Page 57 of For The Record

“You could feed anonymous rumours to the press,” he says thoughtfully, dipping a fry in ketchup. “I’m sure you have the contacts.”

“You want to help me take down your father based only on my word?” It unsettles part of me. How easily he agrees with this.

How deep does this streak against his father run? How deeply embedded is his need for retaliation against him?

“He’s not my father,” he says tersely. “Not in the ways that matter. And I think he’s had it coming. But it’s your sister’s place to tell, isn’t it? It’s not our place to reveal.”

“Maybe not, but—” He’s giving me 180-degree whiplash. “I just don’t know what to think.”

Leo drops my hand, taking a bite of his burger. I can’t even care about this tiny rejection when my sister’s life is at hand.

“I just don’t know if this is about your father or my sister.”

“What?” His brows knit together.

“Are you agreeing to help me out of some vendetta against him, or because you think I’m telling the truth?” I work in a world of lies told to seem true and truth covered up to conform to a narrative. Can I even trust myself or am I seeing what I want to see? What I’ve been conditioned and frightened into believing: that every man in Hollywood is a perverted playboy and every woman is a possible victim?

“Skye, this is bigger than either of our motives or biases.” His green eyes are wide, imploring me to trust him. Or is that, too, what I want to believe?

I nod. “Of course.”

But worry wraps around me all the same, anxiety coiling up in my stomach and preparing for a long stay.

“If he’s hurting your sister — any woman — he needs to be brought to justice.”

Before I can reply, or even process the weight of everything that’s happened today, my phone rings. We both jump. I stare at it like it’s a bomb, seconds from detonating. Isabelle’s name flashes across the screen. “I’m going to take this.”

“Skye, can you help me put out a press statement? It’s about Antonio Perez… And there’s no one else I trust.”

#

@E!News: BREAKING: Antonio Perez, renowned film director of 2012’s Mad Dogs and 2016’s Under the Water, accused of sexual harassment by the cast of Entangled. Isabelle Holland, the 29-year-old leading actress and daughter of Samuel Holland, has made serious allegations that Perez pressured her to sleep with him in order to be cast on his new TV series. Other members of the cast and crew have backed up her allegations.

@TTang: #TimesUp for Antonio Perez and all the other pervs in Hollywood

@OllieJames: I wonder how much of an open secret this was… #AntonioPerezSexualAssaultAllegationre.

Chapter 27: Leo Perez

#IBelieveAlinais warring with#AntonioPerezSexualAssaultAllegationsfor the top trend on Twitter. After Skye helped her sister put out a press release, we were hit with another bombshell. Alina went to the press and said I was fomenting a hostile workplace environment.

I shut the laptop, dry-eyed from staring at a screen for twelve hours straight. I’ve been at the office since eight-thirty and I switch to staring out the window. It’s nine pm, but the day is still roaring in Los Angeles. Or rather, the nightlife is just beginning. My brain doesn’t register the cars going by, cyclists whizzing along, palm trees swaying, or pedestrians trying to cross.

No, the only thing my mind registers is the betrayal.

Alina. Alina must be the one who stabbed me in the back. Who else could it be? Didn’t I have this very thought and dismiss it?

Something burns under my skin, seething, threatening to destroy everything around me. I grab my jacket and exit my office. No one is there but a janitor pushing a mop and bucket on wheels around the building.

The elevator takes a century to reach the ground floor. I clock out and wait for the anger in me to cool, but it never does, no matter how many calming breaths I take. Getting in my car, I drive until I don’t know where I am until all I see is the flashing lights and blinking neon signs of Sunset. All the designer shops are closed now, the shining logos of LV and Gucci reflecting against the scant rays of moonlight. People bustle around, some holding drinks, others begging for money. I spot an OPEN UNTIL 3 AM sign at what looks like a bar, next to a flashy club. Moving on, I keep driving until I reach a ritzier part of town, one filled with trendy nightclubs and bottle girls who double as ‘exotic dancers’ if you tip enough. I pick one at random called the Ace and enter. Immediately, I’m greeted by flashing lights, a hulking bouncer, and a line a mile long snaking out onto the sidewalk.

The bouncer spots me, and I realize I recognize him. I got him a job a couple of years ago at the Commons nightclub when he was down on his luck. Luka Kotov.

He waves at me and shouts over the blaring music. “Leo!”

“Luka! Good to see you.”

To the irritation of everyone in line behind me, Luka unhooks the red velvet rope. I hear loud groans and shouts of protest, but he ignores the other disgruntled patrons. “You want in? Anything for an old friend.”

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