Page 110 of Dark Ugly Places

Agnes coughs, a final little sputter. “Goodbye, Jason.”

He hurls the phone across the room, his body panting as if he might cry, but he doesn’t. Bambi curls up and sinks deeper into the chair. He turns to her. “I want an interview. Tomorrow. Call Allison and tell her to make it happen.”

“What? I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

His fist slams down on the table. “Get Allison and get me an interview, Bambi. Something big. CNN. Fox. ABC. I don’t give a shit. Just get me an interview so that I can put this whole thing to bed.”

“Jason, why don’t you sleep on it?”

He sits on the edge of the couch and drops the phone onto the coffee table before leaning in. “I swear to God. I am going to go to the press tomorrow. And I can either do it with your help or without your help. Get Allison to call everyone she knows. I’m doing a live interview tomorrow.”

He picks up the centerpiece off their coffee table and throws it across the room, where it shatters against the far wall, breaking a picture of the two of them. Bambi takes in a sharp breath and pulls the blanket around her tighter. Eyes closed, he leans back. Then in one quick movement, he leaps up and goes into the kitchen. Bottle opening. Glass. Pour. He returns with a drink.

Jason knocks back the glass and gets up. He pours a second. In moments, he returns, his eyes calmer but dark. She watches him silently as he paces the room, aware that all the moments when he would drink, the late nights with the crystal glasses, the bourbon, whiskey, the expensive bottles of Scotch sent from abroad, were a kind of admission. A quiet indulgence for when he had been unfaithful to her, the tonic to numb away his guilt, sip by sip.

She thinks back in time to try and remember when it began, but she can’t quite place it. She just knows that the drinking grew with his career—the stories, the rumors, the whispers.

“Did you love any of them?” Bambi finds herself asking.

Jason looks at her, eyes vacant. “What, Bambs?”

“I said, did you love any of them? The actresses?”

He leans back, eye closed, and finishes his drink. “I love you. That’s all. Isn’t that enough?” A line delivered, just like in one of his films. She almost wants to yell, “Cut! That’s a wrap.” Because it is. It is over. There is literally nothing else to say. Her cheek pulses and aches. He stares at her, but stares past her, like she isn’t even there. In the mirror across the room, he searches for his reflection, and Bambi cringes as he admires himself.

He loves himself, even now.

But does he love her?

Perhaps love to Jason isn’t real, just something he pretends. The real thing inside him was never akin to love but something like possession. Bambi holds the tiny bulge of her abdomen. If he knew …

She doesn’t want anyone to get hurt, but Jason would never stop otherwise.

He would never let her go.

48

Martha

Back at home, Emmy shrugs off her hoodie and shuffles into the living room, the plastic bag of greasy fare swinging from one hand. She settles in, and Scotch leaps into her lap, baring his teeth at me as I sit down. Emmy shushes him, and with a click of the remote, the TV is on—some entertainment show with a flashy announcer who has what Emmy tells me are called veneers now. Her too-white teeth and royal blue top look luminous against the earthy tones of the set around her. I sit beside Emmy and turn up the volume as the host switches gears to cover the latest in Hollywood.

“And now, turning our attention to the Redfern LaMonte saga. ET caught up with Jason Redfern’s co-star Lauren LaMonte’s spokesperson, who says LaMonte is distraught over what happened and has filed charges against her long-time co-star and Hollywood’s most prized leading man.”

A red-haired woman pops into frame, a microphone in her hand, eyes pinched like she should be wearing sunglasses, even though the shot is at night. “We know what happened,” she says, her voice gruff with overuse. “Miss LaMonte is telling the truth, and all I have to say is Jason Redfern needs to be exposed. She isn’t the first to suffer these abuses, and unless something is done, she won’t be the last.”

“What about her film with Jason, The Hurting Game, recently shot in LA? Has production ceased? Will it still be released?”

Emmy sits forward, the greasy Chinese takeout container balanced above Scotch’s head. Her hands absently lift the pair of chopsticks and noodles to her mouth. She chews stoically, watching.

“I have no comment on their recent film or what the plans are for that.” She pauses to clear her throat. “Miss LaMonte wants everyone to respect her privacy. This is not an easy time for her. Thank you.”

“Was LaMonte romantically involved with Redfern prior to the alleged rape?”

“I have no further comments at this time.” With a wave of her hand, she gestures for the camera to move and heads off. The shot whips around to the journalist, another woman, with olive skin and dark, frizzy hair.

Emmy mutes the television as it goes to a commercial.

“Wow, he’s a total piece of shit.”