Love Unrehearsed

I hid in the far corner of the bar office to make sure Ryan couldn’t accidentally overhear my conversation, even though the last time I saw him he was still in bed. That was at one o’clock. I was feeling like I was at the end of my rope. “I know. Ryan’s lawyer called. Even if they get the charge dropped the picture is still out there. He’s not taking this very well, Trish.”

She sighed. “I wanted to talk to him, see if he wants me to spin this, but he won’t take my calls. He’s not the first celebrity who’s had their mug shot posted. Either we counter with positive press or just let it naturally blow over, which it will.”

“Yeah well, right now the press is having a field day.” I was starting to pick up Ryan’s forehead-rubbing habit. “Ryan’s lawyer alerted us that the photographer has hired counsel. He’s attempting to sue us for a million. Can you believe the bastard wants us to pay for the lost income he would have made selling pictures of us to the media?”

“I believe it.”

“Ryan’s not himself anymore. This has pushed him into such a depression; I don’t know what to do.

He’s even lost weight. He’s barely eating. All he wants to do is sleep or lie on the sofa. He’s becoming a recluse.”

“Let him have a few days to get it together. His ego has taken a blow.”

I chewed on my fingernail. “This isn’t just about his ego. He says he’s retiring.”

“What?” Trish shrieked. “No. Bad idea. Bad. That will kill his career. Comebacks in this business are hard to make. He’s at the top of his game right now. He pulls out and you can kiss his box-office draw goodbye.”

“Trish, the guy had over a thousand photos of us. The cops found soda bottles filled with pee in the neighbor’s yard. He’d been wearing this camo netting stuff to blend in with the damn tree! Who knows how long he’d been up there.”

“Oh, boy. I’ve heard of him. They call him ‘Fast Freddy.’ He freelances for one of the largest celebrity photo agencies in L.A. He’s the idiot that almost got Bieber into an accident two weeks ago, chasing him down the Santa Monica Freeway for a shot. These guys know no boundaries.”

“They’re like jackals.” I looked at the calendar in my hand, wondering what I could do to get Ryan back into the swing of things.

“Why don’t you two go on vacation? Get out of there for a few days?”

“I’ve suggested it but he doesn’t want to deal with airports or any place that’s public. I told him that hiding is not the answer and that he should show the world he’s fine and doing his thing but it’s like talking to a brick wall. I’ve had reporters and press staked out in my pub since we got back. I have two guys working the door because we’ve been inundated with curious fans. It’s crazy. I need to get him away from here but he refuses to go.”

Trish sighed. “I hate to even bring it up, but I heard about Marla’s latest stunt.”

I took a deep breath, cringing from just hearing that woman’s name. “I don’t know how she thinks she could get away with overcharging us. I’d like to stick her lawsuit up her ass.”

Pete peered around the office door, waving his cell at me. “Tar, Ryan’s calling for you.”

I quickly ended my call with Trish and tucked my cell in my pocket. Ryan refused to set foot in the bar, saying that it caused too many problems for my business for him to be seen. His fans just didn’t know when to quit. It was getting to be assumed that if I was here then he was, too. There were spotters watching out for me now.

Ryan frowned at me when I came through the apartment door. “Why aren’t you answering your cell?”

“I was talking on it.”

“Oh. Who were you talking to?”

“I was dealing with something. Why?”

Shoulders that used to stand tall and firm were hunched as if he’d been defeated. He hadn’t shaved in several days, nor had he done anything more than shower and run a hand through his hair. He had on a torn T-shirt and a pair of threadbare cotton shorts, looking more like a homeless person than a multimillionaire celebrity.

He rubbed his eye with his knuckle. “Nothing. I woke up and didn’t know where you were, that’s all.”

I hated seeing him reduced to this state of despondency. “Are you hungry? You want some lunch?”

He shrugged, shuffling barefoot down the hall to his second-favorite place: the left side of the couch.

I sat next to him and tried to snuggle up. He seemed less agitated when I was under his protective wing. “You still have those pictures of places you wanted to see that you gave me at Christmas?”

He scratched his bare feet together while he flipped through the television cha

“I think we should pick one and go someplace. Get the hell out of here for a few days. Fun? Sun? What do you think?”

He took a big sip off one of the many cups of water he had stashed around the apartment. At least in his depression he hadn’t started drinking. “Tar, we talked about this. How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t want to go anywhere right now? Can’t we just stay put for once? Please babe? I feel as though I’ve been around the world eighty times. I just want to relax.”

He slid into the couch, wedging deeper into his depression.

I understood his desire for taking a break, but this was beyond his normal behavior. He hadn’t been out of the apartment since we got here.

“What ever happened to those sketches you did of our massive home?”

“They’re in my messenger bag. Why?”

I got up, tired of watching him flip through one hundred cha

Curiosity eventually won out. “What are you doing?”

Trying to get you thinking of other things, like our future. “I found something I wanted to add.”

He leaned on the back of the couch, studying his impressive sketches. “Maybe I’ll go back to college, finish my degree.”

And just like that he frowned.

“Who am I kidding? I can’t go back on an open campus.” He tossed the sketch pad onto the table and moped back to his spot on the couch. I hated this. I hated seeing him so withdrawn. Even our sex life had taken a hit. His passion was gone.

It was time for something drastic. I hurried down the hall, hanging our little DO NOT DISTURB sign on the apartment door so Marie or Mike wouldn’t come in unexpectedly, and took off my clothes in the bedroom.

He at least gave me some attention with a questioning glance when I came back into the living room wearing nothing but my white bikini underwear. I grabbed the remote out of his hand, turned off the television, and straddled him.

“What are you doing?” He breathed out his question with a hint of admonishment, as if me being mostly naked and on his lap needed a reason or clarification.

“I want my Ryan back.”

His lips twisted into a frown, and then his expression rolled into what scarily resembled rejection.

“Talk to me.”

His hands slipped around my hips, tensed, and seemed to push back and up, raising me a smidgen off his crotch. “You had to get naked to talk to me?”

“I figured it was a good way to get your undivided attention. We should be on a beach somewhere having a grand time, making love, having fun, being young, enjoying life. You’ve been so closed down.

You don’t want to talk to me. You barely touch me anymore. It’s scaring me.”

His hands pushed my hips back, a definite sign of his unwillingness to further this conversation. I grasped his forearms, unwilling to let him push me aside.

Desperation clawed at my throat. “Please don’t push me away. Please. I can’t take it anymore.” His despondence was taking its toll on my heart.