“So, what do I say to these reporters?” he asks with a helpless little whine.
“Don’t say shit to them. You don’t owe them anything. But act like you know what’s up. In the meantime, don’t do a goddamned thing. Where the fuck is Elliot right now?”
“He’s freaking out. His landlord threatened to kick him out if he doesn’t get this thing under control.”
Elliot, useless as always.
“Alright, here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to pack up all your belongings, then fix your hair and face. I’ll be there in an hour. I’m bringing you back to my place until we figure out where to go from here. Understand?”
“Yes, Cassius. Thank you so much. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”
“I know you don’t, dove, and that’s why I’m going to take care of it for you.”
I end the call and place my phone face down on the countertop. Lucia smirks like I said something hilarious. “What?” I ask.
“Dove?”
“It’s a relatively harmless bird, pretty and poetic but also a filthy scavenger.”
“Cassius, you’re gloating.”
“I am not gloating,” I protest. “I’m peeved if anything. You know I don’t like surprises. Now, go put on some makeup. You’re coming with me. I need a beautiful distraction for when I extricate Adam from Elliot’s clutches.”
* * *
We arriveat Elliot’s shanty fifty-five minutes later. I swerve into the driveway, narrowly missing a few paparazzi, and circle the car to escort Lucia out of it. She’s wearing one of my mother’s gowns, a silver strappy number that my mother wore to one of the Daytime Emmy awards, with a fox fur stole. Flashes go off sporadically. They don’t even know who they’re photographing, the mindless bottom-feeders. Even still, Lucia gives them everything she’s got—duck lips, coy smiles, and ample cleavage shots. She pretends the strap on her sandal is loose and bends over all the way to adjust it. The barrage of strobes is enough to cause a seizure. They attempt to ask questions about whether she’s involved with Adam, but she waves them off like a ditzy party girl. What an absolute treasure.
“Back the fuck up,” I shout, acting as her bodyguard. “This is private property, which means you’re trespassing.”
“You going to make us move, pretty boy?” one of the more cocksure photographers asks.
“Lachlan, Takeda, and Howe,” I say to them, dropping the name of the best law firm in town, whom I happen to have on retainer. “I will sue your asses into next Sunday if you don’t slither on over to the sidewalk.”
They grunt and grumble and collect their gear and start to move. Their tripods travel with them like huge, metallic insects. I straighten my shoulders and proceed to Elliot’s front door. It swings open before I even step onto the threshold and Adam ushers us inside.
“Thank God you’re here. Can you believe it?” His gaze lands on Lucia, “Holy shit, you look amazing.”
“Thank you, dahhhling,” she says and taps her vape pen like it’s a cigarette.
“I can believe it,” I say to Adam and remove my sunglasses to take quick inventory of the squalor Adam has been living in for the past three months. Elliot’s paints and canvasses are strewn about—some completed and some only half-finished—which is probably worse than the shabby furnishings. Imagine being forced to look at bad art all day. That’s a whole other level of sadism.
“I told him he didn’t have to go,” Elliot simpers. His arms are crossed in a defensive posture. I glance at the crude plastic bin at Adam’s feet. Clearly, his mind is made up.
“You did the best you could, Elliot, but this level of exposure requires an altogether different tactic. I’m sure Adam will miss the…” I sniff distastefully at the worn couch Adam must have been sleeping on. I should check him for lice before allowing him inside my home. “The privilege of sleeping on your couch,” I finish.
“What’s the rent here?” Lucia asks. She’s a realtor and always comparing prices.
“Way too high,” Elliot grouses.
“Take my card.” Lucia hands him one of her own. “I’m sure I can get you a place without rodents or a cracked foundation.”
“Rodents?” Elliot asks.
“Rat feces.” She waves her hand in a wafting motion. “Can’t you smell it?”
The place does have a peculiar and distasteful smell. “Say your goodbyes,” I say to Adam while I heft his meager possessions into my arms. Their hug is somewhat awkward—definitely no fucking going on there. Elliot takes the opportunity to hiss something in Adam’s ear, probably defaming my character, and then we are striding toward the door, leaving the unwashed Hobbit behind in his damp and dreary hovel.
“Smile and wave,” I say to Adam as I nudge him outside. “Give them something beautiful to photograph.”
