by Grant, Pippa
My eyes flare wide. “You okay?”
He winces. “Hypno—therapist—shit.”
I burst out laughing, even though I shouldn’t, because I’ve heard of this. “You sneeze when you orgasm?” I whisper.
“Cured—mostly,” he pants. He pulls me into his arms. “If I—say—you know—it’s not—because—of that.”
“I know,” I whisper.
“You—so—fucking—amazing.”
I’m in a bear robe with crazy hair and no panties, and he’s clinging to me like I’m his lifeline.
Me.
The crazy geek with famous parents who’s never quite fit in anywhere and is obsessed with endangered animals and who tasered him for trying to apologize.
But he makes me feel like I fit here.
“I love you,” I tell him again.
“I’m quitting,” he announces. “Selling it all. Moving home. I want you. And family. All the time. Forever. Except we have to see the world. Together. You and me. We’ll start in Morocco, and we’ll spend a month there, and then I’ll take you to France, because cheese and bread, and have you ever been to Iceland? We have to go to Iceland. Summer and winter. It’s two different countries.”
I’m smiling so big my cheeks hurt. “Your enthusiasm is very contagious, but I know you’re not just quitting. It’s okay.”
“You can still work if you want to, but you’ll have to work for my parents, because I know normal people won’t let you take off six months out of the year to travel with me.”
And now I’m laughing. I know he’s not being serious—not entirely, because of course he’s not giving up his fashion empire—but I can imagine jetting off to Paris or Morocco or India with him, just to see more of the world. “I can still work under your terms, can I?”
“Or I’ll bring the world to you.” He grins. “YouTube is almost the same as seeing Machu Picchu in person.”
“Oh, that’s low.”
He pulls my fingers to his lips and kisses my knuckles. My nail polish from yesterday is already chipping, which will probably make my mom sigh, but she’ll also help me get it all off, because that’s what she does.
“Come to Shipwreck with me this week,” he says. “Just…get away from all of this until we announce the foundation. I mean, if you can take vacation. I know your job’s important to you.”
“You know I have a trust fund, don’t you?”
“So? Having a trust fund won’t save your frogs.”
“I mentioned I love you?”
He smiles.
And it’s not a camera smile, or a goofball smile, or a smolder smile.
It’s a raw, honest, wide, happy smile. “I loved you first,” he announces.
I burst out laughing. “Are you kidding me?”
“Swear to god, when you hit me with that taser, I was like, she’s the one. Those eyes are deadly enough when there’s only two of them, but man, you juiced me, and then you had four, and I was a goner.”
I’m still laughing when he angles in for a kiss.
“I love you, Sarah Dempsey,” he says against my smiling lips. “And I’m going to make you laugh every single day for the rest of my life.”
Thirty-Eight
Sarah
Life is pretty damn awesome.
After a huge family dinner last night with my parents and Cupcake, Charlie, Mackenzie, Beck’s family, and his adopted neighborhood family—I completely understand why they called the band Bro Code when I watch him with all of his adopted brothers, not just the guys who were in the band—I stayed with him again, and now I’m on my way to work with plans to ask for the rest of the week off.
Nobody from the office texted about the media coverage of Saturday night. My video about Persephone giving birth has more views than any other video about the giraffe except for the zoo’s official feeds, and I’m weirdly happy about my new nickname.
America’s Geekheart.
I don’t really care about being famous, and I know somebody will twist this and make it ugly before long, but they can’t take away my self-worth.
They won’t take me away from the people I love.
Not again.
I’m getting a ride from one of Beck’s bodyguards, so I spend the trip texting with Mom, who’s been taking care of Meda and making sure my bees and flowers have water since the dinner Saturday night.
She wants me to quit work and be a full-time science video blogger, because it’s your passion, sweetheart, and you share it so eloquently.
Dad pops in with the occasional text asking if it’s possible for a girl pig and a girl cat to have babies together, because he thinks Cupcake is in heat.
I think he’s trying to see how far he can push me.
Either that, or he hit his head the other night while Persephone was giving birth.
Or possibly he’s practicing for his role, which he has to report back to California for on Friday.
We reach the office early, and I slip in unnoticed around the other early arrivals. I’m sorting my projects to figure out what I need to get done this week and what I can push off, so I know how much time I can take off to go hang out with Beck in Shipwreck, when someone in the cube behind me gasps.
Thirty seconds later, another gasp goes up in the cubicle farm.
Followed a minute later by four in rapid succession.
And then there are footsteps.
Lots. And lots. And lots. Of footsteps.
“Unplug your computer,” my boss orders.
Someone else dives under my desk and does it for me.
I look at the sea of white faces around me. “Did we get a virus?”
“Yeah, it’s called the scourge of humanity,” one of them mutters.
“Your blog is really awesome. I didn’t realize that was you until after…you know. But I’ve been following it for months.”
“Those fuckers shouldn’t—sorry, Gary. Those inbred shitheads who troll people shouldn’t be allowed on the internet.”
My phone buzzes, and Mackenzie’s face lights the screen.
I gesture to it and look at my boss. “May I?”
His frown deepens. “Is it a friend?”
“My best friend.”
“Then yes.”
I swipe to answer. No one leaves my cubicle, and someone else bursts into the building shouting, “Did you see what those asswipes said? And what a total dick. I can’t believe he—”
“Shut up!” someone else yells.
“Hey,” I say to Mackenzie. “Are you at work?”
“Yeah, but Sarah—listen, don’t get on the internet today, okay?”
“Um, that’s not exactly a problem right now.”
“Can you get me in touch with that guy who was helping with your website?”
“Mackenzie?”
“No, that’s me. I mean the guy who kinda looks like Cash Rivers. The one Beck set up to upgrade your servers? That guy.”
“What’s going on?”
“Assholes are going on. Just…stay off the internet. And can I have Beck’s number too? Because…because… We’ll handle this, okay?”
“Handle what?” I eyeball my coworkers. Some won’t meet my eye.
One rubs my back. “We never knew you were so reserved because you’d been exposed to that before, but it all makes sense now. I just can’t believe he’s dumping you like this.”
My entire body freezes.
Just ices over.
Heart and all.
“The internet’s being the internet.” Mackenzie sighs audibly. “Will you please just send me his name and number? And maybe don’t go to work today.”
“I’m already here.”
“Oh, shit… Just text me his name and number. And Beck’s number. And promise you’ll stay off the internet. Promise me. Like pinky swear on the Fireballs’ winning streak.”
“I can’t hear you. We’re going through a tunnel. Shh-wusshhh-sshhusshh.”
“You just told me you’re at work.”
<
br /> “I mean we just had a power surge. Ssshh-wussshhh-sshhussshhh.”
Yes, I feel bad for hanging up on Mackenzie, but I’m tired of being treated with kid gloves.
I need to face this.
And know that it doesn’t matter what random internet trolls are saying. That my worth isn’t tied up in what gossips say.
It’s tied up in how I feel about myself and in having people who love me unconditionally despite my quirks and fears and poor choices.
I pull up my site on my phone.
Or try to.
It won’t actually load.
“Uh-oh,” I mutter.
“Are you checking the internet? No! Stay off the internet!”
Someone lunges for my phone, but I twist and keep hold of my phone only because my normal tae kwon do classes have kept my reflexes relatively quick.
“Will someone please tell me what’s going on?”
Gary scratches his bald head. “Did you want to maybe take some time off? You have lots of sick days you never use.”
“Gary…”
“I don’t understand it. They loved you yesterday. America’s Geekheart. Really cute name. But then Beck…” He trails off, and the ice threatens to grab my heart again, but I know Hollywood.
I know the game.
“I knew he was playing her,” someone mutters, and I ignore her, because I have to.
“Shut up,” someone else hisses.
I sigh and pull up Twitter.
And—yep.
Here we go.
And my parents are probably seeing this.
Dammit.
I swallow hard to keep the panic at bay, because panic is exactly what’s rising like bile in my throat.
America’s Geekheart back when she was just a geek, reads one post, complete with a picture of me with ketchup smeared across my cheek when I was probably not quite in high school.
Geekheart? More like FREAKheart, reads another with a picture of me, this one from late high school, contorted sideways and looking at the gum on my own ass, my hair tilted at an odd angle that makes me look like an octopus is growing out of my head, and a list of cities in the Binary Babes rock band’s tour on the back of my T-shirt.
Finally, the truth: Underwear model’s new girlfriend FAKE. Sunny Darling blackmail scheme EXPOSED.
Beck Ryder PR rep confirms: Model and daughter of Hollywood power couple part as “good friends;” ask for privacy.
It’s the last one that sends a quake through my bones.
Because that one was issued by Beck’s official Twitter feed.
The same feed that not ten days ago drew me back into the public spotlight.
That’s the line. It’s what we’re supposed to say.
But not until Friday.
“Yeah,” I say to Gary. “Sick time. Aaacchoooo. I might need a—a week. Thank you.”
“We’re not answering any calls from the press,” he tells me while he walks me out to the parking lot, my knees threatening to give way while more camera crews are pulling in and Beck’s bodyguard is waiting by the front door in a standard black Audi. “And that’s a really gutsy thing you’re doing, going public when so many people are being fu—ah, I mean, inhumane.”
I won’t cry. I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me cry. “I’ll email you what I’m having to put on hold.”
“Thanks, Sarah. Sarah, right? You don’t want to be—”
“Sarah,” I confirm, and I climb into the car.
“All okay, Ms. Dempsey?” the bodyguard asks.
“Yeah.” No.
“Home or to Mr. Ryder’s place?”
“Home, please.” I want to see my cat. And check on my bees for myself and see if I need to harvest any honey. It’s still early, but my hives have been pretty active this summer.
I slink low in the seat and pull up Twitter again, even though I know better.
It’s rolling.
It’s rolling up a freaking storm.
That picture of @must_love_bees makes her look like a monkey squished in a suit that’s about to burst.
Only whores get off on watching animals give birth. Get a life, @must_love_bees.
I know @must_love_bees in person, and I can promise you this thing with @Beckett_Ryder is all a hoax. She’s gross.
I breathe slowly to calm my racing heart, because this doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t.
I can’t believe @must_love_bees hacked Beck Ryder’s account to get her fifteen minutes of fame. #sweetheartforever
Can’t wait to hear @Beckett_Ryder’s announcement Friday! I hope he’s auctioning off a date. Come to mama! I got the $$!
I don’t care if his heart isn’t really broken, I’ll comfort @Beckett_Ryder any day.
I shake my head, because I know this is just the public version of events. It doesn’t mean anything.
One call to Beck will clear this all up.
So why am I not calling him?
Why is he not calling YOU? an insidious little voice whispers in the back of my head,
I glance down at Twitter again.
I dated @must_love_bees a year ago. Coldest fish EVER. Ryder can have her, the lying bitch. But I guess he figured her out, didn’t he?
My jaw drops.
Because that’s not some random internet troll making up a story about dating me.
That’s Trent.
And he added a picture of me from when we were dating. Out for seafood. I have butter smeared on my cheek, my hair’s falling in a gravity-defying flippy-do thing, one eye is half-closed, and my teeth are doing some weird thing that makes me look like a braying donkey as I open wide for a bite of crab.
“People are so shitty,” I mutter.
“Only the shitty ones, ma’am,” the bodyguard says. He glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Sure you wanna go home?”
I nod.
My parents should be there. They’ve been here. They’ve done that. They’ll know all the right things to say.
And it doesn’t matter what an ex-boyfriend says, or even what ugly pictures he wants to post.
Especially since he’s not wrong.
I was cold.
I wouldn’t even tell him who my parents are.
I probably deserve that.
But I’m better now. I’m stronger. I’m owning it.
A dark whisper of because you had to flits through my mind.
Along with another whisper of and you’re still that dork that gets butter all over your face and can’t take a good picture to save your life.
If Beck hadn’t shown up to apologize for that tweet, I’d be the same old boring Sarah, hiding from the world, lying to my best friend, dating guys who snap ugly pictures of me, quietly working at making a small difference instead of contemplating how to make a big difference.
So does that really make me better?
Or just opportunistic?
Either way, I’m starting to wish I hadn’t eaten breakfast.
Thirty-Nine
Beck
I’m gaping at the video screen and wishing Charlie hadn’t taken away my coffee before we started this video conference. Bruce stares back, belligerent. The rest of the team looks just as shocked as I am.
Except Charlie.
She looks like she’s been taking notes on some of those things Judson threatened me with, and she’s fixing to fly out to California and practice them on Bruce as soon as this call is over.
“Start over, and use small words,” I tell Bruce, “because it sounds like you just said you canceled the contract with Sarah early.”
“It was time.” Bruce nods, his bald spot shimmering in the light off his desk lamp. “Public opinion of you has never been higher, and we get to paint her as the one taking advantage of you. We bumped up announcing the foundation to Wednesday. Full buy-in from Crawford, especially when I told him you really liked her and were disappointed she called it off, though I don’t know why he believed that.”
“W
ho the fuck gave you the authority to do that?”
“Ryder. My email’s exploding with notes from buyers at all the major retail chains and online outlets. Everyone wants to feature not just RYDE, but your other lines too. We can’t take the chance of the girl fucking this up.”
“Her name is Sarah.”
“Her name is trouble. You’re in too deep and you need to get your head back on straight and quit thinking with your dick, though I’m a little worried about it if that’s what you honestly go for in a woman.”
My head’s spinning, because what the ever-loving fuck? “Take. It. Back.”
“Too late, Buttercup. And you’re welcome.”
I thought being pissed was bad enough. But now legit fear is gripping my chest, because that sounds very ominous. “What. Did. You. Do?” I growl.
Vicki’s eyes go wide. Hestia chokes on the green juice she’s drinking.
And Charlie smiles.
It’s one of those ugly smiles.
“What do you mean, what did I do? I’m sitting here running your fucking empire for you while you piddle around with the horse girl.”
“Horse girl,” I repeat, and I see red.
I don’t like seeing red.
It makes the world an ugly fucking cesspool of rotten olives, and olives are one food I actually can’t stand.
I push my chair back from the desk and gesture Charlie to step up front and center. “Hestia, Vicki, I’ll call you later. Hang up now. Charlie, have the honors.”
I’m dialing the head of my legal team before Charlie’s done telling Bruce he’s fired. Actually, before she’s even gotten started.
She’s getting a promotion.
And I—
Fuck.
I need to find out what Bruce did, and stop it before whatever he did gets to Sarah, because I have zero doubt that whatever he did, it involves her.
I give my legal team a run-down on Bruce’s firing and ask them to prepare for a fight, and also to investigate if I can threaten to sue him for breaching a contract on my behalf, if that’s actually what he did, which I need to figure out pronto.
Maybe firing him was too hasty.
Then again, maybe not. I’m hanging up with my legal team when Hank turns the corner, laptop in one hand, the largest vat of coffee I’ve ever seen in the other.
