Page 17 of Faking the Pass

Trust Me

P resley

Fuck. I tried for about the fortieth time to button my shirt one-handed and failed.

I probably wouldn’t have been so frustrated with it, but I’d barely slept last night. When Rosie had finally stopped crying, I’d walked with her back to my bedroom then took myself to the guest room to attempt to recover.

Seeing her like that had done something to me.

I’d never really been a sucker for womens’ tears. At least when I’d broken up with women before and they’d cried, it hadn’t changed my mind.

But seeing Rosie so defeated—and knowing what she was about to go through—it was all I could do to keep from putting my remaining good hand through the wall.

But I didn’t, because I needed it to hold the steering wheel while I drove her to the press conference.

Last night she kept insisting she would order a ride on one of her apps, but there was no way I was letting her walk down the driveway to meet a driver at the street like some sort of scarlet woman doing a walk of shame.

She was already up and dressed, reading in the living room, when I got there.

“Hey. You got up early.”

“I was having trouble sleeping,” she said. “At some point I gave up trying and came in here to get lost in my comfort read.”

Peeking up from behind Miss Marjoribanks she looked me over, taking in my dress pants and the dress shirt that hung open thanks to my button failure.

Her eyes lingered a bit on my exposed chest and abs.

“No muscle t-shirt today?” she asked.

That was pretty much all I’d been wearing since my surgery since regular shirts were either impossible or extremely painful to put on and take off.

“I didn’t think it would be appropriate attire for Bellevue Manor,” I quipped. “Besides, they’ll be snapping pictures as we drive away. I don’t go out in public like that.”

Looking down at myself, I added, “Or like this. Would you mind helping me with the buttons?”

“Sure.”

Rosie put her book down and came to me but stopped and hesitated a second before stepping close enough to actually reach the buttons.

As she fastened them, I looked down at her. She had on makeup today, but it couldn’t quite hide the dark circles under her eyes.

“You don’t have to do this,” I said softly.

She sucked in a breath then looked up at me. “I do. You know it, and I know it. I can’t hide here forever.”

It was true. I couldn’t keep doing this either.

Rosie was a major distraction—something I didn’t usually allow in my life, something I couldn’t afford, especially right now.

Besides, she was determined to go through with this, and she was a grown woman. In spite of the stuff I’d said yesterday when I was angry, I wouldn’t stop her even if I were capable of it.

I nodded, and she offered me a brave smile.

“It’s only a year. And what’s the alternative, right?” she said.

“Right.”

There didn’t seem to be one. But I didn’t like it.

The whole time I was cooking breakfast for us, my mind stayed on her question. What was the alternative?

There had to be something better than her lying on her sword and paying the full price for Randy’s lies.

By the time we finished eating, I hadn’t come up with anything.

She checked the time on her phone. “We should go. Randy just sent another text warning me I’d better show up and not be late. He wants to send a car to pick me up.”

“Tell him you already have a ride,” I growled.

She typed out a response I couldn’t see. I hoped it began with “fuck” and ended with “you,” but she was probably being more diplomatic about it than I would have been.

When she was done, she looked up and said, “Okay. I guess it’s time to go face the music.”

“Okay here’s the plan…”

I walked over to the coat closet and pulled out a long overcoat.

“You can drape this over you in the car if you don’t want them taking any pictures of you.”

As for myself, I put on a ball cap and pulled it as low as it would go then grabbed my sunglasses from a basket on the entryway table. Not exactly a foolproof disguise, but they were going to see my license plate and figure it out pretty quickly anyway.

Not sure how Randy the spin-meister was going to explain my role in this scenario, but whatever. That was his problem now.

“The car’s in the garage, right through here.”

Rosie followed me to the garage door and paused just before stepping through it. Looking back at the kitchen and living area, she took in a breath, letting it out in a whoosh.

“I love your house,” she said. “It’s been peaceful in spite of… everything.”

Then she turned to me. “And you’ve been amazing. I don’t even know how to thank you, Presley.”

For some reason, a feeling of guilt sucker-punched me, like I hadn’t done enough or something.

“Nothing I wouldn’t do for any friend in need,” I said, but the words didn’t ring true, even to me.

The mass of cars waiting at the end of my private drive seemed to have increased, if that was even possible.

As my Bugatti approached the automatic gate, there was a commotion of car doors opening and people jumping out to snap photos.

So this was it. Now they knew Rosie hadn’t been in the house alone.

Good. I was getting a little perverse pleasure out of the fact that it might poke some holes in Randy’s cover story.

No. I shouldn’t.

Because it was Rosie’s cover story too. The one she believed was going to save her career and keep her from financial ruin.

As soon as the gate opened, I pulled my car through and put the pedal down, eager to leave those bloodsuckers in the dust.

Predictably, some of them jumped back into their cars to pursue us.

It took only ten minutes to reach Bellevue Manor. Atlantic Avenue connected to Oceanview Avenue where all the historic Gilded Age mansions sat on huge lots between the street and the water.

The Bluff Walk ran behind them all, offering incredible ocean vistas on one side of the path and on the other, tantalizing peeks at the rear of the stately homes. It was a popular walking spot for locals as well as visitors who streamed to Eastport Bay from all over the world.

As I drove, Rosie stared out the window, fiddling with her fingernails.

“Nervous?”

She darted a glance over at me. “Yeah. I’ve always hated press conferences. I never know what to do with my hands, and my voice shakes. Also, I get tongue-tied.”

That surprised me.

“But you’ve done a lot of live theater, haven’t you?”

She nodded. “Yes, but that’s different. It’s someone else’s words that I’ve memorized and practiced.

And no one’s shouting questions at me. When it’s me just answering questions, I’m always afraid I’ll say the wrong thing.

It’s like that old saying, ‘Better to stay silent and be thought a fool than open your mouth and remove all doubt.’”

I wanted to reach over and still her busy hands with my own, but I had to keep a grip on the wheel. Her honesty and vulnerability slayed me.

“You’re not a fool, Rosie.”

“Oh really?” She let out a desperate sounding laugh. “Tell that to my five hundred non-wedding guests.”

We pulled into the stately mansion’s semi-circular drive and parked right in front of its tall marble facade. A few photographers waited at the entrance to snap photos. There were bound to be dozens more inside.

Suddenly Rosie looked very small to me.

Hand on the passenger side door handle, she turned to face me. “Thanks again. Wish me luck?”

She made a valiant attempt at a smile, but even with all her talent, she couldn’t pull it off. She looked like someone about to walk down death row toward an awaiting lethal injection.

For a second, I sat in indecision, chewing on my inner cheek.

Then, instead of wishing her good luck and saying goodbye, I opened my own car door, got out, and went around to her side.

Pulling the door wide, I offered her my hand.

Rosie’s eyes went round with shock, though she did put her hand in mine and allow me to help her up.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

“I’m not letting you go in there alone. I’ll walk you to the conference room door.”

“You don’t have to do that,” she argued.

“I want to. Consider it moral support.”

She didn’t argue further but allowed me to escort her inside as cameras clicked around us.

A woman Rosie appeared to know, met us just inside the mansion’s enormous front doors. Barely glancing at me, she handed Rosie a printout of the script Randy had sent last night.

The woman’s face was tense, and her tone seemed overly harsh.

“I don’t have to tell you how much money is riding on this movie’s success. And your NDA is in full effect—it covers every conversation you’ve ever had with Randy. And everything you’ve ever seen him do.”

“I remember,” Rosie said. Her voice sounded airy, like she was fighting for breath.

She took the paper from the woman. It shook in her hand.

And as I walked her down the hallway with my hand on her back, I could feel her trembling.

Heat blazed from my neck to my scalp, and my jaw muscles clenched, teeth grinding together.

I wanted to charge into that room and breathe fire at all those predatory reporters, like a dragon defending a mythical princess.

Better yet, I wanted to grab Rosie and throw her over my shoulder to carry her off somewhere far from here.

Instead, when we reached the closed conference room doors, I turned her to face me.

Looking down into her wide, frightened eyes, I took her icy fingers inside mine.

“You’re smart. You’re charming. You’ll have them all eating out of your hand. You got this.”

She didn’t look convinced, but she nodded. Then she dropped her hands from mine, turned and squared her shoulders, and opened the conference room door.

A roar of sound escaped, and through the opening I got a glimpse of Randy Ryland sitting at a table up front.

He looked confident and relaxed. Smug prick.

So sure of himself and his control over Rosie.

I didn’t like his cocky face.

Or his perfect hair.

Or his overly white smile.

I especially didn’t like the idea of Rosie sitting up there beside him while he shoveled a bunch of horseshit about her at the celebrity press.