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I gasp and cover my mouth. She shakes her head. “It’s such a shame, too. I mean, he has a son as well, and now a daughter. He’s such a Hollywood cliché.”
I feel my skin becoming clammy as I listen to her words. “Excuse me,” I say, as I stand. “I need to use the restroom.” I drop the book in my seat and sidestep her. The stupid smile that’s plastered all over her face makes me want to kick something. Right now I’d like to kick Liam.
Once I’m inside the tiny stall, I slide the latch and the light comes on overhead. I wish I could shut it off because I don’t want to see myself in the mirror. The ugliness of Liam’s career is starting to eat away at me. Every time I turn around someone has a bomb to drop or a secret to expose, and those bombs and secrets are turning out be deadly.
I don’t know how long I’m in the restroom, but a knock tells me my time is up. The flight attendant is standing there with a cup of Ginger Ale in her hand. I want to hate her, but she didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not her fault that my former boyfriend turned husband did some crap that’s coming back to bite him in the ass.
If Liam and Layla have a child, I can’t be mad... we weren’t together. He moved on, and so did I. He didn’t know about Noah. If he had, he would’ve come back. He would’ve been there for Noah, even if he couldn’t be there for me.
Opening the book, I scan the table of contents for Layla’s name and flip to her chapter. She has a whole freaking chapter when all I have is mentions of a woman who blackmailed him into marriage. I can only bring myself to skim the sentences until I find “daughter”.
In my reporting, I uncovered that Liam Page entered into a romantic relationship with Layla Richards shortly after arriving (we’re talking days, people) in Los Angeles. The pair met at the famed Metro club after being introduced by his best friend and drummer, Harrison James.
I was unable to track down Layla Richards, but did speak to her former husband who had this to say about Liam Page: “I hated that fucker. He knew Layla and I were married and he still chased after her. Their drug induced affair produced a child that I wanted nothing to do with.”
At the time of print, Layla Richards’ daughter is eleven years old.
I close the book and lean my head back, shutting my eyes. I don’t know how much more I can take. Even if he tells me everything, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stay. This girl is either the same age or close to the same age as Noah. Liam left me in October and days later he was with someone else. If that doesn’t tell me how he felt about me, I don’t know what will.
The cabin lights come on in preparation for our arrival at LAX and the flight attendant comes by to pick up any trash. I’m tempted to put the book in there, but I’ll need it for later. I need him to read the same words that I have and deny each and every one of them. He needs to tell me in his own words that this book is full of lies – that he’s not the person Calista Jones is making him out to be.
This is my second time at LAX, and both times I’ve been beyond nervous. Finding a taxicab is easy - the driver tells me he knows the club and we’ll be there in about a half hour. My mind is traveling a thousand miles a minute as we drive down the freeway. I stare out my window, trying to catch as much of the city life that I can. I hate this place for what’s it’s done to me.
When we arrive, there’s a line of people wrapped around the block. I want to surprise Liam, but have a feeling this was a mistake. I should’ve called him, or at least Harrison or Jimmy, and asked to be put on the list. If Je
I pay the cab driver and step out into the nightlife of Los Angeles with my suitcase behind me.
“Now who’s the cliché?” I say to myself. I look like the poster child for wayward travelers. The people in line, mostly women, glare or snarl at me. I get it, I’m older and carrying a suitcase. I look like a fruitcake. My surprise for Liam is not well thought out and I have a feeling I’ll be standing outside until I can get ahold of him.
As I approach the door, I can hear him singing. I wanted to be here for his show and it looks like I’m going to miss it. There’s a large man at the door with a clipboard. I know from stories Liam has told me that there will be a list of names on it. What are the chances he’s put my name down? I think I have a better chance at wi
“Hi, I know this is going to sound silly –”
“End of the line is down there somewhere.” He points down the block without making eye contact with me.
“Right. Look, my husband is Liam Page and I’m trying to surprise him.”
“Uh-huh, and I’m the Pope. End of the line.”
“Look let me show you.” I pull out my wallet and flash my driver’s license. I know he’s appeasing me when he flashes his light on it.
“Your last name is Westbury.”
“So is Liam’s,” I tell him, wondering how he doesn’t know this.
“End of the line, ma’am.”
My last ditch effort is to show him family photos. I hate that I have to let him see moments that we’ve shared together, but I have no other choice. I pull out my phone and open my photo app.
“Here, look through my phone. Liam’s my husband and I’m really trying to surprise him.”
To my surprise, he flips through the images, studying each one. He speaks into the radio that’s hooked to his shirt as he hands my phone back me. He doesn’t say anything, just continues to look at his clipboard.
“Is she cutting?” The voice belongs to a blonde with an all too small dress on. Even in her heels she’s shorter than me.
“No, she thinks she’s Page’s wife.”
“I don’t think, I am,” I snap back.
“Huh, he didn’t say anything about a wife last night.”
I see nothing but rage and wonder what a night in jail will feel like. I’m about to punch her lights out when my name is called. I turn sharply toward the door to find a short woman with jet-black hair and bright red lips. The girls in line start calling her name, Trixie, but she and I are having a stare down.
“Come with me.” She turns back in the club, leaving me on my own to meander through an angry mob of women.
The second I step in, people are dancing and drinking around me. I can hear Liam on stage, but can’t see him. I try to follow Trixie, but she’s too short and I’ve lost her. It’s okay, though, because I needed to be inside and now I am.
People are glaring at me as I work through the crowd, hitting them with my suitcase. This isn’t ideal, but right now nothing in my life is. I’m finally in a spot where I can see and I wish I wasn’t. In this moment I wish I were home, snuggled up in bed with my son and watching a movie.
My husband is hot, I agree with every woman - and man - who says it. The sex appeal grows when he’s on stage. His shirt is sweaty, sticking to his body. I know from experience that the people in the front row can see the outline of his muscles and his six-pack. They can also see the faint outline of my name tattooed on his chest. It’s not a small tattoo either. Jojo is spread across his chest in large letters with swirls all around it. He’s proud of that tattoo. Hell, I am too. Every woman that has been with him knows my name.
But he loses a lot of sex appeal to me when I see him on stage with a cigarette hanging from his fingers. I know he smoked for a while, years ago, but he quit when Qui
I move closer, pushing my way through the crowd. I want to be up front. I want him to see me. He needs to know I’m here. The jostling between bodies makes me nauseated, but I’m determined. I’m almost there when a female voice starts singing. The people around me calm down and start swaying.