Page 64 of Nothing But the Truth

Even though she looked like a soldier, and Lucy had seen her slay an alien, she knew she was talking to the young woman under the costume. The fearless one ready to take aim at whatever came her way. But it shouldn’t have been only Lily and others like her fighting, Lucy realized. The disadvantaged shouldn’t be responsible for dismantling what held them back. The same as she had told Chase they needed men on the inside helping fight for workplace equality, those on the other side of Lily’s struggle—like Lucy and the vast majority of the entertainment industry who looked like her—needed to help structure the system that favored themselves over everyone else.

Lucy took her hand and shook it with a smile. “Yes. I am.”

“Good. Then go do whatever you need to do to blow up this harassment thing, and don’t worry about me. I’ll back you, and if anyone has a problem with it, remember I’ve got swords and I know how to use them.” She smiled a mischievous little grin that made Lucy want to hug her.

Instead, she threw caution to the wind and blurted her true desire in that moment.

“Do you want to come to my birthday party tonight?”

In another situation, she would have laughed at herself for inviting a college kid to her thirtieth birthday party, but things were different when the kid was a movie star. She’d hung out with plenty of stars before—literally in her job description—but Lily felt different. It was like asking the coolest girl in school to come to her party.

And the coolest thing was, Lily was looking at her like she was the coolest girl in school.

“Really? That’d be fun. What time?”

Lucy beamed. “It’s at Perch at eight.”

“Cool,” Lily said, just as someone knocked on the trailer’s door. “Looks like time’s up. Thanks for stopping by. And good luck with everything. I’ll see you tonight.” She waved and scooted past, turning sideways so she didn’t whack her with a sword hilt.

She left Lucy standing in the trailer next to the limp alien skin feeling accomplished and a little giddy that she’d have a movie star at her birthday party.

—

Lucy checked her phone on the way back to her car. She was a pro at triaging scandal, but rarely did she start fires herself. She took a quick inventory.

First, there was the Deadline story about J&J that had been retweeted a few thousand times. #Herewegoagain was trending on Twitter, with post after post calling Hollywood a cesspit of harassment and scandal.

No news there, really.

And then there was the Ms. Ma story, which had unsurprisingly blended with the Deadline story because some internet sleuth figured out that J&J represented Ms. Ma. The hot take centered on the hypocrisy of an artist supposedly pushing a feminist agenda being represented by a publicity agency embroiled in a sexual harassment scandal. Reluctantly, Lucy had to agree that wasn’t a good look.

Then, in a mutated union of the Deadline story, Ms. Ma, and her own brash behavior, Billboard posted an official statement on behalf of J&J Public with regards to Ms. Ma, noting that a representative from the disgraced agency gave comment. The post included the colorful language Lucy used in Joanna’s office, and she thanked the stars her name did not appear in the piece, because there was no way she was going to deal with misogynistic internet rage aimed at her for speaking up on that front as well as the Deadline story front. She had more important things to do.

Like sort out the fourth and final leg of her mutant scandal monster on the way back to the office.

Leo Ash’s zero tolerance tweet had gained a lot of traction. A scroll of his feed showed what was basically an impulsive argument with the internet, just as Lucy expected. And even if he was on the right side of the argument, his uncensored posts were going to land him in hot water, again, just as Lucy expected. And of course anyone armed with Google was quick to unearth past scandals that did not paint Leo as the most progressive feminist: girlfriends he’d cheated on; music videos featuring him buried under piles of nearly naked women; a quote about female pop stars from an old interview that sounded demeaning when taken out of context.

Lucy felt a sharp burning sensation deep in her belly and wondered if thirty would be the age she developed an ulcer.

She made it to her car and waited until she was off the lot to dial his number. The sound of a ringing outbound call on speaker filled her little cocoon. She hoped he answered because she was not about to drive out to Malibu and kick down his front door like she did that time no one could get ahold of him and she drew the short straw to go check on him in person. She found him floating on a unicorn raft in his pool, snoozing off a bender. He had been fine though very, very hungover. He swore he was never drinking again and then offered to fix her a highball at one o’clock in the afternoon.

“Lucy?” he answered in his raspy voice on the fifth and final ring before she would have been sent to voicemail.

“Leo, hi.”

Muffled music pulsed in the background. Given the time of day and the fact that his last tweet was timestamped for two minutes earlier, she decided he was brooding in his mansion, probably in a hoodie and slippers rather than in a bar, a grungy underground show in London because he skipped town without notice, or backstage somewhere else entirely. Keeping tabs on Leo was high on Lucy’s list of exhausting babysitting duties, but the noise leaking through his phone usually gave away his whereabouts.

“Listen, if you’re calling about Twitter, these assholes are—”

“Shut up, Leo!” she snapped. Her outburst did not startle her because that was something she had wanted to say for a long, long time.

Leo, on the other hand, was stunned. “Um... what?”

She accelerated onto the freeway onramp and felt a surge of courage. “You heard me. For once, stop talking and just listen or so help me god, I will tell everyone your real name is Leonard and not Leonardo like you have them believe. I get what you’re doing with the tweets, and it’s great you’re speaking out against harassment, but you’re going to get yourself in trouble, not only by arguing with everyone, but it’s also no secret you don’t have the shiniest penny of a past with women. And then I’m going to have to step in and save you—again—so I’m calling to tell you to actually do something rather than just tweet about it! Most people have to take to Twitter to scream into the void because that’s the only way they can feel heard. But you—you—have piles of money; you have a voice, a platform that millions of people follow and listen to, so use it, goddamn it! Donate to survivors’ funds, women’s rights groups, workplace sensitivity training—I don’t care, just use your power for good instead of making another mess I have to clean up!”

Her hands were white on the steering wheel and her arms shook, but oh, did she feel righteous. She sped around slow traffic, bobbing and weaving like a true Southern California jerk, and she was living for it.

The silence booming through her speakerphone spoke volumes. She was probably the only person on the planet aside from his mother who dared talk to Leo Ash like that, and she’d stunned him speechless.

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