30. Jameson
JAMESON
T his was, hands down, the strangest thing I’d ever done in my life. I was dressed in an expensive suit, about to walk my girl through a jungle of reporters at a studio party in L.A. It was a far cry from anything this kid from West Virginia had ever experienced before.
Leah Mae looked stunning. Her long gold dress shimmered when she moved, and her heels made her almost as tall as me. Bright red lips begged me to kiss them and with her hair up, the smooth skin of her neck taunted me. I wanted to lick her all over.
I hoped I was a good counterpart. My suit was nice—fit well. She’d told me a dozen or more times how good I looked. It wasn’t the most comfortable getup, but I appreciated it for what it was. Felt like I fit in—on the outside, at least.
As soon as we arrived at the hotel, a man in a slick suit appeared out of nowhere and snatched Leah Mae from her perch on my arm, pulling her aside.
Adrenaline pumped through my veins and I was ready to beat this guy’s ass.
I was back at her side in an instant, but she didn’t seem upset.
In fact, she was leaning in close so she could listen.
“Okay, sugar, here’s what you’re doing tonight,” he said.
“Be sweet as apple pie. Lean on those country roots a little bit. We want you likable, but not too friendly. Don’t answer direct questions about Brock.
Keep them guessing. Imply whatever you want with your nonverbal cues, but don’t deny or admit to anything. ”
She nodded.
“We have Brock and Maisie arriving shortly,” he continued. “They’re putting up a united front. Smile at Brock, but feel free to glare at Maisie when he’s not looking.”
Leah Mae just nodded again. I glanced at her. Was this for real?
The guy seemed to notice me for the first time. “As for you, just… don’t talk. Be the strong silent type.”
“Pardon me?” I asked.
He cringed. “Yeah, no talking.”
“Just who in the hell are you?”
“This is Rich Baumgartner,” Leah Mae said. “He’s one of the producers.”
“You’ve done beautifully, sugar,” Rich said. “We couldn’t have asked for anything better. Perfection, babe. Keep it up.”
He gave her a quick peck on the cheek and disappeared back into the crowd.
“Was that guy serious?” I asked.
“That’s just how he is,” Leah Mae said. “He doesn’t mean anything.”
“He told me to keep my mouth shut.”
“Don’t let him get to you.” She tucked her hand in the crook of my arm and squeezed. “Besides, you don’t want to talk to the press anyway.”
Before I could reply, she nudged us toward the waiting sea of reporters.
From the corner of my eye, I could see her smile.
It looked as fake as Misty Lynn Prosser’s boobs.
Made my back tense, and I reached up to stretch my shirt collar a bit.
I’d known I’d feel like a fish out of water, but it wasn’t just the unfamiliarity making me uncomfortable.
This whole place reeked of insincerity, and I didn’t like seeing Leah Mae playing into it so easily.
We started down the long walkway toward a photo backdrop with the studio logo. As soon as the first set of eyes hit Leah Mae, reporters swarmed like bees around a hive.
The first one to reach us, a woman with platinum blond hair and more makeup than I’d ever seen on one person, held up a small microphone.
“Leah, you look beautiful tonight,” she said.
“Thank you,” Leah Mae said, her red lips parting in a false smile.
“You’ve been quiet since Roughing It wrapped,” the reporter said. “Is it true you went into hiding when you found out the show was exposing your affair with Brock Winston?”
“After filming, I decided to take some time off,” she said. “I’ve been visiting family.”
“Have you seen Brock since the show ended?” she asked. “Did you attempt to continue your relationship?”
“Like I said, I’ve been visiting family. Filming the show was a great experience. I enjoyed meeting the entire cast and we all had a great time, even though it was a challenge.”
We moved on and another reporter stepped forward. Leah Mae kept her hand tucked in my arm and tilted her chin. Too late, I realized people were taking our picture. I tried not to fidget.
“Leah, you’ve been subjected to a significant backlash since the infamous back room episode aired,” the next reporter said. She had more makeup than the first. “Do you feel the vitriol was deserved?”
“There have been a lot of comments and opinions shared about the show,” she said. “I’m just glad people have been enjoying it. Mostly, I try to project the positivity that I’d like to see in the world.”
“Is this Jameson Bodine?” the reporter asked, turning her gaze on me. “How did you meet Leah?”
I opened my mouth to reply, but Leah Mae cut in.
“We’re old friends,” she said.
“Jameson, what do you think about the accusations against your father?” the reporter asked. “Do you believe he murdered Callie Kendall?”
“Well, I—”
“The Bodine family has mourned the loss of Callie Kendall for the last twelve years,” Leah Mae said, cutting me off again. “Just like the rest of Bootleg Springs.”
And before I could say another word, we were moving on down the line again.
The rest was much of the same. Questions about Brock and Maisie.
About her connection to Bootleg Springs.
About me, or my father. In every case, Leah Mae gave the same non-answers.
Her voice was hollow, and her words sounded practiced, like she was reading from a script.
She smiled, turned her chin, posed for pictures.
I stayed quiet, merely tipping my head to the reporters. Felt a bit like an accessory and didn’t much like it. But I figured she was just trying to get us through as quick as she could.
A stir went through the crowd, and heads turned toward the entrance. I recognized the couple who’d come in. Brock Winston and Maisie Miller.
Brock was shorter than they made him look on TV. Dark blond hair. A cocky half-smile. He was dressed like he didn’t give a shit that this was a formal event. Sunglasses, a leather jacket, and black jeans.
His wife, Maisie, looked like a porcelain doll. Shiny dark hair, smooth skin, and blue eyes that almost seemed too big for her face. Her bright red dress didn’t leave much to the imagination.
They walked in, all smiles, and were soon surrounded by reporters, much like we were.
It was hard to tell what Brock was looking at, with his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, but I had a feeling he was glancing over at us in between answering questions.
Maisie seemed to be pretending we didn’t exist.
By the time we got to the photo backdrop, my back was stiff, and my palms hurt from clenching my fists. I took a deep breath and tried to relax.
Leah Mae gave my arm a squeeze. “You’re doing great.”
We stood for a minute, and I had no idea which way to look. It seemed as if there were a hundred cameras. I concentrated on Leah Mae, like I was just a pedestal for her to stand on so she could look her best. Despite my brief brush with notoriety, she was the one people were here to see.
There were a few more people to talk to once the photos were done.
I wasn’t sure who they were—reporters or people from the studio, or perhaps a bit of both.
Leah Mae kept right on smiling and talking like she’d been told by the producer.
Didn’t say much of substance or answer hard questions.
And she certainly didn’t deny that she’d had an affair with Brock.
Which led me to wondering… why not?
“The worst is over,” she said as we walked down a short hallway. “There won’t be any press for the rest of the night. ”
There were already dozens of people in the ballroom where the private party was being held.
Tables were set with white linens and fancy dishes.
The lights were low, and music hummed in the background—just loud enough to intrude on conversation, but not loud enough that we’d need to yell over it.
I recognized several other cast members from Roughing It .
A few stood together, talking near the bar.
Rudy Barron, the basketball player, stood talking to another man, with a woman who looked to be his wife—or at least his date—at his side.
Everyone was dressed in suits and formal dresses, and most had drinks in their hands.
A drink sounded like just the thing—a nice glass of whiskey to take the edge off—but someone stopped Leah Mae to chat almost as soon as we got into the room.
My mind wandered from her conversation. No one wanted to talk to me, anyway. More people came in. A few I recognized, but most I didn’t. I reckoned they were more people who worked for the studio.
I adjusted my jacket. The air in the room felt thick, making it a bit hard to breathe.
People wandered past, some greeting Leah Mae—calling her Leah, of course.
Something about that grated at me, but she never corrected anyone.
Of course, to these people, that’s who she was, and she seemed to be determined to keep playing their game.
We worked our way deeper into the room, and I started to wonder how long this was going to last. I had no idea what was supposed to happen at a studio party.
Would we just shift around the room, making small talk with different people?
How long did she need to stay in order to feel like she’d done what she had to do?
I wanted to ask her, but a couple of the other cast members were chatting her up about the show.
I glanced toward the entrance just in time to see Brock and Maisie walk in.
She held onto his arm like she was afraid of letting go.
He finally pulled those damn sunglasses off his face.
Dark as it was in here, he probably couldn’t see enough to walk with them on.
He tucked them in the inside pocket of his leather jacket and led his wife into the room.