23
Damian
EXTRAtainmentUpdate!
Damian Marshall Returns to Hollywood Amid Sex Tape Scandal
Actor Damian Marshall was photographed earlier today at a marina in Anchorage, Alaska, less than twelve hours after a video of him engaged in a sexual act with an unidentified man emerged on the internet. The movie star, recently involved in a bitter feud with director Anderson Lind, had been staying at the Wild Eagle Lodge, a luxury fishing resort in Alaska. According to the Lodge’s website, they offer an exclusive and private wilderness experience for discerning travelers. No one at the lodge or its parent company, Wild Hospitality International, could be reached for comment.
Marshall is believed to be traveling back to Hollywood. What happens next is anyone’s guess. His future with the blockbusterShadow Leaguefranchise was already in doubt after his fallout with Lind, and being the star of his own sex tape will make him a challenging property for a film franchise that markets itself to adults and teenagers alike.
Is this the end of Damian Marshall?
* * *
California is so loud.And hot. Was it always this hot?
We fly straight from Anchorage to a private airfield outside LA. Roberta’s done a much better job of keeping the press away here than in Alaska, and we go straight from the jet to a black SUV with tinted windows.
“Ivy says your place is swarmed,” Vin says, staring at his phone. He’s been glued to it since we got in the car in Anchorage. “We’re going to Roberta’s instead.”
Even with my social media accounts in Ivy’s capable hands, I still have dozens of missed calls and texts from people I haven’t heard from in months and voicemails I’m never going to listen to. Next comes the sinking realization that I never thought to ask for Jack’s contact information—not that he would have given it to me, or that I have any right to call him—so he’s well and truly out of my life forever.
Instead of listening to those voicemails, I make the terrible decision to check the entertainment news, and my name is plastered everywhere. Blurred-out screen grabs and pictures of the hotel. The headlines ask if I have a sex addiction, a drug addiction, or if I’m having a mental health crisis. There are insinuations and outright declarations that this plus the situation at Cannes means my career is over. That I’ve been out of control for years. People I’ve never spoken to for more than a minute are quoted saying they’ve been worried about me for ages. At least all the articles continue to refer to Jack as “an unidentified man.”
“Stop.” Vin’s still typing hurried texts.
“What?”
“Stop self-flagellating over what those assholes write. They get paid by the click. No one cares if it’s true.”
But people take it as truth. And maybe some of it is. None of my behavior has been rational. I’ve been so busy protecting myself, I hadn’t cared who I’d hurt in the process.
Roberta lives in a contemporary ranch in Studio City. I’ve been to visit a few times before, but today it feels like I’m arriving somewhere new. Were her front windows always that big? Didn’t she used to have a gate at the end of the driveway?
But Vin doesn’t seem to notice or be worried. He hands me a faded ball cap.
“Keep your head down.”
I do as instructed, and we seem to have escaped notice for the time being. I don’t hear so much as a bird call as I cross from the car to Roberta’s front door, which Ivy throws open breathlessly the second we get close.
“Come in! Come in. Oh my God, how are you? Are you okay? How was the flight? Can I get you something to eat?” Ivy is everything Roberta is not. She’s quick to smile and always looking out for everyone’s immediate comfort. Her hair is a riot of blue curls, and she’s wearing a pair of earrings Vin gave her last year that have “Highly Skilled”and “Hot Mess” woven into them with rose gold wire.
“Damian.” Roberta cuts off Ivy’s litany of questions, and my stomach twists at the hard edge to her voice. I move past Vin and Ivy, leaving them to whisper quietly to each other. Roberta is sitting on the patio, which is sheltered by a striped olive green awning. She strides up to me as I approach, and I stop when I’m only a few inches away, letting her look me up and down. She’s as immaculate as always, but if I look closely, I can see the mascara under her eyes is slightly smudged like it was applied a long time ago, and the lipstick on her bottom lip is flaking. After Vin, she’s been my staunchest ally for years, and I’ve made her life so much more complicated than it needs to be.
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
She sighs, then gathers me in a long hug. I have to hunch my spine to get my head onto her shoulder, but it’s worth it. She smells of jasmine, and the knobbly end of her collarbone pokes at my forehead, grounding me in something other than the guilt that’s been eating at me. “It’s okay. We’ll figure this out.”
“Thank you.”
“I think you know everyone,” she says when she lets me go, gesturing to the people gathered around the terrace. I assume they’re the same group who were on the phone call last night. I still can’t remember any of their names.
Ivy brings food, juice, and a pot of coffee I could drink all on my own. It’s not as good as Jack’s coffee, but I’m going for stimulation, not flavor. Everyone around me is in full-blown battle mode. The least I can do is stay awake.
And stop obsessing about Jack and his coffee. Or any other part of him. Not his hands as he competently went about setting up the lines to fish. Or the soft rumble of his laugh. The careful way he touched me when—
“Damian?”
