Deep (Stage Dive, #4)(68)
College dropout pregnant with Stage Dive baby. Reportedly continuing living the high life with her numerous male friends. Grave concerns for the fetus’s health. Vicious tug-of-war over custody anticipated. Demands for millions of dollars in alimony expected. A person close to the band reports they are horrified. Ben Nicholson as yet refusing to comment.
With numb fingers I hung up on a still babbling Christy.
Reportedly. Anticipated. Expected. It was all so brutally worded, the worst inferred to perfection by the photo. Assholes. They didn’t have a clue who I was. Worse, they didn’t even care. Whatever lies would sell. Thank god I didn’t have a juvenile record for them to go poking around at, closed or open. Still, if they asked certain people about what I was up to during that misspent year of my youth … Nightmarish thoughts flooded my mind. If Ben and I did split, if something happened and things turned bad, would it be enough for him to claim full custody of Bean?
Christ.
And what about when I went for a job? Who the hell was going to trust their kid to a psychologist with a background like mine?
People were talking but I couldn’t quite make out the words. It was like being underwater, the noises distant gibberish. The bubbles in my ears made hearing anything impossible.
Hands held my face, tipping it up. Then he was looking down at me, dark eyes intent. “Sweetheart?”
The bubbles burst, reality intruding, pushing the shock aside. “Ben?”
“Let’s go up to the suite.”
“Yes,” I said, taking Ben’s hand and letting him lead me, shelter me with his body.
There was yelling behind us. A sudden scuffle and the clicking of cameras. Security closed in. Everything happened so fast. I guess the paparazzi had been following Ben, figuring he’d lead them to me—knocked-up party girl, money-hungry whore extraordinaire in a bikini top.
Mal and Anne followed close behind, piling into the elevator. Soft pan flute music filled the air. No one said anything. Worse yet, no one even looked that surprised. Apart from me, that is. The whites of my eyes and pale face were perfectly reflected in the shiny metal doors. They slid open and Anne grabbed at my arm.
“Let me talk to her.”
“Later,” said Ben. “Right now she needs to lie down and chill out before she falls down.”
“I’m not going to fall down.” But I held on tight to his hand just in case. “I’m fine.”
Anne let me go without further comment. Just as well. I couldn’t dump all of this on her. She was still in blushing bride, newly married mode. No way should I be messing with that. Lately she’d taken on more than her share of big-sisterly duties, accompanying me on doctors’ visits, staying behind with me in Portland.
The suite seemed eerily quiet after all of the commotion downstairs. All of the noise and thoughts continued rattling around in my head, however. Out beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows the city carried on. Christ, this was really happening.
“Come and sit down.” He led me to the suede couch.
I disentangled my hand from his, shaking with some emotion. I just wasn’t sure which, yet. “No. I … I don’t want to sit.”
Ben collapsed on the couch, crossing his legs, ankle to knee. His arms spread out along the back of the couch, watching me pace back and forth. So many words were crammed inside me, fighting to get out. If I could just think straight. No point taking it personally, the journalists and photographers were just doing their jobs. Didn’t make them any less of a bunch of gossip-mongering asshats, but there you go.
“I feel so … so powerless.”
“I know,” he said.
“They basically made me out to be some alcoholic who has orgies every night of the week ending in Y.” I rubbed my hands against the sides of my jeans. Still staying up by virtue of a hairband. Though pants weren’t much of a problem in the scale of things right now.
“You’re not,” he said, so certain.
“My numerous male friends,” I sneered.
“It’s bullshit.”
“Why does it always come down to sex with women in the media? How many people have you slept with?” I asked, hands on hips. “Well?”
His tongue played behind his cheek. “I, ah, I didn’t really keep count.”
“They didn’t infer you were some kind of slut, and you’ve probably slept with dozens more people than me.”
He gave a careful nod.
“Hundreds?” I hazarded.
He cleared his throat, turning away and scratching at his beard.
“Right. Not that it matters. And yet I’m the slut because I’m the woman. Like it’s anyone’s f*cking business how many either of us has slept with or if I enjoy going out for a beer occasionally. I’m not getting behind the wheel of a car and driving drunk. I’m having a few drinks with friends at a party and organizing to get home safely. And if I’m taking someone home, that is none of their business. Those hypocritical motherf*ckers, condemning me for these things. What consenting adults do in private should not be entertainment for the world at large. Nor is it in any way a viable judge of a person’s character.”
“Liz.”
“Mother-fire-truckers.” I gave my belly a pat of apology. “Sorry, baby.”
“Liz.”
“That double standard between men and women drives me insane.”