Liam Nordstrom: June 5, 2013
When would the nightmare end? The press was relentless the last five days, following me everywhere I went and I was tempted to just sleep on a couch at the studio so that I wouldn’t have to deal with them. If it weren’t for Kelsey I would have done it. She and her roommate had a falling out and she needed a place to crash until they worked out their problems. Nak left for Toronto on Sunday and sending Kelsey back to the house alone to deal with the vultures would be kind of douchey.
The ordeal with the underage girl hadn’t been all bad, though. I was definitely getting my brand out there. Six different publicists had contacted me, over the last couple days, asking if I needed representation. I never really needed one before now. It’s not like I made millions of dollars or anything, and sharing what I did make wasn’t a priority for me. But I could see where it would be helpful to have someone to deal with the media.
Today, I met with the producers of my show for lunch. They said that Monday’s ratings were the highest ever, and they attributed it to all the publicity that I’d been getting. They told me to play it up as long as I could. The script was being reworked so that my character would get more screen time. They were patting me on the back and they didn’t seem to care if I was guilty or not as long as jail time didn’t conflict with filming. I guess it was all about the ratings.
Kelsey, on the other hand, questioned me about the candid shot of the girl in front of my motorcycle. She saw it the night I was grilled by the police. She thought it was odd that I had never met the girl and yet there she was next to my bike. I didn’t know how to explain it, but that didn’t stop me from trying.
“Anyone could have followed me somewhere and snapped a picture while I was in a restaurant or a store,” I said. “She’s a stalker.” I pushed Kelsey back on the bed and crawled up her until I was straddling her hips. “And really who wouldn’t want this?” I said unbuttoning my shirt and shrugging it off. But when I bent down to kiss her, her hand shot up, pushing against my chest. “What?” I asked.
“Your cockiness is exactly why everyone believes what that girl said about you.”
“Flaunt what ya got, I always say.” I leaned down again, but her hand stopped me a second time. “What?” Why did she want to talk? I wasn’t really in the mood to talk.
“My roommate told my dad that I was seeing you and he called me today. He thinks you’re a punk.”
“He doesn’t even know me.” I started unbuttoning her shirt. All I could think about was what her bright green bra was covering.
“My point exactly. I told him we’d have brunch with him on Sunday.”
I groaned and rolled onto the bed next to her. Way to ruin the mood. I wasn’t ready to meet her father. I barely accepted the fact that I couldn’t date other women and now I was meeting her family? “I told Will that I would meet him on Sunday. He’s going to help me strategize against the press.” I knew she could hear the lie in my voice.
“Call him. I’m sure he will understand. Daddy’s only going to be in town for the day.” Her voice made a sexy southern twang when she said “daddy” and I couldn’t help the smile that crept onto my face. I loved accents. It didn’t matter what they were. I once dated a girl who didn’t speak a hint of English, just because of how my name rolled off her tongue.
“You’ll go, right?” she asked.
“No.” I shook my head to emphasize my point.
She started buttoning her shirt. “It’s important to me, Liam.”
“Why would you want him to meet me? He’s not going to like me.” I propped my head up with my elbow against the bed and met her blue eyes. “I’m screwing his daughter. He’s going to hate me.”
“You won’t be screwing his daughter if you don’t go.”
“And women claim that they don’t use sex as a weapon.”
“I just want to show Daddy that you’re not like your character Ashton Post.” There was that twang again.
“So he’s a fan?”
“I wouldn’t call him a fan, but he does watch the show.”
“OK, who do you want me to be? The detached jerk, the doting boyfriend or the intellectual jock? Just pick one. I am an actor.”
“Just be Liam.” She touched my face and dragged her thumb across my lower lip. “I’m sure he would like you best. I do.”
It was easier to be a character than to be me, especially for “daddy.” I stared into her eyes for a full minute until the doorbell rang. I groaned again, realizing what I wanted wasn’t going to happen, and left the bedroom to answer the door. Still shirtless, I peeked out the side window to verify it wasn’t paparazzi and saw the two detectives from the other night on my doorstep. I instinctively looked around the room to make sure there wasn’t anything illegal sitting out in the open. Not that I had illicit drugs or firearms laying around, it was more of a reaction, like automatically braking when I spotted the CHP, just in case I was speeding. Convinced I was safe, I opened the door.
“Mr. Nordstrom, may we come in. We have additional questions from the other night,” the male detective stated. I remembered his name was Rodrigues.
I stepped aside and they filed in. As I led them to the living room the female detective said, “You have a nice place here. Do you rent or own?”
I was sure she already knew the answer. Why people played these games was beyond me. “A friend of mine owns it,” I said and they sat down on the leather sofa. “I’m pretty sure I can’t talk to you without my lawyer present.”
Rodrigues raised an eyebrow at my comment but didn’t respond until Kelsey settled by my side on the oversized chair. “We’re not here to talk to you. We’re here to talk to Mrs. Adams,” he stated.
I took out my phone and called my father. Of course, it went to voicemail, so I sent him a text instead. Being the lawyer he was, he avoided texting if possible. Texts could be subpoenaed so he frowned on them, but it was an emergency.
“It’s Ms. Adams,” said Kelsey.
“Oh, my mistake,” stated the officer. “We were just wondering, Ms. Adams, if you could identify Mr. Nordstrom’s motorcycle in this photo.” He held out a photo printed on plain white paper—the same as the one on the Internet.
“I can’t say whether it is his or not. Lots of bikes look alike.”
“Well, is that his license?” asked the female.
“I don’t know. Don’t you have the ability to look that up?” questioned Kelsey. The plate was pretty clear in the picture. I’m sure the girl made sure the angle was just right. And the detectives knew it was my bike. They saw it on the driveway and could have verified it there. They just wanted Kelsey to see the pic and have doubts so they could get her to change her story.
“The plate is mine and you know it. You walked right by it on your way in. That doesn’t mean I know the girl. I think we’re done here,” I said.
The detectives both rose and Rodrigues handed Kelsey his card, saying, “If you can think of anything else that you remember about that night give us a call, Ms. Adams.
I knew then that this wasn’t over. As the detectives left I started to wonder what connections the sixteen-year-old girl had. She had to be important for the police to pursue the case with my flawless alibi. Was she the police chief’s or a studio head’s daughter, or had I piss someone else off?
Copyright 2014 Susan Schussler
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