Page 40 of I Think He Knows
But to be entirely honest, he deserved it.
I’d like to say that it was a slick, one-and-done, alpha move. Like Ryan Gosling’s character inCrazy, Stupid, Love, when he calmly takes off his ring and decks Kevin Bacon right in the mouth to avenge his friend Steve Carell.
It was not.
My fist connected with Steven’s cheekbone, and he staggered backwards. And for a moment, I felt proud of myself. I was defending Lana Mae’s honor. Not that she’d asked me to.
But things then took a turn for the worse. Because when Steven hit the floor with a satisfyingthunk!, his rat friends appeared out of nowhere and grabbed my arms, pinning them behind my back.
I’m strong, but it wasn’t like I could take three of them.
Steven picked himself up off the bar’s grimy floor and proceeded to let his fists fly at my face until the bouncers separated us. By then, I was spitting blood all over my shirt, but I continued to yell and curse at him like a lunatic through my busted lip and bloody nose.
That was the photograph that made it into every entertainment news article in the nation the next morning—me, snarling and feral and looking every inch the villain. The headlines that accompanied that freaking picture went a little something like, “Sex, drugs and Rock n Roll throwdowns: Hollywood’s bad boy drunk, violent and out of control in Sin City!”Others questioned if I was on my way to rehab.
It was total B.S. But there was no way to make the situation look any better for me because, not only was everyone reporting me to be the troublemaker, there was also the tiny little detail that I started it. The physical part of the altercation, at least.
But the media only had a sliver of the real story instead of the entire pie.
The thing is, I wasn’t drunk or out of control. I knew exactly what I was doing when I hit him. Hearing the filthy words “that stupid slut” come out of Steven’s filthy mouth in regards to the best person in the world would’ve made any good man see red.
I’m not justifying violence, but I couldn’t very well stand there and let him talk about Lana Mae—the mother of his freaking child—like that.
Like I said, he deserved it. And I know I could have reacted differently. More calmly. But I’m also saying that if those words ever dared leave his lips again, I’d do the same thing.
If all those stupid gossip writers making me out to be an awful person knew the truth, knew how horribly Steven had treated Lana—how he cheated on his pregnant girlfriend then washed his hands of his daughter—then maybe, they would’ve been a bit more understanding of what I did. Framed me as the Peter Pan instead of the Captain Hook of the story.
But they didn’t know. And I would never tell them.
When Elena asked me whatreallyhappened that night so that we could release our own statement (after confirming, of course, that my injuries weren’t permanent and therefore wouldn’t keep me from doing my job), I clammed up. Said I was drunk and stupid and looking for a fight.
No way was I letting Lana Mae get dragged into the tabloids because of my actions.
And I was successful in protecting her from it all…
Until now.
There’s no doubt in my mind that this whole fake engagement situation started because of my stupid lie and what happened in Vegas, but I can’t understand how the hell we gothere. I need answers. And if anyone’s going to have them, it’s Elena. And I intend to arrive at Lana’s place in a few minutes with both filet mignon and an explanation.
“Carter, finally.” Elena’s voice sounds impressively crisp through the ancient, fuzzy sound set-up in my Jeep. “We really need to talk.”
“That we do,” I respond, echoing Lana Mae’s words earlier as I drum my fingers on the steering wheel.
I used to hate having serious talks with people. To the point where it’s actually pretty funny that I ended up in a job that revolves around communication.
But the only reason I learned to act in the first place wasavoidanceof real communication. My parents are decent people, but I don’t think they ever really wanted a child. They worked long hours, and from a young age, I got pretty good at being independent and fending for myself. As a result, I never really felt like I had a family who were there for me. It also meant that I spent a lot of time alone with big feelings that I thought nobody wanted to hear… so I figured out how to mask how I felt. I figured out how to put up a wall and guard everything inside it.
It worked. But it also kept the people in my life at arm’s length. Friends were surface level, romantic prospects were flings with no strings. Keeping to myself was the safer option.
And then, I met Lana Mae. I don’t know if it was the fact that she was going through some serious crap at the time, but she was honest and raw and real and vulnerable with me from the get-go. In turn, I discovered the first person that I could actually talk to without feeling naked and exposed.
But today, maybe for the first time ever, I’m feeling stripped bare at the thought of having a serious talk with Lana. I’m Adam in the garden of Eden, shuffling around bashfully while clutching my modesty. Only I have zero wisdom as a result of my own actions.
“I’ll start,” I tell Elena. “What’s going on? What the hell happened to the story ofFreyaand me being engaged?”
“Yeah.” Elena sucks her teeth. “A few things got lost in translation, it appears. Which we actually do need talk about: translation. Are you still taking those Mandarin classes for that—”
“Elena, what happened?” I repeat steadily. I don’t want to sound accusing or aggressive as I don’t know what part, if any, Elena played in orchestrating this, but I also have no time for her to get sidetracked right now.