Caught on Camera

Chapter 18, Part 31

Chapter 18

As Bad as It Gets

Taps on the solid wood door woke Mickey. A ray of sun lasered through a narrow gap in the window curtains, hitting him in the eyes. He yawned, stretched and rolled over to kiss Rachel.

No Rachel.

"Arggggh!" He pressed one hand on cool sheets where her body had lain. No morning sex, then, either. She'd given him a heads up that duty called in the morning, yet disappointment gnawed. At this moment she was probably walking Mopette.

Insistent knocks on the thick door reminded him that he'd ordered room service. He confirmed the time on the bedside clock radio. Eight a.m. He rolled out of bed and shrugged on Rachel's discarded bathrobe. A heaviness settled in his heart. He missed her. At this moment he craved her presence more than coffee, which he desperately needed to clear a tired brain.

He opened the door wide to allow the waiter to carry a tray into the room, plucked his discarded trousers from the armchair to extract a bill from his wallet for the tip.

What a night. He'd snatched maybe three hours sleep total. He grinned like a fool at the memory of Rachel's passionate antics in the wee hours. She gave as good as she got. His stomach growled, demanding fuel after the hours of energetic sex. The waiter pocketed the tip with a grateful nod, swept the curtains wide to brilliant morning sunshine, and withdrew.

To fill the lonely silence, Mickey pressed the television remote and flipped channels until he landed on an American Sunday morning show. Coffee in hand, he propped Rachel's pillows on top of his own and reclined on the bed to watch.

One minute into the show, a familiar image had Mickey lurching to his knees, coffee sloshing onto the bedding. "No frigging way!" he yelped.

On the wall-mounted forty inch flat screen, in a close-up as large as life, tears glistened on Halden's cheeks as he gazed adoringly at his bride's upturned face. Mickey cursed the photographer who'd managed to evade security and snap an intimate wedding photo. Consternation flashed into fury. How dare he invade that private moment during the ceremony and parade it for the world to gawk at!

Then it got worse. A veritable wedding album of photo stills scrolled across the screen. Given the angles, only a person actually at the wedding could have snapped those shots and leaked them to the media. One of Halden's own guests betrayed him!

His heart slamming his chest, Mickey watched the segment until the end in case the scumbag had scored pics of Candy's public meltdowns at the photo shoot and wedding reception. When the image of a different celebrity flashed onscreen and the hostess moved on, Mickey released the breath he hadn't realized he held. If Candy's inappropriate behavior had been broadcast, Halden's humiliation would've been cruelly magnified.

He reached for the land line to call Halden, then paused. Given the speed that news spread via social media, that photo of the emotionally vulnerable "superhero" had already been shared around the world.

Cursing under his breath, he scrambled to unplug his tablet from the desk charging station, and launched the Twitter app. Trending derogatory hashtags #ApolloBreakdown, #SuperWuss, and #ManofMush had him grinding his teeth.

Due to the three hour time difference, most Californians were still asleep. There was a chance for damage control on the west coast. Wade was a lawyer, had connections. Then reason penetrated seething anger. He already knew what Wade's response would be, damn it: accept that the voracious entertainment media had already sunk its teeth deep into this story, rendering legal efforts to suppress the pictures a futile waste of time and money.

Tossing that strategy aside, he contemplated how best to distract Halden to allow him to enjoy his first day as a married man, and remain blissfully unaware of the embarrassing leak for as long as possible.

By prior arrangement Halden expected Mickey, Garth and Wade to join him for a quick nine holes at a ten a.m. tee-off. Halden knew Mickey too well, would question his roiling internal rage. He'd be wise to burn it off before he met up with the guys. He decided to go for a run, hoping he'd encounter Rachel with Mopette. Being with her always raised his spirits.

***

Warm sun promised another hot day. Mickey's runners pounded the gravel track circuiting the golf course. He dodged electric carts and puddles from the previous night's heavy thunderstorm, acknowledging golfers, many of whom he knew, with nods in passing. He wasn't in the mood to chat. If they'd seen or heard about the leaked wedding photos, he didn't want to know about it.

He did keep an eye out for a pretty blonde attached by a leash to a tiny white dog. At the eighteenth hole he retraced his steps to the parking lot and then ran along the flagstone path to the tennis courts and shoreline. Perhaps this morning Rachel hadn't walked Mopette farther than necessary to do its business in private. She must be exhausted. He allowed himself a self-congratulatory grin.

When he reached the sloping slab of pink granite overlooking the empty beach and sparkling lake, he stopped to catch his breath and take in the spectacular view reminiscent of Wisconsin's lake country. Two kayakers in bright orange life vests slid fast and low in parallel, their paddles briefly disturbing the glassy surface. The drone of a boat engine, as annoying as a mosquito's whine, disturbed the still air.

He pulled his water bottle from his waist pack and approached the line of white wood chairs at the infamous scenic outlook. The Rockery, the hotel called it.

On the nearest chair he recognized the lavender and white flowers of one of Candy's bridesmaids' bouquets. A soggy folded note was tucked between wet, drooping roses. He extracted it. "Please return this to the Front Desk, attention Rachel," he read. Her missing bouquet.

He chugged some water, replaced the bottle, and gingerly lifted the bedraggled arrangement by stems wrapped in dirty, dangling ribbons that appeared to have been chewed by some animal.

A silver smartphone dropped out of the arrangement and smacked hard concrete. He picked it up. A spidery crack marred the screen. Worried he'd broken Rachel's cell, he pressed the power button. The screen brightened to reveal it was in camera mode. No password required. He tut-tutted.

She'd been taking pictures.

He held the unit in his hand. The fullface shot of Halden that currently flashed around the world had to have been snapped from the bridesmaids' side of the gazebo. Asta he discounted immediately. Tiffany'd been too busy sneaking a drink from bottles hidden in her bouquet.

That left Rachel.

Rachel the aspiring cinematographer who needed money for film school.

Terrible dread twisted his gut. He didn't want to believe it of the girl for whom he'd fallen like a ton of gold bricks. He accessed the phone's gallery folder and clicked on the most recent photo.

On Rachel's cracked screen, Halden's tearful face appeared. The exact wedding photo shared to millions of screens that morning. His ensuing agonized string of curses startled a raven in the pines. Squawking, it took flight.

Though the red haze of fury clouding his brain he tried to convince himself that she'd downloaded it from the internet. But facts were facts. The bouquet with the concealed phone had obviously lain out in the rain all night. He unwillingly recalled that Rachel had had ample opportunity between the ceremony and the photo shoot to upload and send photos to the media.

Despite the damning evidence, surely Candy's sweet cousin would never betray the bridal couple's privacy for personal gain. Rachel was family! 

He'd return the smartphone and demand an explanation.