A Love Song for Ricki Wilde (54)
“Everything,” she gasped. “You, Ezra. You…”
He sank into her and sweet Christ, it was good. But “good” was too weak a word, because nothing had ever felt like this before: transcendent and ruinous and soulmate-perfect.
Gripping his strong back, Ricki gasped on another hard thrust, and another, and then she couldn’t find her voice at all, because she peaked, suddenly and sharply, in an obliterating spike of pleasure. Ezra fucked her through it, gripping her ass and lifting her into each ferocious stroke, stoking that impossibly deep spot, coaxing her to come again in blinding waves. Only then did Ezra allow himself to break, too, rasping her name against the warmth of her neck.
They clung to each other like this, quivering and quiet.
This was always going to happen.
At some point, they drifted off to sleep, right there on the floor.
In the early morning, Ricki opened her eyes to sunlight streaming through her window. Her cheek rested on his chest, her hand in his. She raised her head, seeing that Ezra was awake. He was staring at the ceiling, his eyes bloodshot and damp. He looked like his heart was already broken.
“Tell me now.” She settled back onto his chest, shutting her eyes, steeling herself against whatever he was going to say. “Tell me everything.”
And so he did.
CHAPTER 14
EVERYWHERE AND NOWHERE
February 16, 2024
Tuesday could spot a fake when she saw one. How could she not when, technically, she was fake. Her government name wasn’t even Tuesday Rowe; it was Teodozji Roesky. When her mom, Roksana, named her, she couldn’t have anticipated that her brown-skinned baby would one day be a TV star—with a manager who’d demand a less “ethnically confusing” moniker.
Ezra Walker was also fake. It was painfully obvious that he wasn’t who he said he was. How could Ricki not see it?
Tuesday wasn’t having it. She was no longer in the business of allowing possibly dangerous men to hurt her or the people she loved. Ricki was vulnerable, well meaning, and real in a way that demanded protecting. And she just didn’t trust Ezra with her.
Thanks to a mix of regression therapy and self-actualization podcasts, Tuesday finally saw herself as a real person: no longer a puppet for her managers, a fantasy for her fans, or a punching bag for misogynistic tabloids. It had taken a lot of work, because she’d been indoctrinated at a young age to chase artificiality. In fact, every profile ever written about her was anchored in a very specific lie. That at five years old, she told Santa that for Christmas, she wanted to be a star.
Which was ridiculous. Tuesday never even believed in Santa. Roksana hadn’t allowed it; she’d be damned if some red-faced pyzaty porker would take the credit for the gifts she saved for all year with her coat check tips.
Tuesday did remember wanting to be like The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air’s Ashley Banks when she grew up. But what five-year-old is qualified to make career decisions? She’d also dreamed of becoming a horse. Or working at a grocery store. Tuesday used to watch the CTown Supermarket checkout lady, mesmerized, as she packed up all their groceries, making sure each item fit just right. It was like assembling a jigsaw puzzle, just with Eggos and Lunchables! But Tuesday’s mom didn’t drive from Harlem to Hollywood to pursue a career in supermarket sales for her baby girl. No, her mom decided that TV stardom was the plan.
Poverty was on the horizon, and Roksana Roesky was no dummy.
After Tuesday was hired as a spunky cutie-pie on Ready Freddy, nothing was ever real again. Birthday parties? Staged. Mommy-daughter picnics? Staged. At ten, she posed for a wholesome People pic with her on-set teacher, who was also dealing her amphetamines on the side. At fourteen, CosmoGirl interviewed her about the value of natural beauty, but by then, she’d already had a nose job, her first breast augmentation, and every errant hair lasered from her body. At sixteen, her prom date was an up-and-coming actor represented by her manager, who arranged the whole thing and promised the twenty-three-year-old “full access.” Even her short marriage to the closeted NBA player was one of her manager’s genius ideas. He felt her image needed rehabilitation after she’d started one club brawl too many.
No one ever asked why she was always fighting. Or why she was so angry. Tuesday starred in a hit show and dozens of TV movies and held down major cosmetics contracts. She should’ve been happy! And even after she exposed her sleazy manager for sexual harassment, no one cared. No one even believed her. She was punished; he wasn’t.
Whenever Tuesday heard people say “Well-behaved women rarely make history,” she wondered who they were talking about. She’d been a traumatized kid who stood up to one of the most powerful talent managers in the business. And that made history, all right, just not the good kind. She was suddenly unclean, unreliable, and unhirable: a lying Black slut making a fuss at the wrong time, years before the #MeToo movement might’ve made her a hero. The culture had relitigated Britney, Lindsay, and Paris. When would it be her turn?
That was what her memoir was for. If she’d ever finish writing the damned thing. Why was she overthinking it? No one was expecting “Letter from a Birmingham Jail.” She simply had to tell her story. Set the record straight.
It certainly wasn’t about the money. Her advance from the publisher was negligible. But these days, Tuesday didn’t need much. She made a comfortable living off residuals and filmed commercials overseas sometimes. She had a few friends—her esthetician and the woman who did her lashes. But when she met Ricki, that was a platonic love at first sight. They were kindred spirits, each requiring the other to be nothing but exactly herself. And Ricki needed a friend as badly as Tuesday did.