the Randall Room

She must’ve seen the doubt in your eyes, because her expression softened—Tammy’s lips doing something you’d never seen on her before: Randall’s sheepish half-smile.

“Alright, alright. You still don’t buy it. C’mon, I’ll show you something no guest ever sees.”

She turned, heels clicking down the hall, and you followed past gleaming white walls hung with abstract canvases, a faint citrus-and-salt air freshener humming from some hidden diffuser. The house was pure Tammy Barnes: open, airy, polished. Then she stopped before a door at the far end of the hall, dropped her voice like she was about to share state secrets.

“This one’s locked most of the time. If my agent or friends come by? Nobody gets in. Not even the housekeeper.” She pulled a slim key from her bra (which threw you more than the words did) and worked the lock.

The door swung open and it hit you immediately—the shift in air, the faint musk of electronics, old soda, and something distinctly male.

The Randall Room.

Dark curtains blotted out the SoCal sun, and against one wall sat the gaming rig he’d always fantasized about back when you two were stuck sharing an ancient laptop. Triple monitors glowed faint neon against the gloom, a tower pulsing with RGB lights like a nightclub for silicon. A headset dangled over the ergonomic chair.

Across from it, mounted dead center, was a TV so massive it could’ve been mistaken for a theater screen, with a surround-sound system stacked like jet engines around it. On the shelves beneath: Blu-ray cases—nothing but action flicks. Schwarzenegger, Stallone, Jackie Chan, Keanu in every era. Beside them, a less-organized stack of DVDs with covers you both recognized instantly. Porn. A lot of it.

You stared at a particularly aggressive-looking cover at eye level and muttered, “Yeah, Tammy Barnes would definitely keep that out for visitors.”

She laughed—Randall’s laugh, breaking through like an old guitar chord under new varnish. “Exactly. That’s why it’s all in here. This room’s my anchor. Proof I’m not just…” She gestured at her curves, her hair, the skin-tight dress she’d chosen to greet you in. “This.”

The rest of the décor sealed it: movie posters plastered crooked across the walls—Predator, Die Hard, a vintage Kill Bill one he’d always said he’d buy if he had cash. There were action figures too, some still in their boxes, lined up on a shelf like trophies. The rug was threadbare, a mess compared to the spotless marble outside, but it fit.

You turned in a slow circle, brain buzzing. “This is… so you.”

“Damn right,” she said, dropping into the gaming chair, spinning once before stopping with her legs crossed—one tan calf glinting where the heel caught the light. “No publicist, no paparazzi, no Instagram filter in here. Just Randall.”

Her eyes locked on yours, sharp under Tammy’s lashes. “So now do you believe me? That I’m still me?”