by Emma Rose
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: JEMMA
The week following my date with Blayke in Hyde Park was a special time. Finally, our relationship was official and out in the open. The world went crazy and called us a power couple. I could care less what the world thought though, it was the excitement of being with Blayke and feeling secure in our relationship that made me feel so happy. It was one of those rare times in my life where everything seemed perfect.
Buy my world was only sunshine and roses for a few days until everyone forgot all about Jemma and Blayke and Mason and Blayke took over as the cutest celebrity power couple.
It was a rainy morning and I was sipping coffee on the way to the final rehearsal before the opening concert of the Unstoppable tour when I opened up Instagram and saw a picture of Blayke and his bandmate, Mason, french kissing in a recording studio. Immediately, my head started spinning.
The picture was certainly very convincing, but I hoped that it was simply a fan-made edit gone viral. I showed it to Will who was sitting across from me in the limousine.
"What do you make of this?" I asked, rubbing my forehead.
Will looked at the picture carefully and then back at me sympathetically. "I'm sorry, Jemma. I can't be one hundred percent certain, but I don't believe this is photoshopped. It's been posted and re-posted by various different reputable news accounts... it's even on Capital FM's Instagram."
I nodded and took my phone back. "I'll have to check with Blayke to be sure," I said matter-of-factly. I wanted to cry so badly, but I knew Will wouldn't tolerate me acting unprofessionally with such a big rehearsal coming up that day.
I concealed my feelings and fears until the end of the day and then I ordered my chauffeur to drive me directly to Blayke's Knightsbridge house. I knocked on the door and to my horror, Mason answered. He turned pale as soon as he spotted me.
"Oh, uhh, hey, Mason," I stuttered feeling awkward. "Is Blayke here? I really need to speak to him."
"Oh, yeah, I can go get him," Mason answered before turning back into the expensive home leaving me on the doorstep in the dreary drizzle of London rain.
A few minutes later a shirtless Blayke came to the door. His hair was ruffled, his feet were bare, and his faded jeans were unzipped. It was apparent he wasn't expecting visitors.
"Jemma, what are you doing here?" he asked.
Now, I was infuriated along with heartbroken. Did Blayke think I lived under a rock or did he just think I was stupid? "Oh, don't play coy with me, Blayke. You know exactly why I'm here," I hissed.
Blayke dropped his dumb act as soon as he heard the anger in my voice. "Listen, it was just a kiss, alright? I think you're still cool, Jemma. We don't have to break up just because of a kiss, right?" he said pushing my hair behind my ear. I hated how he was talking to me like a child.
"Damn it, Blayke. I would never kiss anyone, but you. I gave you everything. You were my first boyfriend. You got my first kiss, you took my virginity, you stole my heart. I was loyal to you and for what? If that's what you did in front of cameras who knows what you would do with him behind closed doors."
"Are you homophobic, Jemma? Is that the problem? You don't want to associate with someone who likes it both ways?" Blayke sneered.
"Blayke," I gasped. I was surprised at him for going that low. "You know that's not true. I wouldn't be hurt if you told me you liked guys and girls. I'm hurt because you didn't tell me and I'm hurt because you cheated. Maybe it was just a kiss. Maybe you're comfortable with that, but I'm not. I'm looking for someone who is going to be one hundred percent true to me. I thought that was you, but I guess it's not."
Blayke shrugged, "I guess it's not," he said quietly.
"So, that's all you have to say," I said shaking my head. I was surprised at him for not even attempting to apologize.
"Well, I still like you, Jemma. We have fun together. I might even want to marry you someday, but I'm twenty and I'm in a rock band. You seriously can't expect me to be tied down to you and you only."
"What you're really saying is that I'm one of many people you like to fuck," I grimaced.
Blayke rolled his eyes, "That's not what I said, Jemma. It's not like I'm going to brothels every night."
"Oh, thank you so much, Blayke. It makes me feel so much better to know my boyfriend isn't sleeping with prostitutes, he's just kissing his bandmates." I said sarcastically.
"Why must you be so dramatic, Jemma?" Blayke whined.
I shook my head. I was done with him. Clearly, he didn't care about me or my feelings like I thought. "I'm leaving. We're over. Don't text me. Don't call me. You're a womanizer, just like everyone says. I don't want to see you ever again."
As I turned to leave, Blayke grabbed my wrist. "Jemma look at me. Let's talk this out. I'm not a womanizer."
I shook him off. "Let me go! That is exactly what I'm talking about."
I stormed off his doorstep to the limousine.
"Your loss!" he called out. He was the type who had to get the last word.
I stuck the middle finger up at him before stepping into the vehicle and slamming the door. My driver must have overheard everything. He didn't ask any questions when I got in. He just drove off toward my hotel while I sat in the back and pondered everything that had just happened.
How could I be so stupid? Why would I believe that someone like Blayke Beck would only be in love with me? I felt like such a fool. I should have known someone as horny and impulsive as he wasn't keeping his hands to himself while he was out touring.
It took all of my focus and attention to not cry on the cab ride back to my hotel room, but once I was by myself I collapsed onto the floor and started bawling.
I wanted to hate Blayke for cheating on me, but instead, I hated myself. I felt stupid and gullible for believing that he actually loved me, but I still wanted him to love me. As painful as it was to walk in on him and Mason, it was more painful to think about the fact that I would never be able to be loved or to love Blayke in the same wonderful, innocent way I had before. I wished I would have never seen his sparkling green eyes, I knew they would haunt me for years to come.
I felt so alone, there in that hotel room. I wished I had my Momma there with me to cry with and to tell me that everything was going to be alright, but I didn't and I never would. "God, why must you be so cruel to me?" I thought.
Instead of calming down after a few hours, my anxiety and shame increased. My heart felt sore like it was ripped into a million pieces and bleeding into my chest. I was faint, shaky, and nauseous. Intrusive, repetitive thoughts swirled through my head over and over.
You weren't pretty enough for Blayke.
You were bad in bed, that's why he cheated on you.
You're stupid. You're ugly. No one will ever love you.
You don't deserve to be loved anymore; you've made too many mistakes.
You are a sex symbol nothing more.
Suddenly, I found myself over the toilet throwing up. My puke got in my hair, but I didn't care. I wanted to feel pain and discomfort. I felt like I deserved it for being ignorant enough to fall for Blayke. I felt like I deserved it for somehow not being good enough for Blayke to stay loyal to me. The physical discomfort of throwing up offered a distraction from the mental pain.
After vomiting three times in two hours, all that I could spit up was bright, yellow stomach bile. It burned my throat like acid when it came up, but I didn't mind. It was worth the soothing endorphin rush I would get from it about ten minutes later.
I felt so alone and so helpless. A minute after barfing bile for the second time, I felt panic worse than I had before. I started to hyperventilate and my heart rate increased until it was at an extremely uncomfortable speed. My head was spinning. I was sweating and had chills at the same time.
I didn't know what to do, so I ripped my pajama pants off, grabbed a razor from the bathtub, and curled up in the corner of the bathroom.
I brought the razor to my right upper thigh, closed my eyes, and dug the blade
into my flesh. I made a long four-inch wide cut and opened my eyes. I watched the blood pour out from the wound and down my legs. I rotated my leg and trickles of blood ran around the curves of my thigh, butt, and pelvis. The blood mesmerized me and it looked hauntingly beautiful to my eyes in my delirious state.
I felt the pain throbbing and radiating from the cut. It was hot and it stung, but it made me forget about my emotional pain momentarily. I grabbed a clean washcloth and pressed down on the wound. The washcloth absorbed the blood and soon enough it was stained completely red.
I threw the bloody washcloth under the sink and grabbed a fresh one to replace it. I laid down on my back on the bathroom floor in tiny puddles of my own blood. I looked up at the ceiling and breathed in and out slowly. Finally, I was feeling calm.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: JEMMA
The Unstoppable world tour was praised by critics and loved by fans. Every night I went on stage and put on an unforgettable show, flashed a confident smile, danced like there was no tomorrow, and sang like I had no troubles.
I took pictures with fans and they told me how much they wished they could be just like me, but if they really knew what my life was like they wouldn't want to be like me at all. After the afterparties and meet-and-greets, I would go back to my hotel room or to the tour bus and my mind would fixate on Blayke. I hated him, but not as much as I hated myself for continuing to love him.
And then, I would cut. Cutting became my secret drug, my secret addiction. I always cut high up on my thighs or the skin by the hip bone that was hidden by the clothes I wore. I couldn't cut my arms because my costumes rarely had sleeves. The disappointing thing about cutting was that it made me feel better for a moment, but then worse for days. It didn't solve any of my problems or boost my self-esteem. I didn't feel brave for doing it. I felt weak. Somehow though, I couldn't get myself to stop.
On top of all of that, Will was getting on my case for gaining weight. It was true, I had gained a few pounds and my stomach bumped out a little bit. Twitter made that very apparent to me when #jemmajonesispregnant was trending after a picture of me in a crop top and low-rise jeans was posted.
I put myself on a diet. I drank coffee for breakfast and ate salad for lunch. For dinner, I ate half the portions I should have been.
My diet worked. I lost weight, but I felt terrible. By the end of each concert, I didn't have the strength to do anything but collapse on my bed.
I was glad when the tour ended and I had a few weeks off to spend alone doing whatever I wanted.
I remember coming home after the Unstoppable tour to my city townhouse and I didn't know what to do with myself, so I sat on the couch and turned on the television.
I had given up my self-torture diet now that I would be out of the public eye for a little while and wouldn't have to worry about my appearance as much. I poured myself a soda and ordered a large cheese pizza with garlic breadsticks, put on a pair of pajama pants, and got ready for a much-needed night in.
As I was lounging, eating like a teenage boy and channel surfing a familiar face appeared on my flat screen. It was Oliver, but with biceps and facial hair. What was he doing on the local news channel?
A cold shiver went down my spine. Oliver had been arrested for illegal possession of marijuana and was being held for bail of $1,000. I called Will immediately and told him what I had seen.
"Listen, Jemma. I've told him many times to get his act together and he didn't listen. That's why I'm not helping him get out of this one.
He's a big boy and he needs to learn that there are real-life consequences for things," Will told me. Apparently, he had already heard the news.
"So, you're just going to let him sit in jail, then? You're not even going to try to help him out?" I asked angrily. I wasn't happy with Oliver by any means and I was still feeling hurt by him, but that didn't mean I wanted to watch his life turn to shit.
"I don't think of it that way, Jemma. I think of it as tough love. Plus, I'm trying to distance myself from him as much as possible. I don't want his antics ruining my bad name," Will explained.
That's when I finally saw Will for who he truly was, a man who cared only for himself. Sure, he gave me an opportunity that changed my life for the better, but he didn't do it out of compassion. He did it so that he could make his name known so that he could make money. All the nice things he did for me were out of a greedy desire.
He didn't really care about me. If he did, he would have told me to ignore the trolls on social media who criticized my body. He would have told me I was perfect the way I was instead of encouraging me to develop an eating disorder. William Connors was a devil with charm. That was clear to me now. The man didn't even care about his own brother.
I was too pissed off to say anything so I hung up on my manager
and threw my phone across the room.
Then, I screamed into one of my throw pillows. How did Oliver and I both turn out to be so fucked up?
I knew what I had to do. I needed to go pick up my best friend.
So, I got up and took a taxi down to the police station in my pink pajama pants and a t-shirt from my debut tour.
I walked into the police station nervously. I felt like I had done something wrong to be there even though I was completely innocent. I got some weird stares from the officers and other people in the waiting room, but I ignored them. I guess I did look pretty silly in my loungewear. People weren't used to seeing me without my makeup and hair done not to mention without a well thought out outfit.
I inquired about Oliver and although they didn't understand why I would want to bail him out they let him come home with me.
When the officers brought Oliver to me, I was shocked. He was so much taller than I remembered him. He had transformed from a boy to a young man. He had traded in his typical polo shirt and blue jeans for a white tank top, black sweats, and Jordan's. He looked just as surprised to see me as I was to see him.
"Jemma- I can't believe you came for me," Oliver said as we stood outside of the police station waiting for a cab.
"That's all you have to say, really? I just got your ass out of jail and I haven't seen you in years and you can't even say sorry or thank you?" I yelled. I was pissed at his irresponsibility and cocky attitude.
"You know you didn't have to bail me out, right? I didn't ask you to do that."
I turned to face him, put my hands on my hips, and gave him a glare, "Oh, really? You had that situation completely under control. Do you realize your brother wasn't coming to get you? Your dad wasn't either. You would have been totally screwed without me right now and you know it too."
Oliver looked down at his shoes ashamedly. He didn't have anything to say. I was right and he was wrong. He knew it, but he didn't want to admit it.
"Now, you have nothing to say, perfect," I muttered sarcastically.
After a moment of pause, Oliver mumbled a simple thank you.
"You're damn lucky I'm a sucker for you, Oliver," I replied, shaking my head.
A taxi pulled up and we rode from the police station to my home in silence. I had a lot to say to Oliver, but I didn't want to air all of my grievances in front of the cab driver. Oliver, on the other hand, couldn't think of anything to say to me.
When we arrived in front of my townhouse, I paid the driver and signed an autograph for his daughter. He thanked me then told Oliver he was one lucky man.
"I guess I am," Oliver agreed.
I gave him a side-eye as he got out of the cab. Of course, he was polite to the taxi driver but not to me.
As I walked up the stairs to my home, I noticed Oliver wasn't following me. He had turned and was walking the other direction down the street.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?" I called after him.
He shrugged, "I dunno."
"Well, I didn't bail you out just to leave you on the streets. Come inside, let's sort this out together," I said waving him in my direction.
"Are you sure?" he asked with eyebro
ws raised.
"Yes, I'm sure," I groaned.
"Okay, then," Oliver said while walking slowly toward me.
I opened the door and Oliver followed me inside. I threw my keys down and looked at the boy standing awkwardly behind me.
I sighed. What had I just gotten myself into?
"Are you hungry? Cause I know I am," I said putting my bitter feelings to the side momentarily.
Oliver smirked, "Yeah, actually, very hungry. Getting arrested makes you work up an appetite."
I rolled my eyes, "Not funny." I said in a monotone voice, but I actually did think it was a little funny.
Oliver and I went to the kitchen and I put some of the pizza I had ordered earlier into the microwave. We watched in silence as the slices went round and round until they were sizzling and chewier than before.
I took two red solo cups and filled them with water from the fridge. I placed Oliver's water and paper plate of pizza at one end of the table and mine at the other end. We sat down and ate without speaking. We were both tired and emotionally reeling. I still hadn't gotten over Blayke and now I was sitting across from my childhood best friend who rejected me twice after his brother mistreated for the duration of a six-month concert tour that I returned from less than eight hours ago.
