Better Man // Pearl Jam

We pull into Emily's semi-underground garage a little after 8 PM to find a strange car parked next to the elevator. Emily groans, sliding down the seat and curling her body below the dashboard.

"What's going on?" I ask.

"Mother Dearest is here." She groans again.

I swallow my intense reaction. After the conversation Emily and I had on the drive here,about that nickname she uses for her mom, and where it came from, I'll never look at Hollywood royal Anita Brooks the same way again.

She is a royal, alright. An absolute queen bitch.

"What the fuck for?" I shouldn't have asked that forcefully, or with the guttural tone I used, but it couldn't be helped. I know too much. I pull into my usual spot and kill the engine. Neither of us make a move to get out.

"I didn't call her today. I didn't call her yesterday, either."

"You call her every day?" I keep my eye on the elevator in my rearview mirror in case the Queen B, which she will now forever be known as in my mind, decides to come down here looking for us.

"Unfortunately. It was the deal I had to make in order for her to let me live here alone and not be forced to move to her estate in the hills. I figured it was worth the ten minute headache first thing every morning. I was so wrong."

Deals with the devil never end well.

It's the first thing that pops into my mind. I have a terrible feeling about the impending confrontation between the two of them but we can't sit here all night. At least I'll be with Emily. Maybe her mom won't lay into her the way she normally does.

I picture Emily as a young girl, sitting in her closet surrounded by all of her clothes. Clothes her mother threw at her because she'd hung them on the wire hangers from the dry cleaners still covered in plastic instead of using the fancy silk hangers she was supposed to. Emily started calling the woman Mother Dearest soon after, something she said she'd seen in a movie that resembled her life a little too closely.

My mother would never. Sure she'd chuck a sandal at me if I was mouthy or pull my ear when I was a shit to my little brother. But she'd never demean me for helping, even if I did it incorrectly. She would have encouraged me to fix it, or shown me the right way. Or she'd just be fucking happy I'd helped without being asked in the first place.

I don't think Emily realizes the understanding she gave me, both from that despicable story and from the way she responded to my mom's affection when we were at my house. This girl has been starved for love her entire life. The crazy things she did as a teen star make so much more sense now than they did before I knew her. I wish I'd recognized it all sooner, even though I'd had my suspicions.

I feel like an ass for judging Emily the way I have.

"Should we go in?" I ask.

Emily groans a third time.

"I guess so." She pulls herself back onto the seat. "Um, I'll carry my own bag, okay? And maybe leave yours here until she leaves."

It's a strange request. I carried our bags to and from my mom's house because I'm a gentleman, not because it's my job.

"Whatever you want." I don't understand her reasons but I decide it's a good idea to have my hands free in case I need to use them. If Queen B gets too close to Emily, I won't hesitate to block her. I won't touch the woman. But I will stand menacingly with my arms crossed. Holding a bag while trying to look imposing doesn't work well. Plus, I don't need anything impeding my reflexes.

"Okay." she says. "Let's go. Get this over with."

We exit the car at the same time, walking to the elevator after Emily grabs her duffel bag from the trunk of my car. The ride up one floor is quick, but the silence is loaded. Both of us anticipate some kind of confrontation.

The doors open to the entryway, the Succubus painting as jarring as always. I glance at it as we walk past, seeing it differently after hearing more about her childhood. Anita Brooks sounded like a tyrannical mother. Someone Emily feared. Looking at the painting of Emily, knowing her mother commissioned the work, makes me sick. I have a feeling this painting hints at something else between the mother and daughter more sinister than a clash of personalities.

I'm not sure I'm ready to find out what it is.

I follow Emily into the open sitting room with its formal decor to find Queen B herself, sitting stiffly in an armchair flipping through what looks to be a script. She doesn't bother looking up from the document or making eye contact of any type.

"Well. It's about time you crawled in." She flips a page with her perfectly manicured nail. "The walk of shame is getting a bit tired now that you're of age, don't you think?" She flips another page, not looking up.

"Yup, here we are." Emily's voice carries an edge of exhaustion. I've never heard her so defeated. Every encounter I've witnessed has been sarcastic, a challenge to the accusation. Not this time.

Her mother shoots a sharp look our way. A strange realization hits me. Emily and I are standing against her mother as a team, something I never saw coming.

"Don't use that flippant tone with me. I pay for your lifestyle and I can pull your funds at the drop of a hat."

I clench the muscles in my jaw at her mother's reprimand. Emily's tone was defeated, not flippant. I wonder if the all powerful Anita Brooks knows the difference.

Emily stands still, not responding to the dig.

"Look at you," her mother drags a disapproving glare up and down her body. "I don't understand your insistence on dressing like a derelict." She shakes her head. The woman is in head to toe designer duds,  to harass her daughter at 8:30 PM on a random week night. "And carrying your own bag?" This time Queen B glares in my direction.

"He's not the bell hop, Mother Dearest." Emily's sarcasm is a bit stronger this time. A sense of pride zips through me.

Good girl.

Queen B scoffs. "You've never understood your station in life, darling." The term of endearment sounds more like an insult coming from the woman. "No matter how hard I worked for you to understand what was expected of you, you've rejected it." She tilts her head. "And look where it's gotten you."

Emily sucks in a breath. I don't understand the insult but that's clearly what it was.

"A successful actress, who just premiered a blockbuster action adventure movie and is preparing to film its sequel?" Emily questions her mother's accusation with feigned confidence. I'm able to detect the difference now that I've lived in the same house with her for this long.

"Hmm." Queen B's only response is to hum and turn back to the script she's been thumbing through.

"I have a read through tomorrow so I'll be heading to my room," Emily says flatly. Her fucking mother wouldn't even acknowledge her success in the privacy of her own home. She probably would have said worse if I wasn't standing here. I get the distinct impression Anita Brooks wouldn't give Emily props even if she won an Oscar.

"I expect a call at the scheduled time. Someone needs to make sure you're alive and breathing."

"That's what he's here for." Emily thumbs over her shoulder in my direction. "Remember?"

"A miscalculation on my part, clearly." This time she does make eye contact with me. "She is not to leave the property. I was under the impression my expectations were clear. Are you not intelligent enough to understand something so simple? Let me repeat it. Do.Not.Go.Out. I'm not paying for her to party and carouse with her staff."

"Wow, don't bother hiding your prejudice or anything." Emily crosses her arms. I stand stiffly behind her, saying nothing in self defense. It's not my place.

"I needed to get out of here. He took me to his mom's house, not out clubbing."

Queen B scoffs. "Oh, yes. Some derelict abode in the hood is so much safer."

My jaw drops. I can usually ignore the disparaging comments women of her zip code typically make. But that one hit too close to home. Literally.

The demon mother smirks. "Yes, I see I've guessed correctly." The woman drops the script she'd been reading on the end table, standing and adjusting the cuffs of her royal blue satin blouse before pulling her fur coat on. "Do not defy my orders again or you'll be out of a job." She stops to level a dark look at me as she passes. "You have no idea who you're dealing with, young man."

Jaw still clenched, I say nothing, again. Usually the strong silent brooding can shut most of these holier than thou women down. But not Anita Brooks.

The elevator dings behind us as the doors close, indicating her departure. I still wait a solid minute longer before unclenching all my muscles. I was wound tight. I might need a hot shower to work out the knots I'll have soon.

"Shit, I'm so sorry," Emily says, back still to me.

"For what? She's the bitch, not you."

Funny thing is, I really mean that. I don't think badly of Emily. Not now. Not after experiencing the truth and understanding some of the past.

"She really is." Emily huffs. She lets loose a stress laugh before finally turning to face me. The vulnerability in her eyes is an emotion I've seen on her more frequently. We hold eye contact for longer than is casual. We're speaking without words.

You didn't deserve that.

You didn't do anything wrong.

That woman is nuts.

And you're nothing like her.

"I really do need to go to bed. That table read starts early tomorrow and I can't afford to be late. I already have a reputation in town." Emily runs a hand through her hair.

I take her in with new eyes. She's wearing the leggings and oversized sweatshirt I've seen her in many times before. Her hair had been in the messy I-don't-care top knot she has more often than not, although she pulled it down before we got in the elevator earlier. Probably to avoid a comment from Queen B, which didn't work.

Now that I see the broken spirit of the woman in front of me, I can't unsee it. Because whatever reputation Emily has, the one that caused me to judge her before I got to know her, the one that keeps her house bound with 24/7 personal protection from "behaving badly" is the one that brought me to her home. To her life.

I'm strangely grateful for her reputation.

Because now I have the opportunity to get to know the girl behind the reputation.

I have the feeling I'll be gutted when I meet her, because at this point, I've barely scratched the surface. That wire hanger story is the tip of the iceberg. My new mission is to protect her, not from herself, but from the demon who raised her. Who ruined her.

And the fallout that ensued.

"I'll be ready," I say quietly.

"The car will be here at 6."

I nod. "Yes."

"Will you...be waiting outside during the read? Or do you have to check in with your boss?"

The way she asks, so vulnerable and alone, is the reason for the decision I make.

"I have studio clearance for when filming starts, right?"

She shrugs. She knows I do. Clinton made sure I'd have full access to stay by her side at all times. By order of Queen B, of course.

"Might as well put that clearance to good use. I'll accompany you to the reading."

Her eyes shoot to mine, shocked. "You will? Why?"

Because I could tell she didn't want to be alone in the room with studio execs who have Anita Brooks in their ear filling their mind with every negative trait Emily has. Because after the last two days, I'm fully on Emily's side. Because I see her unpredictable behavior in a new light.

"Why not?" I smile, leaving the smirk in the past.

Emily smiles in return, although it's tentative.

"Okay, I guess. See you in the morning. Guess you'll have to go on your early run even earlier."

I groan. "Yeah, guess so."

"See you bright and early!" she says, a spring in her step as she spins and heads upstairs.

And I'm not mad about it.

The tide is turning, and Javi is getting to see something new in Emily...but there's more! Don't worry, the banter isn't over yet. Emily still has sass.

But that Mother Dearest is a piece of work!

I feel like Better Man is a good description for Javier in this one, leaving his preconceived ideas about Emily in the past. AND HE CALLED HER A GOOD GIRL! yeah, it was in his head, but still...

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