He then told us about the accident. The driver of the SUV was one of the security people who worked for Zander Lewis. Several of the people in our car saw Zander and the other security guy bail and run off when they discovered I’d been hurt. The driver, probably from prior experience with Zander, quickly figured out Zander was going to cut him loose and hang him out to dry, so he’d told Fritz everything. Zander had wanted to send a forceful message to Halle, and things had gotten out of hand. When the police arrived, the driver repeated his story to them. Zander and the other security guard were now missing.
“Dear Lord, the press must be going crazy,” I guessed.
“It’s only a matter of time. At least we were inside the gates. Residents of Malibu Colony pay to keep the paparazzi out. The press will know soon, though. They have sources in the police departments, and you, Halle, and Zander being tied to a traffic accident involving some pretty severe injuries will garner considerable attention,” Fritz said.
◊◊◊
My dad helped me to the bathroom so I could shower. I quickly figured out that I would need some help in the short term because I couldn’t even put my pants on or tie my shoes without almost crying. I think if I’d just had the hip pointer or cracked ribs, I might have been able to deal with the pain when I tried to walk or move. With both, it was like trying to juggle chainsaws while walking in six-inch high heels. Every move I made felt dangerous. If I did anything too quickly or did more than shuffle my feet, I was in tears.
As a parting gift, my doctor gave me a couple of boxes of sample pills for pain. Those would hold me over until I got home and could go to the pharmacy. Mom had warned him what not to give me. It was probably best that I didn’t become chatty in the mood I was in. They put my arm in a sling and made me ride out in a wheelchair. I say ‘made,’ but the truth was I would have never been able to walk out.
“Well, shit,” Fritz said as we got close to the exit.
For Fritz to cuss, you knew it had to be bad news. I could see the paparazzi were waiting outside. I think people could almost make a living tipping them off. One of the hospital staff was more than likely responsible.
“Mom, you go get in the car first,” I suggested.
“Why?” she snapped.
How do you tell your mom that you don’t want her embarrassing you by going postal? I was sure that when the paparazzi went into a frenzy, she would have some choice things to say or might even pop a couple of them in the nose. Luckily, Dad figured it out and put his foot down. From the look she gave him, I was glad she wasn’t my wife.
Mom slipped through the crowd and got into the SUV that Fritz had brought today. She pulled it around so that we didn’t have to navigate the parking lot with paparazzi hounding us.
“Showtime!” I announced.
Fritz led the way, and Dad pushed the wheelchair. Thankfully, there was only a handful of them. That didn’t stop them from being rude and trying to push Fritz out of the way. He quickly made them realize that that wasn’t a good idea.
“David, why are you in LA? Are you and Halle James back together?” one of the paparazzi shouted.
“The usual reasons: the weather, California girls, and Mexican food.”
“Seriously?” another asked.
This wasn’t good. Frank would have my ass for blurting out something that foolish. I slowly realized my pain meds had kicked in, and it felt like I was halfway in the tank, as if I’d just drunk a six-pack of beer. Suddenly, it seemed funny, and I laughed. I was so screwed.
“No. I came on a recruiting trip to USC,” I explained, trying to get it back together.
“Are you and Halle back together?” the first one repeated.
“I’m actually dating someone else. Halle and I are close friends.”
“Does your girlfriend know you’re cheating on her?”
I made a brief scan of the area, as though looking for her.
“I did not have sexual relations with that woman,” I said in my best Bill Clinton imitation.
No one ever thought that was funny. Of course, the reference was from before I was born. Believe it or not, I’d met President Clinton when I was about six. He must have been campaigning for someone, and I’d been with my granddad. I’d liked him. The man knew how to make you feel special, and he’d taken a moment to talk to me. Later, my granddad had been joking around with his buddies, and someone had spoken the now-famous line. It had stuck in my head. It was a sad reminder that I would have to be careful about what I said around my boys. I didn’t want to repeat something inappropriate to the press.
“Sorry,” I said. “They gave me some hefty pain meds, and I think they’re kicking in.”
I made sure I looked appropriately sorry. I can be a better actor than I sometimes let on.
“So, you did cheat on your girlfriend?”
“My girlfriend was with me in the car. It’s hard to ‘cheat,’” I said, doing air quotes, “when she’s right there. I would never do that to her, anyway.”
One of them made some rude remark, and that triggered my rant.
