Read An Accidental Affair Online
Authors: Eric Jerome Dickey
“You’re addicted to the blow, Baptiste. I can get you help.”
“I’m not a damsel in distress. And don’t look at me and treat me like I am one.”
“Go get coked up and end up like Belushi and Phoenix.”
“Fuck you. I make six million a picture. You’re lucky that I slept with you. Do you have any idea how many men wish they could have one night with me?”
“How many have had you for one night?”
“Fuck you.”
“How much blow have you done? Within a year your mom and dad will be dressed in black and both will be in Livingston crying and standing over your brand new grave.”
She was motionless for over a minute. “I hate you for saying that.”
“Heath Ledger. Brittany Murphy. Chris Farley. Judy Garland. Anna Nicole Smith. Elvis Presley. Dorothy Dandridge. Brad Renfro. Lani O’Grady. And soon, Regina Baptiste.”
A long moment went by.
“Your mom. Your dad. Standing over your grave, surrounded by the paparazzi.”
“Be quiet.”
“Get help. Or let me get you help. Your choice.”
She took her white powder out of her purse, stared at it a while, then went to the bathroom. I heard the toilet flush. She came back empty-handed.
Eight nights earlier, if a text had come in as I waited at that bar, it would’ve been different.
We would’ve gone on as Hollywood goes on, passing each other at events, pretending not to know each other, with me snubbing Bobby Holland and barely giving Regina a hello.
And no one would have died.
I told her, “Stay.”
“I have to go face this.”
“You okay?”
“I’m starting to feel overwhelmed again. My head wants to explode right now.”
“Holland won’t be back until afternoon. You have a few more hours. Stay.”
We kissed. She calmed down. I undressed her.
Moments later, she guided me back inside her. She wanted me back inside.
I whispered, “We don’t have to.”
“I want to. I’m sore, but I want to feel you.”
As her walls pulsated and held me, I asked, “Could you love me?”
“Don’t put your dick inside me, don’t get so deep inside my head and ask me that.”
The ninth afternoon, the paparazzi were buzzing around outside my gates, waiting on Regina Baptiste to vacate my bed. Regina didn’t call me to warn me. She didn’t call me because in Hollywood, when tragedy struck, when the walls of Jericho came down, you didn’t dial 9-1-1, you called your publicist, you called the magician who charged you tens of thousands of dollars to shape your image, and he scrambled to earn his retainer and handle the damage. So I hadn’t been warned. Maybe I had been seen as part of the problem. Or simply the entire problem. Regina Baptiste was all about her career, as most in Hollywood were, and everything else was expendable. Half of the paparazzi followed Regina Baptiste’s BMW 650i the way they had dogged Princess Diana. The other half waited on me, took photo after photo as I left my property, were dogging me no more than thirty minutes after Regina Baptiste and I had shared lunch and parted ways. I was on the way to a meeting with the power mogul and movie executive Hazel Tamana Bijou. By the time I made it out of my zip code, Hollywood already knew. The paparazzi had recorded Regina leaving my home, and then they recorded me leaving my own home, and it was all on the Internet, with time stamps.
Seconds later, it was posted on YouTube; minutes later, it was all over the Internet. One of the anxious paparazzi had used an iPhone, the video magnificent and the picture unambiguous. Minutes later it was news in the industry. Even then it was all about Regina Baptiste.
I was only a writer. My face wasn’t in magazines, or on Sunset Boulevard billboards.
Two days later, there was a twenty-six-foot U-Haul truck parked in front of my home.
On the front seat was a box and inside that box was a bottle of 1978 Balvenie vintage cask single-malt Scotch whiskey and a handwritten note from Regina’s boyfriend Bobby Holland.
THE COKE HEAD BITCH IS YOURS NOW. GOOD RIDDANCE AND GOOD LUCK YOU FUCKIN PRICK.
Actress Regina Baptiste and Director Bobby Holland Split
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Regina Baptiste and Bobby Holland are no longer cohabiting and planning a family, a source close to the pair told
UsMagazine.com
. The seemingly perfect couple decided to call it quits, initially citing the difference in their nonstop work schedules, agendas that kept them apart for weeks at a time, as the main reason for the split of the once amorous couple. The power couple’s reps released the following statement: “Addressing the media speculation regarding Regina Baptiste and Bobby Holland’s relationship, they mutually have decided to part ways. The two remain friends and continue to hold the highest level of love and respect for each other.”
However,
Us Weekly
reported that Baptiste was having an affair with writer James Thicke. CLICK HERE FOR VIDEO OF BAPTISTE LEAVING JAMES THICKE’S HOME.
Baptiste, 26, and Holland, 32, began dating after being introduced at the Golden Globes. It’s rumored that powerhouse Hazel Tamana Bijou was the one who introduced them. Following the awards show, Baptiste and Holland were constantly photographed canoodling. They were seen holding hands and appeared to be inseparable at both Cannes and Sundance. They vacationed in Hawaii, Norway, and Venezuela, were living together at his newly built estate in the San Fernando Valley, but the pair didn’t officially announce their relationship for six months.
Holland Tweeted praises about Baptiste as recently as last week. He has said that she was the sunshine of his life. Yesterday morning his Tweet said that the sun in his life has gone down but will rise once again, new and improved. Her response Tweet, which came an hour later, said that Bobby Holland was “Never Mr. Right, only Mr. Right now.” His retort came at noon, “If only she had more talent.” Baptiste responded two minutes later. “If only he had more blue pills.”
CLICK HERE FOR OTHER CELEBRITY SPLITS.
Downey, California
Four days went by with Driver sending updates to the throwaway or meeting me at the Starbucks near Imperial Highway and Leffingwell Road. That was ninety-six hours with me being absent from my world of shame, away from actors and actresses and producers and agents and managers and homes with gates and guards and the foul breath of the paparazzi, but connected to news feed like that poison was the IV that slow-dripped and infused aggravation into my blood.
Incompetent talking heads had taken over. The controversy wasn’t dying. Thanks to Facebook and YouTube, idiots posted all day long, created rumors, rumors that became stronger than the truth, and the lies burned brighter with each passing moment.
Regina Baptiste Interviews with all of the Sexy Men She’s Dated in Hollywood.
Regina Baptiste Pregnant with Johnny Bergs’s Alleged 3rd Lovechild.
Regina Baptiste: Her Ex Bobby Holland Claims to Have 2nd Revealing Sex Tape.
Most of the interviews were made up. The lies stung as much as the truth.
Bobby Holland Ordered to Pay $940K in Child Support.
A judge has ordered director Bobby Holland to pay close to a million dollars to French actress Brigette Deneve-Marceau, who won a ruling naming Holland as the father of her eleven-year-old son. But a rep for the director says, “The judgment was a default judgment made without Holland being present. He looks forward to resolving this paternity hoax, and is awaiting the results of a recent paternity test to clear up this con job. Unfortunately there is no penalty for women who create such claims that both damage a man’s character and eat up valuable time in our court system. When that happens, when those who file false claims are penalized for doing so, there will be justice in the world.” Bobby Holland has two children from another failed marriage to Norwegian actress Liv Foss, known for her natural beauty, intellect, and complex performances. She has not worked for the past decade. Bobby Holland has been in and out of court, battling paternity issues with Liv Foss for the last decade as well. Bobby Holland is the former live-in lover of American actress Regina Baptiste. No children were born of their three-year relationship. Regina Baptiste is now at the center of a sex-tape scandal involving superstar actor Johnny Bergs.
Baptiste’s Real Sex with Bergs: Demeaning or Empowering to the Female Species?
Regina Baptiste and our problems were mentioned unnecessarily in the thread about Bobby Holland, as if the dead relationship with that asshole now had a second life, as if that potential million-dollar debt was her responsibility. It was like Denise Richards getting new press every time Charlie Sheen took a shit. Regina Baptiste would be in the thread of anyone she was linked to at this point. There was even a link to a man who claimed to be the high school boyfriend that she had left behind. He was working in Great Falls as a high school teacher. Television wanted to interview him to hear his story about the all-American who had played high school football, the good old Montana boy who was jilted by the glamorous superstar, the Lyle Lovett who was dumped by Julia Roberts. The beast abandoned by the beauty. He would talk. They would pay and he would talk. For spite. For attention. To settle an old score. A loser’s last stand. Plus post-varsity football, he was an actor who never made it past doing high school musicals. People threw others underneath the bus of fame to make a buck. I’d been fucked over by producers, actors, agents; pretty much everyone in the business had acted in their own self-interest and run me over in the process. Some would have my scripts tied up for years. Others would forget me after the contracts were signed. In the name of business, I had done the same thing. And I wasn’t ashamed. You survive swimming with the sharks by becoming the meanest shark in the waters. We were trained that way. Bobby Holland had fucked me over on a deal. Maybe in retaliation I had thrown Bobby Holland under the Fuck You bus years ago. But he was throwing Regina Baptiste under the bus at the time. Everyone threw somebody under a bus; then ran it forward and backward. And a new double-decker bus ran every ten minutes.
Johnny Bergs’s name popped up on hundreds of pages. At the top was the announcement that they were running
JOHNNY BERGS: BAD BOY ON THE EDGE
on the bio channel tonight. His name was also in a new thread that led to a blog site. It was the crass comedienne who had been riding the coattails of Bergs’s beating to make herself
famous. Now she called herself The Baddest Whyte Bitch Dat Done Ever Been Born. She claimed that she had been threatened because of her stand-up act about the Johnny Bergs fiasco.
About six or seven motherfuckers came to my apartment complex in Universal City, I mean all of those big, big, corn-fed Men in Black suit-wearing motherfuckers showed up looking like they were ready to stone me to death. I’m not sure who they were, but some people say that they were Johnny Bitch…I mean Bergs’s brothers. I guess those thugs were supposed to scare me. One was so ugly my kids thought it was Halloween and threw leftover trick-or-treat candy at the sonofabitch. Then Bergs’s punk-ass attorney sends me a letter to cease and desist doing my routine about Johnny Bergs because of some defamation of character bullshit. I exercise my freedom of motherfucking speech the way Bergs exercised his freedom to fuck the shit out of Regina Baptiste followed by his freedom to get the shit beat out of his ass. Running through the streets crying in the rain? I’m sorry, that’s so gay that gay people don’t even do that shit. Yeah, I said it. What the fuck he gonna do? Kill me? They have pissed me the fuck off and I’m going to do all I can to make that bitch miserable. I’m posting all of my shit on Facebook and YouTube and Twitter so pass that shit on to other people. I will be at the J-Spot, Laugh Factory, Comedy Store, and Club Savoy.
I checked my messages and there was one from one of the managers at Club Mapona.
“Boss, Flaco. Moses Bergs and his sons came into the club last night looking for you. That fucking lunatic acted like he was going to set the club on fire. Call me.”
There was a knock at my door. I looked at the clock. It was almost six
A.M.
I opened the door and Sweet Isabel was standing in the badly lighted hallway.
Like Patrice had been during her surprise visit, Sweet Isabel was half naked.
And so was I. I’d been expecting her. Another Post-it was on my front door too.
The first day back, running was difficult. From the first step it was physically draining and emotionally trying. Sleep had been bad. My energy was down, but I pushed it, because with each step, I imagined stomping Johnny Handsome’s face until it turned into mush.
“How are you holding up today, Varg?”
“This is more than three miles out.”
“We’re four miles out and you’re starting to slow me down.”
“I told you that I was good for six miles.”
“Oh, well. I seem to have forgotten that part of the conversation.”
“Why did you say it was three miles out and back?”
“When you befriend liars, it’s best to practice the art of deception at every turn.”
“Blimey.”
“Blimey is old and outdated and only sounds appropriate when I say the word.”
“Blimey.”
“Interesting T-shirt you’re running in.”
“Thanks.”
“That was not a compliment.”
“Blimey.”
My T-shirt was blue and said
THERE ARE 70 WAYS TO SATISFY A WOMAN. ONE IS SHOPPING. THE OTHER IS 69. TOO BAD I DON’T LIKE TO GO SHOPPING.
Hers read
THE ONLY WAY IS NOT ESSEX.
Sweet Isabel maintained a steady pace. But a quarter of a mile later, I let her buns of steel go on without me. The super-fit, mature woman in the light blue running shorts and golden T-shirt pulled away one stride at a time, each stride stronger than the one before. I slowed down and turned back around, kept it moving at a good pace, kept stomping Johnny Handsome’s face, weighed by my thoughts for another grueling half hour.