Page 33 of Faking the Pass
Maybe it was best to say nothing at all. Without fresh fuel, maybe the story would sort of die out, like a candle deprived of oxygen.
Maybe the celebrity news churn would just move on if I stayed in hiding somewhere and kept quiet long enough.
I started to brainstorm, trying to think of a place I could go and lie low—without any money.
My maid of honor, Danielle, would absolutely welcome me with open arms, but she was the single mom of two kids, and they lived in a very small apartment in Los Angeles.
She’d only been able to afford coming to the wedding because Randy had paid for her flight and room. Which he’d complained about, by the way.
Plus, I wouldn’t want to expose Danielle or her children to the media frenzy that would inevitably follow me.
My stomach churned just thinking about it. No doubt she’d been calling and texting me non-stop on the phone that I didn’t have with me. She must have been worried sick.
One thing was for sure—I couldn’t stay here and keep bothering Presley. I knew he wanted even less to do with this mess than he’d wanted to do with me back in high school.
A knock at the bedroom door startled me.
“Can I come in?” his deep voice asked.
“Sure,” I said, then hurriedly pulled down the hem of his t-shirt so it covered the boxers.
When he entered the room and saw what I was watching, he held his hand out, silently asking for the remote. I gave it to him, and he turned off the TV.
“Fuck em,” he said. “Who cares what they think?”
“Um… everyone in my industry?” I answered in a snarky tone.
Then I corrected myself, letting out a sigh.
“I know you’re right, in theory,” I said. “But all I can think about is all the years of cleaning houses so I could afford acting classes, and performing in low-budget theater shows in front of a dozen or less people, working so hard to get better and earn a break. I thought I’d finally gotten one—and now it’s all over. Just like that.”
“It’s not over,” Presley said in a searching tone that told me he really didn’t understand my predicament.
He took a seat on the edge of the mattress beside me. “I mean, no, yesterday wasn’t the best day of your life, but it’s one day. Nobody gets through life with zero mistakes.”
“Yeah, but I’ve made a lot of them,” I said. “And my latest mistake has Steven Spielberg’s personal number.”
I groaned and flopped back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
“Randy has millions of dollars, a massive PR budget, and an ego the size of a planet. Who knows what he’ll say when it gets out that I spent the night here withyouon what was supposed to be my wedding night?”
“Wilder’s working on keeping that under wraps. Maybe it won’t get out,” Presley said.
“What if it does, though?”
He appeared to think for a moment, pressing the knuckles of one big hand against his lips.
“Youcouldjust get out in front of it and tell the truth. I mean, anybody with half a brain would understand why you walked out and didn’t go through with the wedding.”
Gesturing to the window, he said, “There’s basically a press conference gathered outside right now. You could just walk out there, say hi to everyone, and tell them the truth—that Randy Ryland is the worst kind of scumbag. That you and I are practically strangers, and nothing happened between us.”
I shook my head rapidly side to side.
“Once your identity gets out, Randy’s cover story about me leaving the wedding venue because I was sick and that I’m recovering in the home of a local ‘friend’ will be blown,” I said. “Then he’ll feel cornered and get vicious. He’ll say I’m an unfaithful slut who used him to get ahead. And they’ll believe it.”
I waved my hand toward Presley in an up and down gesture meant to encompass his whole… irresistible-ness.
“No woman would spend the night with youplatonically,”I said, then added, “I did, but I mean someone you’d actually be interested in. They don’t know about our past.”
