. “It’s fine, Mercedes.” She cleared her throat, looking nervous. The faces at the long, oval table in the conference room looked back at her skeptically. “Well, T. Wilson White is the son of Razz Jazzy White, one of the most financially successful music producers in Hollywood,” Porsche said, as if that explained anything.

  “Sorry, honey, when I said sell, I didn’t mean you.” Jeff looked at the Dirk, who stood at the door. “Bring him in. Jazzy Junior. The groom.”

  “Send him in,” Dirk called into the hall.

  Porsche stared intently at the doorway. “You mean—now? Here?”

  “You got a problem with that?” Grunburg grinned. “Say it now or forever hold your peace, sweetheart. Boom!” The human laugh track sounded off.

  Bent slipped her arm through Porsche’s. Mercedes kept her eyes fixed on the door. Bach’s foot was tapping compulsively beneath his chair.

  And then he appeared in the doorway.

  The man my sister is going to marry, Bentley thought. T. Wilson White. Whitey, who is not a cat, but who might as well be.

  “Hey.”

  Bent’s future brother-in-law stood at one end of the conference room, while Porsche sat at the other. The air suddenly went electric, and when Bentley glanced at her sister, Porsche’s bare arms were covered with goose bumps.

  Bent was startled—until she looked down and saw that the remote for the air conditioner was sitting in Mercedes’s lap—and was now set to fifty-two degrees Fahrenheit. As usual, if anyone was going to assume control of the dazzling situation, it was going to be Mercedes.

  But as she shivered, Bent studied the reason for the meeting as closely as everyone else did.

  The guy looked like he couldn’t be much older than Porsche—a tall, lanky street kid, dressed like a rapper. He played it that way too—even now, as the room stared.

  He stared right back.

  His pants were low, his high-tops were high, and the neck of his plain white T-shirt was so covered with chains, he might as well have been Mercedes during a Fashion Week accessories show. A black bandanna hung from the back of one pocket.

  Mercedes leaned toward Porsche, whispering, “Does that mean something?”

  Bent leaned toward Mercedes. “Probably that he sweats a lot.” Porsche rolled her eyes—but Bentley noticed that she didn’t look away.

  He was ripped; beneath his T-shirt, his biceps looked almost like one of those cut guys who hung out in Muscle Beach. For all anyone knew, maybe he was. The whole effect was Manhood with a capital M, Bent thought, which meant basically, that he was the male version of Porsche Royce. In that respect—which was pretty clearly substantiated by the way everyone in the room was now staring at both of them—it was a match made in heaven.

  Bentley was impressed. Bach whistled.

  “Jazzy Junior,” Grunburg said. “I’m Jeff Grunburg. I take it you already kno
w your future in-laws.”

  The guy looked around the room. His eyes rested briefly on Bentley—then Bach and Mercedes—but when he saw Porsche, he smiled.

  “Hey, Sweet Thing,” he said affectionately.

  “Hi . . .” Porsche said, struggling, “. . . Thing.”

  Whitey laughed and crossed the room to give her an awkward kiss—which she only made more awkward by turning her cheek to him. Then he nodded and held out a hand to Bentley. “Hey, li’l mama.”

  “Hey.” Bent didn’t know what to do with his hand, so she fist-bumped him.

  “Good one.” He grinned, moving past her.

  Bach held out his hand to Whitey. “Mr. White.”

  Whitey shook it. “Bro-ham.”

  Finally, he smiled at Mercedes.

  “Hey, Big Mama,” he said, somehow not intuiting that those were her two least-favorite words in the English language. The resulting hug was so stiff, Bentley was afraid her mother was going to shatter.

  “Whitey,” Mercedes said, trying to compose herself.

  He didn’t seem to notice, though, and dragged a chair over to squeeze in next to Porsche, who still seemed to be blushing from the whole ordeal.

  “Whoa, whoa! Tone it down, you guys. All this love in the room, it’s too much for me. And you two! Your chemistry is just off the charts,” Grunburg said. The laugh track went off again.

  “Like your mouth?” Mercedes shot back. The laugh track began to rumble—until Jeff’s glare silenced them.

  Whitey put his arm around the back of Porsche’s chair protectively.

  Jeff got up and strolled over toward the couple in question. “Is it just me? Are you guys thinking what I’m thinking? Because I’m not sure I’m feeling it. I’m not seeing headliners for a multimillion-dollar wedding here.”

  “Yeah, well. Maybe I’m not feeling this. I kinda feel like I’m in a police lineup or something.” The rapper shrugged.

  “Do you have a lot of experience in police lineups?” Grunburg didn’t smile.

  “Do you have a lot of experience being a dick?” Whitey sighed.

  Jeff glowered. Mercedes looked shocked. Bach just seemed spooked. Bent froze. The room was quiet.