Friends & Fauxs Read online

  Lydia took another hit of coke and wrote:

  Even before marrying a mega-rich media mogul and becoming an Oscar-nominated actress, Gillian Tillman-Russell was accustomed to lights, cameras, and a lot of action. The former runway model grew up gallivanting around the globe with her flamboyant mother and a series of increasingly wealthy stepfathers. After her acting career failed to launch, Gillian married the wealthy film producer Brandon Russell, who used his money, power, and connections to make her the hottest new actress to grace Tinseltown. Before their “I dos” were exchanged—along with the brilliant ten-carat diamond ring—and before the red carpets were walked, amid throngs of frenzied paparazzi, Gillian must have wondered whether her smooth-talking Svengali was also a money-laundering schemer as alleged by authorities.

  Hip hop impresario Brandon Russell is a hustler’s hustler. Born in the squalor of Mississippi’s ghettos, he used street smarts to transform a wannabe rapper’s raunchy single into an iconic multimillion-dollar record label, and since then has taken up residence amid the pristinely manicured lawns of Beverly Hills. Underneath Brandon’s Brioni suits and carefully crafted demeanor, quietly lies a ruthless and cunning manipulator whose skeletons may outnumber the expensive designer garments in his expansive walk-in closet. What about Gillian? Is her fairy-tale marriage a deal with the devil that she might be unable to keep? Or is she just as apt a wizard herself?

  Lydia loved it. She felt powerful; with a keystroke she now had the ability to strike back at her enemies—and, unfortunately for her, multiply their number.

  Chapter 20

  “Gillian, look who’s here!” Brandon said, gesturing to a tall, attractive, brown-skinned woman, who walked into the office alongside him. “CoAnne’s agreed to rejoin the team.”

  CoAnne Wilshire had been Gillian’s publicist from the start, but she left the business last year to be a full-time stay-at-home mom. It didn’t take long for her to discover that slaying dragons on a daily basis was much easier than chasing a manic toddler.

  Gillian nearly ran to the door, hugging CoAnne tight. It had been a while since they’d seen each other. “I’m so glad you’re back!” Gillian said, truly meaning it. She’d gotten a harsh lesson in PR over the last couple of weeks and truly missed CoAnne’s sound judgment and strategy.

  “We’ve got to get busy, honey,” she said, taking a seat at the mahogany conference table in Brandon’s office. “There’s a lot of work to do. I leave you guys alone for a year and look what happens,” she teased.

  Her direct approach was definitely refreshing, since nowadays everyone went out of their way to suck up to Gillian. CoAnne reminded her of Paulette—not only were they both publicists, but each had a take-no-prisoner’s personality. “Well, let’s get started,” she said.

  “First and foremost, I don’t want you talking to anyone outside of your immediate family without discussing it with me first.”

  “What about my father?”

  “Especially your father. I realize that you probably want to reach out to him, but we’ve got to manage that very carefully. First and foremost, we have to put it out there that you had no idea he was alive, otherwise you look like a blatant liar. Not exactly upstanding Oscar material.”

  “So, do we admit to the world that my scheming mother lied to me?”

  “That’s up to you, my dear, though we could insinuate that even she believed he was dead, if you don’t want to throw her all the way under the bus,” which was exactly where she belonged, CoAnne thought, based on what she’d heard about the shrew. After hearing through the very busy PR grapevine what happened to Lydia, CoAnne insisted to Brandon that Imelda not be allowed to attend any PR meetings.

  For the first time since the introductions Brandon spoke up. “Do you think it’s wise to have Gillian have any contact with the man at all? He looks like a country bumpkin, not exactly a boost to her glamour image.”

  Gillian turned and glared at him. How dare he talk about her father, when his upbringing wasn’t exactly in a country club! Then she realized that that was the very reason he didn’t want her in contact with Arthur, it might just be too close for comfort, akin to looking in the mirror.

  “It’s imperative that Gillian initiate contact with her father, otherwise she will come across as a stuck-up, heartless little bitch, who the public will turn on quicker than you can say All About Eve.”

  Both Gillian and Brandon nodded in agreement.

  “But what we can do is set some preconditions. We can have him meet at an undisclosed location that we select and secure, and we can have him sign a confidentiality agreement. And if you like, I can meet with him first to determine if he might have a hidden agenda.”

  “That sounds like a good idea,” Brandon said, again nodding his head.

  “Good, now for more pressing matters.” CoAnne leaned back and fixed Gillian with an unrelenting stare. “Is there anything potentially embarrassing that I should know about?” she asked. “And we can talk privately if you’d prefer.”

  “No, this is fine. I have nothing to hide,” she said, though she shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

  “Are you sure?” CoAnne raised an eyebrow. “I can only help if I know what I’m up against.”

  “I’m positive,” Gillian answered adamantly. Where was CoAnne going with this? Gillian wondered. She’d certainly had enough surprises lately.

  Suddenly, Brandon sat up in his chair, knitting his brow. First his perfect wife was spotted on the streets with some slick-looking Italian stud, and then a country bumpkin father shows up. Was there something else that he didn’t know about? He fixed her with a prematurely accusatory look.

  “Then, can you please explain this before I have to?” CoAnne tossed three photos across the table. “They just appeared on the Internet this morning.”

  Gillian picked up one and Brandon picked up the other two. Their mouths dropped open in sudden shock. Each photo contained graphic nude shots of Gillian. In one picture she cupped her breasts suggestively, while staring seductively into the camera’s lens. In another shot she was laid back on a red velvet couch with her hands between her legs and her back arched, seemingly in the throes of an orgasm. The third one showed her standing naked facing a wall. Her behind was on full display as she looked back over her shoulder wearing a come-hither expression.

  Gillian’s eyes were glued to the lurid pictures of herself. Pictures that she didn’t pose for. She shook her head in denial, confusion muddling her thoughts. She was too stunned for words of denial to form in her brain and then leave her lips.

  “Goddamnit, Gillian,” Brandon hissed, tossing the pictures onto the table as though they were toxic. “How the fuck could you do this?” he demanded. The only thing missing was the steam that should have been spewing from his ears. He was livid!

  “B-but, th-th-that’s not me,” Gillian stammered, still confused as to how photos that looked exactly like her weren’t. If she were a druggie, she might have convinced herself that maybe at some point she took the pictures and just didn’t remember. But she wasn’t. She was a moderate wine drinker and had always stayed away from drugs.

  “Don’t lie to me, Gillian. It looks just like you.” Brandon was beyond pissed off; his blood was boiling. After all he’d done to make her a star, she had to go and pull some fucking Paris Hilton shit. Not only could this destroy their chances of winning the Oscar, and taint her career, but now he looked like a damned fool.

  He’d always relished the jealous gazes of other men whenever he was with Gillian, but now they’d surely be laughing behind his back instead. The whole world was going to see his precious Gillian naked. He felt like such an idiot. All this time he thought he had a princess, but Gillian was turning out to be more of a porn star pauper.

  Through her confusion Gillian could clearly see that her husband had already tried and convicted her. “Brandon, I did not take these pictures,” she insisted. When he didn’t answer she narrowed her eyes and challenged, “Are you calling
me a liar?”

  “If the fucking shoe fits,” he snapped. “Oh, but I forgot you didn’t have on any shoes, or clothes, or fucking underwear for that matter.”

  She’d had enough. Gillian stood up ready to confront him and let the chips fall where they may. “Don’t you dare talk to me that way!” she spat.

  Wanting to avoid the clash of the titans, CoAnne stood up to intervene. “You guys, this yelling isn’t going to help anything, so let’s all calm down.” She fixed Gillian with a stern look, until she sat back down in her chair. Then she turned to Brandon. “You know, there is such a thing as Photoshop. It is entirely possible that Gillian’s image was altered to fit someone else’s body. Need I remind you, this is the digital age.”

  Still fuming, Brandon at least leaned back in his chair.

  “How do we prove it?” Gillian asked.

  “I know an expert in digital fraud that I can contact. I’ll also see if we can determine who put the photos up, that could help, too. Meanwhile, I’ll put out a statement, something to the effect of, ‘Mrs. Tillman is very upset by the blatant misuse of her image and will seek full recourse from those involved.’ If anyone contacts you directly, you refer them to me, and if you’re forced to say anything, it should be ‘I don’t comment on impending legal matters.’ And Brandon, you should get your legal team on this as well.”

  For the first time, Gillian fully understood the full specter of gloom that descended on her that sunny Mediterranean day on Midas Touch after she was nominated. Somehow she’d realized even then that all that glittered wasn’t gold; even small golden statues could be tarnished.

  Chapter 21

  Reese stood solemnly on one side of Rowe’s bed holding on to his increasingly fragile hand, while Chris, eyes bloodshot red, stood on the other, barely holding on himself. Though Reese had called to tell him of the events over the last week, nothing could have prepared him for the sight of their energetic, vibrant son in such a gaunt, colorless, and motionless state.

  “Daddy, when can I go home?” Rowe pleaded. Though he didn’t know the extent of his illness, he knew that being in the hospital was not a good thing.

  “Soon, son, soon. Dr. Young just wants to make sure that you’re ready for soccer when you leave,” Chris answered, choking back the threat of tears.

  Thankfully, Rowe had drifted back off to sleep before the stream of tears emerged.

  The last time Chris had seen Rowe, three weeks ago when the Knicks were playing the Lakers, he’d gone to one of Rowe’s soccer games, where he’d been even more impressive than usual since his dad was looking on. The kid lying here now bore no resemblance at all to the one he knew so well. His flesh and blood.

  Chris’s millions of dollars, throngs of fans, and stratospheric fame meant nothing compared to the agony of watching his only child drift away from him. He didn’t even bother to wipe away the torrent of tears that streamed unchecked down his face, then gathered around the collar of his shirt, where they lingered before being absorbed into the fabric.

  Though she wanted to ignore Chris’s presence in Rowe’s critical care room, particularly since the testy question of paternity loomed ahead, Reese couldn’t help but feel his misery, hurt, anger, and, most pressing, his love. There was no doubt that Chris loved Rowe in that unconditional way that all great fathers did.

  At that moment guilt—an emotion she’d never wasted time on—consumed her. She wanted to cross to the other side of the bed, reach out to Chris, and hold him, and then apologize for how she’d used him, and maybe even tell the truth, that he might not be Rowe’s father at all. But she stayed transfixed, glued to the spot where she stood.

  “Rowe, can you hear me?” Chris asked.

  There was a barely perceptible move as Rowe’s eyelids fluttered weakly.

  “The sedative has kicked in. It helps with the nausea and vomiting from the chemo,” Reese explained.

  Just then Dr. Young walked in the door and joined Chris on his side of the bed.

  “He’s going to be okay, right?” Chris pleaded, as though it were strictly the doctor’s choice.

  “We’re going to do everything we can.” Dr. Young patted Chris’s back comfortingly.

  “I took my test as soon as I landed yesterday.”

  “I know. We just got the results.”

  Both Chris and Reese pulled away from their grief for the moment it took to reach out for hope.

  “You’re not a match, either, Chris. I’m sorry,” Dr. Young said, reaching up to pat Chris’s broad, muscular shoulder. They visibly slumped. Truth be told, he would have given bone marrow and anything else he had to save his son, including his millions and his fame.

  Reese almost ceased to breathe. She had prayed that Chris would be a good bone marrow match for Rowe. Now she prayed that the question of paternity would not be raised.

  “So, what do we do now?” she asked, desperately wanting to change the subject away from matching, which was tenuously close to the conversation that she truly dreaded, DNA.

  “Why don’t you both go have dinner since Rowe is asleep now. We’ll watch over him and if there are any changes, of course, we’ll call you. Meanwhile, I’ve already started the search through the national database.”

  “But how long does that take?” Chris asked.

  “It could take a while,” Dr. Young admitted.

  “Do we have that much time?”

  “Possibly not.”

  Chris collapsed into the chair behind him, lowering his face into his hands. The tears ran down his face like an angry river. Rowe was the love of his life, the son he’d always wanted. And now that—thanks to Paulette and Reese—he’d been dragged out of the closet, it was unlikely he’d ever have another son to carry on his name and bloodline. And even if he could, no child could ever replace Rowe. He loved his son more than life itself and would without question lay his own life down for that of his child’s.

  “Reese, can I see you for a moment?” Dr. Young asked.

  “Sure.” They left Chris immersed deep in his well of sorrow.

  Once they reached a private office, Dr. Young sat Reese in a chair on one side and settled himself into one on the opposite side. “Is there something you want to tell me?” he asked. His trademark warmth was nowhere to be found.

  “What are you talking about?” Reese asked, though in her gut, she knew precisely what the good doctor meant.

  “Somehow, I don’t think this will be a news flash to you, but Chris is not Rowe’s father.”

  Reese leaned back in her chair. There was really nothing much to say. Her worst fears had been realized, though not fully since Chris still didn’t know the truth. “I wasn’t really sure.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this last week?” he demanded, snatching his ever-present glasses off of his face.

  “I was hoping that I was wrong.”

  “When your son’s life hangs in the balance, hope isn’t enough.”

  “What would it have changed?” Reese asked sheepishly.

  “To begin with, I would have started the national search immediately, rather than considering that one of two parents might come through.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “I suggest that you begin by doing something that may be a bit foreign to you, and that is put your child’s interests ahead of your own.”

  His words stung Reese, deeply. But there was nothing that she could say to defend herself. Her actions were simply indefensible.

  “Who you sleep with is your business and not mine, but when your selfishness jeopardizes my patient’s life, guess what? It does become my business. That being said, what I need to know is who is Rowe’s father?”

  “Why is that important?” Reese asked sullenly.

  “It’s only important if you give a damn about your son’s life. Your mystery man could hold the key to it.”

  She had never considered that possibility, and the thought terrified her in more ways than one.

  Dr. Young replac
ed his glasses and contained his mounting anger, since it would do nothing to cure Rowe. “Reese, finding a donor in the national database is a long shot, based on the amount of time Rowe has. Unfortunately, his disease is very aggressive, so his biological father may be his best hope.”

  The mere thought of divulging Rowe’s father’s identity was paralyzing to Reese. Not only would it affect her monthly checks, but worse, it would ruin a few other lives in the process. She’d lost so much in the last few years, and hurt so many people with her actions, that the inevitable devastation that revealing Rowe’s father would cause was more than she could take. But if she truly loved Rowe, she couldn’t think about anyone else.

  Dr. Young stood up. “I’ll leave you to think about that.”

  Reese stopped him before he reached the door. “Are you going to tell Chris that he isn’t Rowe’s father?”

  “I would much rather you do that. My interest is in the welfare of my patient, which means finding out if his real father is a match. And for Rowe’s sake, I pray that he shows up, and more importantly that he can help save his son’s life.”

  This time he left the room, closing the door behind him, leaving Reese alone with her rattling skeletons.

  Chapter 22

  “That’s it, baby, touch her breasts. That’s it, right there,” Max coached. His commentary was the soundtrack to the rapid snapping of pictures of Charli making out with another woman. The blonde seemed to really be into it, while Charli was merely going through the motions. Not that she’d never been with another woman, it was just that she felt very uneasy, given the circumstances.

  After Max convinced Charli that Gillian and Imelda were in fact her sister and mother, he stoked the simmering flames of resentment and anger at being the one left behind. He riled her up with half-baked stories of the two of them jet-setting around the world, living the high life amid glamour, wealth, and royalty. By the time he pieced together the story, based on what little he remembered from conversations with Lauren, and then enhanced, Imelda was Princess Grace and Gillian was Princess Stephanie. How dare they gallivant around the globe without a care in the world, while poor Charli was stuck in the boondocks fighting off a pedophile father and dealing with a distant, religious fanatic but well-meaning adoptive mother. Before it was all said and done, according to Max, it was both Imelda and Gillian’s fault that she was a stripper.