But no, she was out there. She just didn’t care that I was gone until now. That shouldn’t hurt worse than thinking she was gone, but it does. I guess it’s just one more layer of proof that she never wanted me unless I was useful to her.
So that begs the question… what does she want now?
“It’s been a long time—" I catch myself about to refer to her as ‘mom’ again, but I don’t want to give her the satisfaction. “Rhonda.”
“Oh baby, call me mom? I’ve missed you so badly. I know I wasn’t a great mom—"
I snort and mutter, “If that isn’t the understatement of the century.”
“I didnotraise you to disrespect your superiors,” she snaps. There it is. Fast as a whip, and sharper than a razor blade, my mother’s temper lashes out. But I’m not a kid anymore, and she doesn’t scare me.
“One, you didn’t raise me.Itook careyou. When you went on benders and threw up in your own vomit, I cleaned you up. I had to cover for you so you wouldn’t get fired and get us kicked out of the trailer.”
“I kept a roof over your head. So what if you had to help out here and there?” Her voice is icy.
“Here and there? That’s what you call it? By fifteen, I was working full-time after school to pay the rent since you were too busy drinking and smoking your disability checks away. And youstillstole from me.”
When she responds, the anger in her voice is thinly veiled, but I’m almost impressed that she hasn’t started screaming and throwing things yet. “I made mistakes, just like you. But I’m better now. I got help. I got clean, and then I came to find you.”
Just like you?The fucking audacity. “Mm-hm. Considering I’ve been living in the same city under my own name for the last decade, you’d think it would have been a whole lot easier to ‘find me’.”
“Don’t be sassy—"
I don’t wait to find out the rest of what she has to say before ending the call. She calls back, but I silence it and toss it to the end of the bed. Came to find me, my ass. The only reason that woman would come to find me is if she needs something and she thought she could scam it out of me.
Christ, I need a therapist. “Bubbles!” I call out, expecting to hear the sound of her paws racing over marble, but there’s nothing. “Crap,” I sigh. She’s being groomed today, which means she got whisked away this morning, and she’s being pampered like a princess right now. I just want a freaking snuggle buddy.
The phone keeps buzzing away by my feet. I glare at it, willing her to give up, but after a couple of minutes I realize that silencing the ringer isn’t going to be enough. I snatch it up.
“What? What could you possibly have to say that I would give a flying fuck about?”
“Is that your official comment?”
“What?” I hold my phone away from my ear and look at the screen. Unknown Caller. The male voice was startlingly deep, especially when I was expecting my mother’s shrill whiny tone. “Who is this?”
“Gary Barkley, TNZ. Do you have a response to the reports that actor/ singer Carson Jones has hired you as a professional companion?”
My body goes numb, and my head spins. “Excuse me?”
“Our reporting has uncovered that Mr. Jones paid you six hundred thousand dollars to be his live-in companion. What are the terms of your arrangement? How is the sex?”
“You really need to get better reporters,” I spit out before hanging up.
“Shit, shit, shit!” I mutter. Without hesitating, I tap Carson’s contact picture. It rings and rings and rings. “Come on…” It goes to voicemail, and I wait for the beep even though I don’t even know what to say.
“Leave a message.”
“Carson, it’s Aria. Duh, you probably know that. I just got a phone call from some asshat at TNZ. He’s claiming that you’re paying me to be his ‘professional companion’, which I’m pretty sure is code for whore, and—”
An invisible giant has his hand around my throat, and he’s squeezing harder and harder by the second. I know my voice sounds strangled, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Blood is pounding in my temples but refusing to reach my lungs. It goes all sludgy in my chest, sinking into my abdomen like a rock.
“Oh, Christ,” I whisper as the reality, and then the inevitable fall-out sink in. I’m so screwed. If this is published, I’ll forever be the high-priced escort that masquerades as a dog trainer. Goodbye respectable career in dog-training. Goodbye anonymity. I’ll have to leave LA. No, I’ll have to leave the country. Even then, I’m not sure I could escape this. Maybe if I build a treehouse in the darkest part of the Amazon, or find a cave in the Canadian wilderness…
I hang up the phone, my hands shaking so hard I can barely see the screen. He’s probably smack in the middle of his interview right now. Oh god, I hope they’re not grilling him on this. Maybe it’s not out in the open yet?
I google my name, and that rock in my stomach? It multiplies like bunnies on Viagra. The top link is a TNZ article titled:Carson Jones Mystery Companion Revealed!But the tagline is even worse. BREAKING NEWS!From trailer park princess to queen of the escorts, how Aria Ventimiglia conned one of Hollywood’s most beloved stars.
“No,” I murmur, clicking the link. The letters blur as it loads, and I realize it’s not the screen, it’s my eyes filling with tears. The article is brutal. I read through it, barely able to absorb it through my shock and anger.