Again // Alice In Chains

Emily's words hang in the air.

"Guess we'll be shacking up."

I'm frozen in place, seeing the ruin of my entire career flash before my eyes. She'll have me hung out to dry on the cover of Star Tracker before the month is out.

Hell, before the first week wraps up.

The queen mother, Ms. Brooks, tsks at her daughter, breaking the stilted silence.

"Darling, please refrain from your insistence on the dramatics. No one is shacking up. How crude."

"Mother dearest," Emily waves her hand at me, "this fine male specimen," she wiggles her nose while dropping another salacious look directly at me, "will be living in my house. While I'm there. That's the definition of shacking up."

I lock my jaw, clenching the muscles in my neck to keep from reacting in any other visible way. A good bodyguard fades into the background. Being only one of four people in the room, it's impossible to disappear the way I'd like to. Silence is my only option.

"Ignore her," Ms. Brooks demands as she looks sympathetically toward Clinton and then me. "I've perfected the skill over the years."

"Not the flex you think it is, Mother dearest."

Ms. Brooks purses her lips while her eyelids flutter. I suppose that's the elite actress's version of an eye roll.

"I'd like to make it through the last few months of the year without being forced to open my wallet and pay off more reporters for their silence." Ms. Brooks over enunciates the last word while she glances over at her daughter. "These antics have become out of hand and I will not be dealing with them any longer."

"Throwing money at a problem isn't exactly dealing with it, Mother dearest."

I glance at Emily when she once again refers to her mom as Mother dearest. Who calls their mom Mother dearest? Based on the death glare in Emily's eyes as she says it, I have a feeling there's a story behind the term.

I roll my neck, letting the subtle crack soothe my irritation at the two women. This is not my circus. I don't need to worry about their drama. But I do need to make sure my client is protected. I look at Clinton, willing him to take control of the room and get this meeting over with. We could be here all day otherwise.

He catches my eye, nods his head knowingly and crosses his arms before clearing his throat.

"Let's get down to business," he says, his deep voice vibrating.

"Yes, let's." Ms. Brooks says.

Emily sighs but says nothing.

Finally.

Everyone sits around the boardroom style table except me. I stand by the window facing them, listening on. I'm not here to participate in discussing the plan, but as the lead on point I need to make sure all the actors know their roles.

Opening a file folder with his hand written notes, Clinton gets the meeting started. He's never been a fan of digital data, always worried about cyber stalkers. He says he trusts the locked fire safe in his closet more than encrypted codes. I don't know about that, but he's the boss so I do what he says.

Clinton opens his mouth to speak when Emily laughs.

"I'm under lock and key, right? With a 24/7 babysitter," Emily thumbs over to me, "this guy. What's there to go over? Sounds pretty much like basic house arrest. Again."

I shoot a look over at the socialite.

Again?

How many scandals has she been hiding from? And based on the payouts her mom mentioned, how many headlines have been killed before they saw the light of day?

I knew I'd have my hands full but this is unhinged.

I allow myself to look Emily up and down as Clinton reviews the details of her comings and goings, with all of her upcoming appearances tightly scrutinized. I refused to really look at her when I got here, knowing I was holding on to my sanity by a thread.

And now that I'm focused on her, I see she really is unhinged.

Her light brown hair twists in a messy bun, not unusual for starlets on their down days. We've all seen an A-list actress leaving the gym with this hairstyle. But what catches me off guard are the dark circles under her eyes, the red lining her eyelids a stark contrast to the ice blue of her irises, and the pale, almost sickly look to her skin. I wonder if she was on a bender recently, or if this whole drama has made her sick.

I'm sure it's the former. Her conscience isn't intune enough with her actions to make her sick over the potential fallout.

Emily's yoga pants and oversized sweatshirt look rumpled, as if she crawled out of bed dressed this way and didn't bother to change. I think I can make out orange stains on the neck of the sweatshirt. Melted cheese? Dust from bingeing Cheetos? I'm too far away to tell. Her unkempt appearance shouldn't be as concerning to me as it is. Emily is fully self-absorbed while also being completely detached from any and all societal expectations.

At least that's what the last headline declared. The one that reported her tendency to slide into DM's of famous men and wind up pictured on the cover in a less than respectable light. She's been hiding off grid ever since, other than last night's premiere which started a new round of headlines questioning her sobriety.

Her state-of-being in this office basically proves the gossip rag's point.

She's a hot fucking mess.

"But how will I be reassured she isn't out galavanting through the city? She cannot be trusted for more than 5 minutes alone." Ms. Brooks clicks her long, red fingernails against the clasp of her purse, which probably cost more than my car.

"Hello," Emily waves in her mom's face. "Right here. Still in the room. Not dead or passed out. Fully conscious."

"Well, yes. Today you are." Ms. Brooks tilts her head, condescension pouring out of her. "Darling, be honest. You must admit that you are in a spiral and my therapist can't prescribe me any more medication to deal with it."

"So, we're saying the quiet part out loud now? Got it." Emily leans back in her chair, crossing her arms and glaring at her mom.

"If the quiet part is that it's time for you to grow up and behave, then yes. We are."

Clinton and I share a look. This won't end well.

"I think we can end our discussion here. The plan is in place. Javier and I will head over to the house as soon as we're done with the notary." Clinton checks his watch. "Who should be here within the next few minutes. Anyone need a drink?" He coughs. "Um, water?"

"Peligrino would be lovely," Anita says while pulling her phone out of her purse and making a call.

"Vodka." Emily says, straight faced. She stares at her mother who doesn't offer a glance in return.

Clinton looks at me as he answers her. "Sorry. Fresh out."

Emily rolls her eyes. "I was kidding." She glares at her mother. "Bottled water. But none of that sparkling crap. I'm not European." She looks at me. "Paper cup, tap water, and ice. Please and thank you."

I nod sharply once and retreat from the room. Clinton follows as we head to the kitchenette next to reception.

"Holy shit." I can't help muttering the expletive as I fetch the woman's water.

Clinton grabs the sparkling variety requested by the queen mother. "Those two need therapy."

"Sounds like the mother has more than she needs."

"And the daughter hasn't had enough."

The two of us share a look. A long, suffering look. I'll be the one suffering in the clutches of a woman in a death spiral. Under normal circumstances, I'd feel sorry for her. But these aren't normal, and I don't.

Not really.

Okay, maybe a little.

"I hope she's out of Vodka at home, too. I have a feeling she was only half joking." I'd chuckle at my own joke, but it's really not funny.

"I have a theory," Clinton says, leaning in close and speaking in low tones.

"Drop it on me."

"She's trying to get the mom's attention."

My jaw drops. "Is that...I'm sorry." I shake the confusion away. "Was that not clear already?"

"Oh, you already knew that?" Clinton smirks. "Been paying close attention to the antics of Emily Montano?"

"Not paying close attention, no. But she's in a headline at the grocery store every other day, so..."

"Fair enough." Clinton checks his watch as we head back in with the waters, paper cup for Emily and crystal stemware for Anita. The dichotomy between them is strong.

Night and day.

Waters delivered, Clinton points me to a chair.

"The notary is here. We'll sign four copies of the NDA, one for each of us, then be on our way to Emily's house for the final details."

"There must be some miscommunication, my dear," Ms. Brooks presses her manicured nails against her chest. "I do not sign non-disclosure agreements. That's for those in my employ."

"Yeah," Emily says. "What she said."

"This has a clause added for the two of you." Clinton ushers in an older man in a suit who sets up a signature book and four sets of documents next to blue pens and an ink pad. "Bob here will take your driver's license and thumb prints for his book while you read over the clause. It's a simple statement so it shouldn't take long."

"What clause?" Ms. Brooks swipes up a document and scans the offending clause. "Well, this is rich."

"It's legally sound. Our lawyer added it this morning in light of the risk Mr. Ramos is putting himself in."

"What's going on?" Emily asks. "What does the clause say?" She doesn't bother grabbing one of the documents or even looking over her mom's shoulder to read. In fact, she looks almost...happy.

"If Mr. Ramos is put in any kind of compromising position due to any actions by Ms. Montano, this non-disclosure agreement is null and void," Ms. Brooks reads aloud in her most theatrical voice before glaring right at her daughter.

"What are you looking at me for? I didn't add it." Emily throws her hands in the air.

"It's in here because they don't trust you to behave like an adult."

"Or...do they expect I will act exactly like an adult?" Emily points to a spot on the document in Ms. Brooks' hands. "Compromising position? Sounds pretty adult to me." She smirks.

I cringe.

Thanks a lot, Jackie.

Couldn't our lawyer have worded it a different way? Any other way?

"Darling, compromising positions is what got you solitary confinement in the first place."

"I see we're back to saying the quiet part out loud."

Anita Brooks–legendary actress of stage and screen, daughter of the infamous Thomas Brooks, actor, director, producer from old Hollywood fame–shoots to her feet and glares daggers at her daughter. Daggers I'm guessing have been under lock and key the entire time we've been in this room, maybe longer, as she's tried to put on a public face for Clinton and me.

I think the masks have just come off. We're finally seeing the real mother/daughter relationship.

"This is the last step before I file for a conservatorship over you." Ms. Brooks takes the few steps across the room needed to tower over her daughter. The daughter who looks unruffled by the mother's tone and threatening glare. "I have dealt with every one of your tantrums but this is the last, do you hear me? No more 'compromising' positions with the staff. No more galavanting all over Hollywood with the dregs of the industry. No more testing positive for questionable substances, among other things."

The last line is the only thing Anita Brooks has said to her daughter that elicits more than a huff or a glare. Emily looks downright wounded by the substance testing comment. Even more pale than she was when she walked in, which is a feat in and of itself. I glance at Clinton to gauge his reaction and it isn't good. He looks ready to break the two of them apart. If I ranked higher on the totem pole in the room I might consider saying something. But as it is, I'm merely the "staff" according to Ms. Brooks, so I'm sure whatever I say would be immediately dismissed.

Thankfully, Clinton does his dad thing and puts an end to the tirade.

"Alright, I think we can get those signatures and you can be on your way, Ms. Brooks. Javier and I will escort Ms. Montano to her home for the final details."

The Hollywood royal straightens, her lips pursed as she runs a hand over her up-do to straighten it, although there isn't a hair out of place.

"Lovely." Ms. Brooks turns to the notary, ashen-faced for having witnessed the outburst between the famous pair. She glares at him. "I assume you'll be signing the NDA as well?"

The implication is clear. Not a word of what just happened is to spill out of the room.

"Of course, Ma'am." He chokes the words out.

The rest of us watch in thick silence as Anita Brooks signs the document and walks out without another word. A few seconds later, her voice rings through the room like the ghost of divas past as she snaps at Rachel to call for her driver. I hide the smirk as I hear Rachel snap right back.

"Already did."

Her tone is clipped. I can picture the stare off between the maven and our 4 foot 10 receptionist. Wish I could see it for myself.

I glance at Emily, expecting to see a satisfied smirk on her face after overhearing someone talk back to her mother. But my gut clenches when what I find is a tear rolling down her cheek and her eyes cast off into the corner.

This is a shit show. And it just became my day to day life for the foreseeable future.

These two... I can't wait for the co-habitation!!

I have to say, the backstory for each of them is strong, and much more detailed than I've had in a while. All of my characters have one which is so important for motivation and psyche of their reactions. It's key for a plantser like me who does not do detailed plots. The characters drive the story. However, the last time I went this deep was for Inevitable. And that story is clearly my best. I guess that's a sign I should do this more often!

Javier is still driving the playlist, but as we get to know Emily better, she'll show up too. He's thinking, again?, the entire chapter so I figured Again was a good choice.

[There should be a GIF or video here. Update the app now to see it.]

Thanks so much for reading! Come say Hi in my facebook reader group if you get a chance, Cynthia Ann's Friday Feels .