Costars (New York City Bad Boy Romance) (20 page)

For the first time in my life, I’m
actually not ashamed about those bruises.

“You’re going to have to make a statement
at some point,” Damian says.

“I know,” I tell him.

“It would have been better if you could
have gotten in front of this before he sent out those pictures, but—” he stops.
“I think things are going to be all right,” he says.

“Yeah,” I answer.

This is my first real movie.

This is my first one.

When people talk about me from now on,
they’re going to be talking about those pictures. Maybe that won’t always be
the case, but that’s my immediate future at least.

This isn’t how I wanted people to know my
name.

Damian’s trying to be helpful, I know that
and, I’m sure, over the next weeks or however long this lasts, he’s going to
be. Right now, though, I wish he were a little more steady on his feet.

We eventually decide that the best course
of action is to write up a statement, phone it in to a couple of people to make
sure it sounds good and then call a press conference. Damian asks me if I want
him to say anything, but I tell him this is something I should really do alone.

So, before the late news we’ve finished up
a draft that sounds reasonable and I give a call to my agent and a couple of
other people whose calls I haven’t returned until now. With a few minor changes
here and there—primarily cosmetic, nothing to change the substance—we put the
thing in motion.

Me, I have no idea how to call a press
conference. I don’t even know where one would start with that.

This is where Damian comes in handy.

Within an hour of finishing up the statement,
I’m walking out the front gate of my driveway to a podium that someone,
although I couldn’t tell you who, has already set up.

Damian stands behind me to show his
support, but that’s the most I would allow.

There’s any number of possibilities of how
this thing is going to end up going and I don’t want to drag him down with me.
He’s innocent in all this.

“Good evening,” I say into the microphone
and try to keep my eyes fully open despite the multiple bright lights in my
face. “As I’m sure you’re all aware, I have, up until earlier today, been the
victim of blackmail. The man responsible for this has been arrested and charges
are being filed. Judging by the response in the media to the release of these
pictures, there has been some outcry regarding the state of my body in the
photographs, and I would like to thank all of you who’ve shown your support
and…” I trail off.

…the state of my body.

I clear my throat.

“I appreciate your concern. I don’t have
too much more to say before I answer a few of your questions directly, but I do
want to say that what I went through is not uncommon. It’s not rare, it’s not in
sharp decline,
it’s
not a relic of the draconian past.
This happens every day to thousands of women. Thousands. Tonight, the world is
talking about me because I’m in these photos and I’m acting in a new movie, but
what I think we should all be talking about a lot more often is how we can work
to stop the cycle of abuse and protect these women who are, so many of them,
afraid for their lives. Not all of them make it out on their own. I think the
least we can do is try to make it easier for these women to find their freedom.
Thank you. I will now take your questions.”

There are so many flashes of light and
shouting voices that for a few seconds, I’m just frozen there, overwhelmed by
the sensory input.

My heart is racing as I point to one of
the reporters.

“How long were you being blackmailed?” he
asks, “And are there more pictures?”

“To my knowledge, there are no more
pictures, although if there are, I would imagine the police will take care of
them,” I answer.

“Take care of them?” the reporter asks.

“Evidence,” I answer. “I would imagine
they’d take care of anything like that as new evidence, although I certainly
don’t speak for the police and am largely unfamiliar with their procedure in
this kind of situation.”

Someone else shouts, “Do you think this is
going to affect your ability to find work in the entertainment business?”

I have to smile.

“I don’t know,” I answer. “I guess that
depends on what kind of mood Hollywood is in that day.”

A few of the reporters snicker and the
rest of them shout follow-up questions.

“When were these pictures taken?”

“Were you involved in a sexual relationship
with the man who blackmailed you, if so, when did it end or are the two of you
still an item?”

That’s my favorite question of the bunch
but I’m not about to answer it.

Calm, cool, and only tell them what you’re
prepared to tell them and what you have to tell them. That’s the advice Damian
gave me when we finished the draft.

When one reporter asks me if I have any
scars and, if so, would the press be allowed to photograph them, I find it a
little difficult to remain calm and cool and as far as only telling him what
I’m prepared to tell him and what I have to tell him… There’s a lot I’d like to
tell him.

The press conference drags on and I answer
questions as best I can.

No, this wasn’t the first time he had
physically abused me. Yes, I did give him an amount of money; no I didn’t pay
him off completely.

This whole exercise is dragging on into
its twentieth minute and I’m doing my best to hang in there, to answer as many
questions as possible and try to limit speculation and thus, hopefully
facilitate the whole thing to blow over just a little quicker.

Finally, at about the point where I’m
seriously questioning whether there’s going to be any lasting damage to my
cornea because that jerkoff in the back can’t figure out how to light me
without blinding me, I say, “One more question.”

I’ve just had enough.

“Yes,” one reporter asks. “Did you find it
sexually arousing to be photographed like that?”

“I’m sorry, who are you working for?” I
ask.

“I’m freelance,” he says.

“No,” I tell him. “I did not find it sexually
arousing to have my abusive boyfriend-at-the-time commemorate the savage
beating he’d given me, but go to hell for asking.”

“Okay, that’s going to be all,” Damian
says, jumping in, only they just start asking him questions instead of me. He
has a way, though, of not saying anything no matter how many people are trying
to get him to talk.

It’s miraculous.

“Thank you for coming,” Damian says.

Damian leads me back through the throng
and back to my house as some of the reporters try to slip one last question in.

When we get back into my house and the
front door is closed behind us, I just sit with my back against the door and
cry.

Chapter Fourteen

The Baton

Damian

It’s only been a couple of hours since the
press conference and Emma’s starting to calm down. Although we both knew that
this press conference would likely be the most difficult part of the process,
neither of us expected the questions to be so thoughtless.

She’s in the living room, trying to clear
her head with a movie and I’m in the kitchen trying to find the liquor when the
doorbell rings.

“Could you get that?” she calls. “I’m
really not in the mood to see anyone right now.”

“Yeah,” I call back.

I drop what I’m doing and go to the door.
Opening it, there’s an older man standing on the other side of the door.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

“You’re that actor fella, aren’t
ya
?” the man asks.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” I ask.

“I’m Shane,” the man says. “Shane Roxy.”

“You must be Emma’s father,” I respond.

This should be interesting.

“That’s right,” the man says. “If
ya
don’t mind, I need to talk to my daughter.”

“She’s been through a rough day and she’s
resting now,” I tell him. The way it comes out, it sounds like she’s just
gotten out of the hospital. “I’d be happy to let her know that you stopped by.”

“If I could just talk to her for a
minute,” Shane, Emma’s father, says.

“I really don’t think that right now is a
good time,” I tell him. “I’m sorry.”

“Now, just who in the hell do you think
you are, young man?” Emma’s father asks. “Boy, you’d better get my daughter
or—there you are, sweetheart,” he says and I turn around to find Emma coming to
the door.

“What are you doing here?” she asks. “I
told you I didn’t want to see or talk to you again.”

“Young man, if you don’t mind giving us a
minute…” Shane says.

I look over at Emma and she gives me a
slight, but clear shake of the head.

“I don’t think I will,” I tell him.

“You know,” Shane says, looking past me at
Emma, “I saw that press conference. It was all over the television.”

“Glad you tuned in,” Emma says. “Now get
the fuck away from me.”

“That’s quite a tone for a woman to take
with her father,” Shane says.

“Look,” I tell him, “we’ve both asked you
to go and I would hate to have to call the police. Why don’t we just end the
conversation now and we can end this peacefully?”

“Are you threatening me, boy?” Shane asks
and I’m actually rather amused by the way this guy is talking to me.

“I’m not threatening anyone,” I tell him.
“I just think it’s for the best that—”

“You know, I think it says a lot about you,
Emma,” Shane interrupts, “that you’re willing to let those vile pictures of you
out into the world, but you can’t see it in your heart to talk to your own
flesh and blood.”

“I’m not going to tell you again,” Emma
says. “Get off of my property and stay away from me.”

I can see a little of both sides here. On
the one hand, Emma has every right to dismiss her father, especially after how
he was when she was growing up. On the other hand, the guy just wants to talk
to her. Still, if sides are to be taken, I’m on hers.

“You’re willing to talk to a bunch of
reporters about how you got those photos taken of you by your boyfriend,” Shane
says, “but you’re not willing to talk to your father. I always knew you’d end
up a whore.”

My fists are clenched and one arm is already
cocking back when Emma gets between me and her father. I would love to punch
the guy until my fist goes through the back of his skull, but Emma’s right to
stop me. That’s not going to solve anything.

“Well, looks like the pretty boy’s got a
temper,” Shane says and I scoff.

Exactly what happens next is a bit of a
blur.

I call Shane a sick son of a bitch and
tell him to leave. He starts yelling at me and the next thing I know, there’s a
flash and my right eye feels like it’s about to pop like a stepped-on cherry
tomato.

I’ve never actually been punched before.

“Get the fuck out!” Emma is screaming and
I’m already throwing punches back.

A couple of them connect and as Shane
staggers back, he finally seems to take the hint. He turns and runs back to his
car parked outside the gate, speeding off a few seconds later.

“Are you all right?” Emma asks.

“I
gotta
be
honest,” I tell her. “I don’t think your dad likes me.”

She laughs. “That’s usually the sign of a
decent character,” she says. “How’s the eye?”

I’m actually not feeling it right now.
With all the adrenaline going through me, I can feel an increase of pressure
where that
fuckhead
gave me his cheap shot, but if
there’s any pain, I don’t notice it.

“It’s not so bad,” I tell her. “How does
it look?”

“You’re going to have a shiner,” she says.
“Dutch is going to be thrilled.”

“Do you think there’s any way we could
maneuver me getting punched by your dad into a good thing in the press?” he
asks.

“If it’s all the same to you,” she says,
“I’d rather just forget any of this even happened.”

“You should really get a better gate,” he
says, “maybe one that latches and won’t open unless the person on the other
side puts in a code or something.”

“Yeah,” she says, “I’ll call tomorrow.
Until then,” she continues, “let’s get some ice on that thing.”

I follow Emma into the kitchen and she
pulls an ice pack out of the freezer.

“You know,” I tell her, “I’ve never been
in a fight before.”

“You did pretty well,” she says. “You
didn’t knock him out or anything, but you got some pretty solid blows in
there.”

I chuckle, saying, “I just beat up your
dad.”

“I think beat up might be a bit of an
overstatement,” she says with a smile, “but if he hadn’t run off like a bitch,
I have no doubt you could have taken him.”

The adrenaline must be on its way out
because the area around my eye is beginning to throb.

“Just hold still,” she says and leans in
close to inspect the eye. “You’ve got a little cut,” she says.

“Do I?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says. “It’s nothing to worry
about—the thing really is pretty small. We’ll just get that cleaned and get a
bandage on it and then we’ll see about taking care of that swelling.”

I shrug.

I’m not going to lie: I feel like a bit of
a hard ass right now. Yeah, I know I took the first punch, but I jumped right
in there and if it weren’t for the twin forces of Emma trying to talk me down
and Shane getting the hell out of there, I might have done some serious damage.

They say you never really know yourself
until you’ve been in a fight and I think I did all right. That’s pretty cool.

I wait at the kitchen table while Emma
goes out of the room to find some bandages. She comes back with a plastic
basket filled with first aid stuff.

“You might have to help me find the
antibiotic stuff,” she says. “It’s been a while since I’ve been through here.”

We take a minute and pull out a box of
bandages and some triple antibiotic ointment. When Emma pulls out the alcohol,
though, I start to get a little nervous.

“What’s that for?” I ask.

“It’s for your cut,” she says. “We need to
make sure it’s clean before we bandage it, otherwise it might get infected.”

“Isn’t that what that ointment is for?” I
ask.

“It’ll just take a second,” she says.

I would much rather run at top speed into
the side of a cement building than have alcohol poured on a cut. There’s a
difference between dull pain and sharp pain and what she’s about to do is on
the razor’s side.

“I really think the ointment’s going to be
enough,” I tell her.

“Don’t tell me you’re actually scared of a
little antiseptic,” she says. “Big, strong guy like you—that’s got to be pretty
embarrassing.”

“Say what you want,” I tell her. “I don’t
even care. That shit hurts.”

“You just got punched in the eye!” she
exclaims.

“Yeah, and I think I’ve been through
enough for the evening,” I tell her.

“Fine,” she says. “By the way, this is
totally going in my tell-all: The story about how Damian Jones got into a fist
fight with my dad and then, when I went to tend his wounds, he cried like a
little bitch.”

“Seriously,” I tell her, “I don’t care
what you say. Just keep that shit away from me. I fucking hate that feeling.”

“It’s only for a second,” she says and
pulls a bag of cotton balls from the basket. “Now hold still. This will only
take a minute.”

“You went from second to minute pretty
quick, there,” I tell her.

“Oh will you just shut up and let me take
care of you?” she asks.

I’m still not looking forward to the sting
that’s coming to me, but something in what she said hits me harder than Shane
did.

I hold still and I hold my breath, waiting
with absolute impatience for the pinprick of searing pain to be over.

“You’re going to need to stop squinting so
hard,” she says. “You’re making it impossible for me to get to your cut.”

“Sorry,” I answer and relax my face as
much as I can. Emma’s laughing because that’s not a lot.

She gets some alcohol on a cotton ball and
before the
thing’s
even against my skin, I’m already
wincing.

“You really need to relax,” she says.

“Sorry,” I repeat and as soon as my
muscles go lax, that cotton ball is on my skin and I can feel the sharp sting
throughout my entire body.

“What is your deal?” she laughs. “You
barely reacted when he hit you and now you’re all shriveled up because of a
little alcohol?”

“My mom used to use it on me whenever I
got the smallest scrape,” he says. “I always hated it.”

“You’ve never really talked about your
parents,” she says.

“Yeah,” I answer. “They’ve been gone for a
while.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, finally pulling the
cotton ball away from my face. She puts a small bandage over the cut.

“Come on,” I smile. “I know you’re a
closet Damian Jones fan. You must have already known that.”

“I did,” she admits. “What happened, if
you don’t mind me asking?”

“They were killed in a mugging,” I tell
her. “The guy was going to shoot my mom and my dad jumped in front of her, but
the guy just shot them both anyway.”

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “That’s
terrible.”

“Yeah,” I answer.

“I’m just going to grab some ice,” she
says and head to the freezer.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

“After getting punched in the face, I
would think it should be me to ask that question,” she says.

“My eye’s not so bad,” I tell her.

“I’ve been better, obviously,” she says.
“I think it’s going to be all right, though. It can’t really be worse than what
I was already dealing with.”

Emma’s got a couple of blind spots.

This can absolutely get worse and it’s
probably going to before this is all over.

“You should probably keep the television
turned off for the next few days,” I tell her.

“Yeah, I really don’t want to spend all my
time worrying about what people are saying about me,” she says. “I could do
without the speculation.”

She comes back, carrying a bag of frozen
corn.

“Looks like I’m out of ice,” she says.
“This’ll work just as well, though.”

“Okay,” I answer and she sits down across
from me, gently pressing the cold bag against my skin.

“I’m so sorry about all of this,” she
says. “I wish he would just forget that he’s my father and just leave me
alone.”

I reach up to take the bag, but Emma
doesn’t move her hand when mine touches it.

“I’ve got it,” she says. “You just try to
relax.”

She’s looking into my eyes—well, my eye,
really, concern on her face.

“I’ve spent a lot of my life trying to get
away from that man,” she says. “When I was a kid, I’d hide or run to a friend’s
house when things got really bad, but now… I don’t know, there just doesn’t
seem like there’s anything I can do to get him to leave me alone.”

“Have you thought about just paying him
off so he’ll go away?” I ask.

It’s not a
good
idea, but it is an option.

“I’m not getting sucked back into that,”
she says. “I think Ben proved pretty clearly that a person who’s sucking money
from you isn’t a person you can trust to leave you in peace.”