I hold out the un-invite. “I’m not going to the cookout.”
Chuck inspects the invite without missing a beat. “Fine by me. I hate housewives anyway.” He eats the cake pop he’s making and hands the un-invite to Mom.
She scans over it. “Oh, my. I didn’t realize it was this serious.”
The other letters feel heavy in my hands. “Me neither.”
She tears the un-invite in half and tosses it into the garbage can beside the counter. “Then I refuse to go, too.”
“You know what? Who cares?” Chuck eats another cake pop.
“Exactly. We don’t need to associate with people like them, anyway,” Mom adds. “Oh, darling, who was that on the phone?”
“I dunno.”
“And what are those letters? Did you subscribe to anything? Who are they—”
“Mom, it’s nothing,” I cut in, and she frowns in disapproval. Hopping off the barstool, I storm back upstairs and grab my cell phone, punching in Maggie’s number with shaking fingers. She picks up after the first ring, as if expecting me. “Mags, what’s going on? People are calling me—I have fucking hate mail! Please, tell me you know what’s going on.”
Her voice is solemn when she answers, and as dry as death. “You’re totes gonna hate this. You’re really totes gonna hate this.”
Then, like the fucking cherry on the cake, the doorbell rings. Is it too late to go back to sleep?
Chuck calls me back downstairs again. His voice is urgent.
I hiss into the phone, “What did he do?” She doesn’t need elaboration on who he is.
She clears her throat. “Well...let’s just say that those photos we gave Roman? They’re live. And I’m staring at one right now on the front page of the New York Times.”
“New York...” I sink down onto my bed with the weight of her words. “He went public with them.”
“Yeah but...”
My throat begins to constrict. “He mentioned that I gave him the pictures, didn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
At least I’m not the bad guy anymore, right? Just the girl who destroyed the perfect vision of Holly. I stare down at the hate mail in my lap, and somehow I get the feeling I’m worse off now than ever. “This’ll blow over soon, right? In a few weeks?”
“Yeah.” I can tell she doesn’t sound so convinced either. “Don’t you have to be at work soon?”
I nod, although she can’t see it, and rise to my feet again. Chuck hollers at me from the living room, and I take the stairs two at a time down. He and Mom are standing guard by the front door.
“We...have a problem,” Chuck admits grimly.
The doorbell rings again.
I duck into the dining room and pull back the curtains. No, we don’t just have a problem. We have close to thirty problems loitering on our lawn. Three media vans. And a group of high schoolers with signs calling me names I’d really rather not read.
“Maggie, they’re here. On my doorstep,” I inform.
She groans. “Fuck-tastic.”
“What do I do?”
One of the paparazzi notices me in the window and raises his camera, but I drop the curtain again and step away from the window before he can catch me.
“I can’t leave my house!” I hiss.
“Okay...okay...Plan B?” she offers helplessly.
“Because showing my boobs for a second time will really make things better!”
“Jeez, it was just a suggestion!”
Suddenly, Chuck marches back across the house into his study, which used to be Dad’s study, and comes back out with a Winchester shotgun.
Mom blanches. “Now, darling...”
“Honey, they’re in my flowerbed,” he replies simply, as if that’s any justification for shooting a man, and throws open the front door. He steps out with his shotgun and yells “Get the hell out of my yard!” When no one moves, he pumps it once—and that’s all it takes. The people on the lawn scatter like roaches. “If any one of you steps in my flowers again, you’ll find a bullet in your ass quicker than you can call a lawyer!” He turns, marches back inside, and slams the door. “Junie.” His voice is level and scarily calm.
“Maggie, I’ll call you later.” I hang up. “Yeah, Chuck?”
“Get dressed. I’m taking you to work—”
I try to wave him off. “It’s fine, Monday’s are always slow—”
“Juniper Marie.”
“No, really, I’ll just call Geoff and tell him that I won’t be coming in today...”
“Now!”
“Be ready in ten.” I scatter up to my room.
Chapter Thirty-two
By the time I’m dropped off near the dumpsters out behind The Silver Lining, everyone’s seen the news. Mindi, Jess, and even Geoff stare at me like three deer in headlights, like at any moment Roman will pop out of the woodwork.
“Don’t you all have work to do?” I snap, unraveling the sound cords from underneath the booth.
I’m so glad Mom booked a gig tonight, or else I’d lose my mind. I already told Hal, our bouncer, not to let anyone who looks remotely paparazzi-like inside. I’m sure they won’t try to fight him for the door.
Pulling the black chords over my shoulder, I haul them up to the stage and begin connecting the mikes and speakers for the night. Because I fired our only sound guy, looks like I’ll be taking the board for a test-drive tonight.
“Do you know who’s playing?” I ask my bartender.
“Band called The Black Sheep.” He shrugs, opening up the refrigerator to count the stock. “Big in Columbia, but I’ve never heard of them.”
“If they’re from Cola they’re probably some new-age indie metal sound,” I reply, hooking up the speakers. There’s a squeal of live feed before I kick the mics away. “So, anything new happen while I was gone?”
“Oh, the usual, boss.” Geoff counts the pale ales. “Massive orgies. BDSM parties. Naked Jell-O wrestling...”
“Wet t-shirt contests?”
He mocks a gasp. “Of course not! What do you think we are, heathens?” Closing the refrigerator, he hops up to sit on the bar and swings his legs over. “Speaking of, tell me—how tight is Roman Montgomery’s ass?”
“Pretty tight,” I answer.
“And abs? As rock-climbable as GQ said?” He wiggles a black eyebrow.
I laugh. “I honestly didn’t check.” When he narrows his eyes I elaborate, “But he had a bit of a pudge when I danced with him?”
“You danced with RoMo? Oh be still my beating, bloody, gay heart!” He cries, clutching his chest, and mock-falls across the bar. “You are such a lucky bitch.”
“Uh-huh, so lucky I got arrested.”
“For streaking, we’ve all heard. Ballsy, boss, but I dig it. How did you get those pictures of Holly, anyway?”
“It’s a long story,” I sigh, kicking the rest of the cords into the wings and hop down, wiping my hands on the backside of my jeans.
He pulls himself up into a sitting position again and slides off the counter. “You know I like long stories about true love. Were there any swordfights?”
I think back to the golf club lightsaber fight on the pirate ship, and can’t help but grin. “Speaking of love,” I add to change the subject, because I should really start forgetting about it all, dropping my face into a hopefully nonchalant look, “anything new with you?”
He hesitates. “Well...” The front door opens, and his glances over to see who it is. He seems to both glow and wilt at the same time. “Oh, Cas.”
A chill creeps down my spine. I turn, slowly, to the entrance.
Caspian closes the door behind him. Achingly gorgeous, as always, straw-colored hair swept back, cornflower blue eyes glittering in the dim Lining atmosphere. He’s wearing a white v-neck shirt with a plaid over-shirt and skinny jeans. My stomach twists into a knot until I remember that he doesn’t swing my way, and then the sight of him just makes me mad. Did he know, that night, that he wasn’t into me? Before o
r after the bad sex?
“Cas,” I find myself echoing aloud.
He looks about as surprised to see me, as I am to see him. “Junie...” Caspian hesitates, shifting his eyes between Geoff and me, “I thought you didn’t come in until later?”
“She’s been getting here early because of the pap,” Geoff fills in for me. “How do you guys know each other?”
Cas and I lock eyes. “Yeah,” Cas replies shortly.
So Geoff doesn’t know about him and me? This is almost too Jerry Springer for me. I look away first. “Sorry, but we’re not open so I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“Baby—”
“Do not baby me,” I snap.
His gaze snaps down to his shoes. Geoff tries to laugh off the almost-tangible tension. “Oh, c’mon boss, you’re kidding right? Since when’ve we kicked anyone out for coming too early?”
“He’s not even legal,” I reply.
“Neither are you,” he retorts in good humor, but his grin is slowly sinking. Finally, he asks, pulling a nervous hand through his curly hair, “Is there something I don’t know?”
Cas gives Geoff a pitiful look. “I’m so sorry.”
“For what, love?”
Love. The word hits me like a wall of bricks, and I ball my hands into fists. Caspian isn’t going to admit anything.
But I can. “For using us at the same time.”
Geoff bristles. “What?”
“No! It wasn’t like that. I didn’t know,” Cas rebukes sharply, his cornflower eyes flickering to Geoff. “I didn’t use Junie. I was just...I didn’t...”
“Didn’t know which one you liked best?” I guess. “You couldn’t have told me you were on the fence before you slept with me?”
All color drains from his face.
Maybe last week’s Junie wouldn’t have admitted that, not here anyway, but I’m not that Junie any longer.
Geoff whips around to Cas, his shoulders stiffening like a feral cat. “You had sex with her?!” But when Cas doesn’t answer, too mortified for words, he slams his fist on the counter. “Caspian!”
“I—I didn’t know,” Cas stutters. “I didn’t know I was, I wasn’t...” When Geoff begins to shake his head, he adds in a voice that’s so sincere it cracks, “You’re everything to me, Geoff. Everything.”
Geoff scrubs the back of his head. “Love, this is too complicated for me.” He shoves off the bar angrily, and paces the length of it.
I want to be angry too, but I must’ve misplaced it somewhere. Or maybe I’m just too tired of being angry to care. Perhaps, that’s worse.
“How did everyone forget to tell me they were fucking?” Geoff goes on rabidly, and for the first time I actually wince. He jabs a finger at Caspian. “You need to leave.”
“No, Geoff, please—” Cas pleads.
Geoff slams his first down on the countertop, his voice so loud it rattles the beer glasses hanging behind him. “Now!”
For a moment, it looks like Cas’ll stay for the abuse, but then he takes a step back, and then another. I watch him go, helpless, but when he’s gone I place a hand on Geoff’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him earnestly.
“Yeah, me too, boss.” He hangs his head, and his muscles unwind until he wilts. I rub comforting circles on his back as he sinks to the counter and buries his head in his arms.
Chapter Thirty-three
The Black Sheep were new-metal indie rock.
Terrible new-metal indie rock at that. They screamed the entire time, and the guitarist fell off the stage drunk before the end of the set. What’s worse, instead of drawing a crowd, they repelled people like the Black Plague. That should’ve been their band name.
I still had a headache from that stupid band when I woke up this morning. A paparazzo got a shot of me changing into my PJs last night and thirty minutes later, it was viral on every Roman Holiday forum on the net.
The most constructive criticism I got was “Slut nds 2 wrkout.”
I don’t even have privacy in my own bedroom anymore.
Welcome to hell, Junebug.
At least there are better stories than me now. After the photos hit yesterday and Chuck scared the media vans off the front lawn, a good plenty of them left to chase the real stories. Roman landed back in LA over the weekend, and in a strange turn of events he isn’t running away from the paparazzi. He just seems to be ignoring them—and any reporter’s questions about me.
It’s just another reason why Roman’s made for the spotlight, and I’m not, another way we would never, ever work out.
I dress down today, in too-big jean shorts, a black t-shirt, and combat boots, pulling my hair back into a lose bun. I don’t even put makeup on. Maggie always says that putting on makeup is like drawing on war paint for the day, but today feels like a waste of good eye shadow. The only battle I’ll be waging is one I’ve already lost.
Chuck takes it upon himself to escort me to the bar again on his lunch break. A few straggling paparazzi look out of their rent-a-cars as we pass, and snap a few photos.
When Chuck drops me off, I make a b-line to the office and let myself inside. Mom taps her pen on the pile of paperwork in front of her, divided and color-coded to specific bills and due dates. Maggie jokes that my mom is super anal, but I think she just likes to have control. She likes knowing what to expect.
Like me, I guess.
Or, at least how I thought I was. Looking at the color codes and numbers stretched out across her desk, I’m not sure I could handle that.
Mom only looks up from her stack of papers when I pull over a metal chair and sit down. She takes off her reading glasses and blinks her tired eyes. She’s wearing the clothes she had on last night. “Good morning, honey.”
I look down at my hands, picking at my cuticles. “I want to tell them, Mom.”
“That’s okay, I can handle it.” She stands and begins to put the color-coded bills into their color-coded manila folders, but I reach over the desk and still her hands. She glances up, and her face breaking open just a little.
It mirrors mine.
“I want to do it, Mom.”
She hesitates. “But Junie...”
“Please?”
For a moment, I don’t think she’s going to let me, but she must see something in my face, because she purses her lips and agrees. “I’ll call Charles—he’ll want to be here, too.”
“He’ll get off work?” I ask, surprised, as she comes around the desk.
She closes the office door behind us and locks it. “He doesn’t want the bar to close up, either, and yes. He thought we should all be here, as a family.”
As a family.
Tears begin to burn in my eyes, but I blink them away. I shouldn’t get choked up on something like this. I spent all morning telling myself not to cry, even though I avoided bottom eyeliner just in case. I follow Mom out onto the floor. Geoff looks up from his Hustler. The three waitresses, Jess, Mindi, and Barbara, sit at a high-top table sharing a pitcher of mimosas and grapefruit. They glance at each other unsurely.
I clear my throat, hesitating with empty hands. I wish I had a piece of paper to hold, at least. Mom gives me an encouraging nod as Chuck comes through the front door, fanning out his polo. It’s hot as hell outside today, so it makes the bar uncomfortably hot, too. The industrial fans mounted on the dark beams overhead are going full-speed, as loud as jet engines.
I swallow the knot in my throat. “Hi, everyone. Thanks for meeting today.”
“Always when alcohol’s involved!” Mindi raises her glass with a laugh. Jess and Barbara clink glasses with her, grinning. They beckon Mom over, and after a moment she goes and grabs a glass herself. “Fill ‘er up!” they crow.
Geoff, though, reads my apprehension. “Is everything all right, boss?”
At the words, Hal, our bouncer, looks up from flexing his biceps, a frown on his face. And it sort of hits me then, because everyone here is my family, too. I grew up with them. They’re c
loser to me than my grandparents in Maryland and my aunts in California. They were there for me when I broke my foot in gym in third grade, and when I tried out for cheerleading and was literally laughed out of my auditions, and the time I entered into the high school talent show to do the Thriller dance and the entire crew dressed up as zombies and joined me.
I hesitate, pulling at the collar of my Rolling Stones t-shirt. “Um…” I lick my lips, trying to find somewhere to rest my gaze.
Take it easy, Junebug, I hear my dad’s voice in my head.
“The Silver Lining will be closing on Saturday.” My voice is incredibly loud, echoing off the dusty rafters like a sonic boom. I clear my throat and repeat those eight words. They feel like lead in my mouth.
“For a party?” Mindi asks, and the other two giggle. “Beach blast!”
I strain a smile. “No. We’ll be closing. Permanently.”
Then comes the silence. The type that sinks, slowly, like a rock. They know I’m not joking anymore. The waitresses down their mimosas and pour themselves another glass, as Mom stares somberly into hers, Chuck’s hand on the small of her back.
A ping of loneliness shoots through my chest, because no one’s here to comfort me.
Geoff closes his Hustler and scoots back in his chair, his black eyebrows creasing together. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“What happened?” Hal adds.
Life, I want to tell him, and my dad’s mismanagement of money.
I swallow those bitter words, though, because they aren’t the right ones to say. I focus on the jukebox in the back corner, unable to look at anything else. “You know why my Dad called this place The Silver Lining? I mean, besides that The Kickin’ Chicken was taken.”
No one chimes in to answer, even though they know it.
“It’s because,” I go on, “he believed in a place you could come after you’ve had the worst day of your entire life, and know that it’d get better from here. Not because of the cheap beer or the dollar liquors. He believed in the people. People like us, really. We’re The Silver Lining. Not where we work. So what happened?” My eyes drift down to Hal, and my throat constricts.