by Bromberg, K.
He scrubs a hand over his face and when I get a little closer to him, something about his movements tells me he’s a little buzzed. And I hate that he can’t look me in the eye.
“The fuckers released the video,” he says, words mirroring the thoughts I had when I saw paparazzi outside. The grimace on his face only serves to heighten my sense of dread.
“Okay,” I say with a slow nod. “Well, you were right then.” What else can I say?
The low chuckle he emits is anything but amused, and I will him to look at me so I can see what he’s thinking. But he won’t. Instead he just purses his lips, eyes focused on the bottle of Jack next to him, and pours himself another drink.
“But I was so very wrong.” The words hang between us as he slowly raises his eyes to meet mine. And the look in them—absolute and utter apology mixed with regret and concern—causes more than just feelings of dread. Something is so very wrong.
“What do you mean?”
“They never wanted the money.” Another long pull on the whiskey and the fact he never even winces tells me he’s had more than a few already. “Nope. Not even close.” He shakes his head when all I want to do is shake the answer out of him as the silence stretches. “In fact,” he says as he raises his glass toward me, “they one-upped us.”
“What do you mean they one-upped us?” The teeter-totter of uncertainty we are standing on starts to crash without a stopping point.
“They reeled me in, Ry, like a fucking fish on a hook. Doctored the time stamp like they knew I’d notice it. Made me think that was the only video of that night . . .” His voice draws off as he finally meets my eyes. “But there was one more. Another angle.”
And that simple statement hijacks my breath and makes my heart thunder. “Another angle?” My voice is barely a whisper.
“Fuckin’ A straight,” he barks out, his self-deprecating laugh back that sounds equal parts sinister and lost hope.
“What the fuck do you mean, Colton?” I ask, my own mind running a million miles per hour now. I’m scared, worried, uncertain, and it all comes through in the words. Another angle? What do paparazzi know out front that I don’t?
“Sit down,” he orders, as he reaches out to grab my hand and tries to make me.
“Don’t!” I warn him as I shrug out of his grip, letting the single word mean so many things. Don’t coddle me. Don’t bullshit me. Don’t tell me to calm down because I’m not an idiot. I know something is very wrong here.
His eyes hold mine while the silence that feels like hours stretches between us, unnerving me more and more with each and every second that passes. He starts to speak a few times and stops; the words he wants to use not coming to him.
“Just tell me,” I implore.
He closes his eyes momentarily before running a hand through his hair and taking a long swallow of his drink. I wrack my brain to remember the last time I saw him this stressed. It’s been so long that I feel completely out of practice in what to say or how to soothe him.
“They played me. Knew I was going to say ‘fuck them’ and not pay. They never wanted the money, Ry,” he says. Even though I’m not completely following him, I’m also mentally begging him to get to the point because I need to know why he’s this upset. “Nope. They wanted to prove what an arrogant son of a bitch I am. Prove that even when I do what I think is best for my family, I still can’t fucking protect you.”
“What’s on the tape, Colton?”
“Close-ups. Your face. Your body. Us together. The correct date,” he says so quietly, it takes me a second to realize what he is actually saying.
“No!” I shout. He reaches out for me but I step back. The pressure in my chest mounts and the buzzing in my head grows louder.
“Ry . . .” My name is a plea on his lips and even though I hear it, I can’t respond. My discordant thoughts are colliding together like a kaleidoscope—fractured images of unfinished thoughts that overwhelm me and confuse me all at once. “How was I supposed to know?”
The emotion in his voice pulls on every single one inside me, and yet I’m not sure which one to hold on to for a reaction. I want to rage and scream while at the same time I want to run and hide and pretend I didn’t hear a thing.
I brace my hands on the patio railing; my eyes focus on the tranquility of the beach below, but all I feel inside is a dissonant storm of turmoil. “There’s no mistaking it’s me?” I ask, hoping against hope he’s going to tell me what I need to hear.
“There are close-ups of us getting off the elevator and walking toward the car. Of you during,” he says, voice empty, because how else can he possibly sound, “of us leaving after.”
I press the heel of my hand on my breastbone, the pressure mounting steadily as I try to fathom how the situation he swore to me was under control is more like a tornado about to touch down.
And then it hits me. I’ve been so dumbfounded listening to him and trying to get what is wrong out of him that it didn’t compute to me the real reason paparazzi are outside. It’s not just because it was a sex tape where they thought the Prince of Racing was cheating on his do-good wife. No. Not in the least. They are out there circling like sharks with chum in the water because they’ve seen the tape where the Prince is actually fucking said wife on the hood of a car.
Oh. My. God.
I have a sex tape. That’s been made public.
Oh. Shit.
Even through his whiskey-fogged mind, Colton must sense it’s all clicked for me because when I turn around to face him, a deep exhale falls from his mouth. He watches me warily, possibly wondering if I’m going to rage and scream or go into my no-nonsense, let’s-fix-this business mode.
“How bad?” It’s all I can say, the only question I can think to voice.
“I already have Chase on it.”
“That’s not what I asked.” His response gives me all I need to know though. If his publicity rep is already responding, that means it’s public. Like majorly public. Like it’s beyond controlling, public. “How bad, Colton?” His chuckle returns in response. I start to pace one way then stop and forget what I was doing. I can’t focus. “How is this even . . .?” I can hope, although the dread I feel already tells me what the answer is. The anger festers but is held at bay by disbelief. “Like viral bad?”
“The public loves their celebrity sex tapes,” he says, sarcasm thick in his voice and the look I’ve learned to hate on his face. The one I’ve seen so many times during our fertility journey that says there’s nothing he can do to make it better besides put one foot in front of the other and try to put this all behind us. And that’s not what I want to see right now. This is the last thing I need.
I want to dig my heels in instead of putting one foot in front of the other.
His eyes, usually so full of life, are deadly serious. I just shake my head back and forth as he starts to speak because I don’t want to listen any more and yet need to hear everything.
“I have our lawyers on this, Ry. We’ll find out—”
“Does it matter, Colton? Does it?” I throw my hands up, my body vibrating with anger, my soul hiding in embarrassment. “It’s not like CJ is going to be able to get it taken down from the Internet. Because that’s what you’re not telling me, right? That’s why you won’t answer me when I ask how bad it is because you’re afraid to say that a video of us having sex is being uploaded left and right to computers all over the goddamn place and there’s not a fucking thing we can do about it.”
I feel violated in so many ways right now, and not just because I’m naked. But more so because someone took an intimate, meaningful moment between him and me and exploited it. Demeaned it. Made it sleazy.
Made us sleazy.
This is not some sex scandal. It. Is. Us. A married couple. We’re not cheating on each other. We’re not into some weird taboo sex. Loving each other to the point where the outside world faded away and we became caught up in each other was our only fault.
“Please calm
down, Ry. It’s not good for the baby.”
“Calm down? Are you kidding me? THIS isn’t good for the baby. Not in the goddamn least,” I say as I try to control the anger that’s raging out of control. “You’re the revered playboy who has lived your life in the public eye. Shit like this is good for your popularity, right? I mean this may elevate you to rock-star status with your groupies. But. Not. Me!” I scream as the shock finally gives way to anger. And I know I’m being mean and irrational but I don’t care because this isn’t fair.
“Ry . . . C’mon. That’s not—”
“Not fair?” I yell, finishing his words that mirror my thoughts. “You want to know what’s not fair, Colton? What this is going to do to me. I’m the good girl who works for a non-profit with little boys who look up to me. How am I going to explain this to them? Fuck. I’m the face of a company who asks for donations to fund our projects. So when you want to talk about fair, think about how in the hell this is going to affect me.”
I have to move to abate my anger, the fire in my veins reflected in the aimless and erratic direction of my feet as I move from the doorway to the railing and then back to the doorway. Colton stands there watching me without saying a word. “Oh look, Bob, let’s give money to Rylee Donavan. She’s the class act who spread her legs and taped it for the world to see. Maybe we can ask her to do a video for us while she’s at it because that’d sure as fuck raise some money for the organization.”
“Rylee!” Colton barks out my name, trying to get me to stop my misplaced rage, but I don’t care because it’s not his professionalism at stake. It’s mine. One I’ve built with years of hard work and sweat and tears. “How will anyone ever look at me again without seeing the look on my face when I come with my legs spread wide?”
We stare at each other now, but I can’t hold back the spite in my tone or the accusation in my glare any longer as the detailed visual of that night fills my mind. The one of him standing before me with his pants unzipped and every other part of him completely clothed while I looked up at him from the hood of the car, my dress bunched up around my waist, breasts exposed. “I was naked for the world to see. All of me. Do you know how that feels? Do you have any clue? Fuck, Colton! This is who you are. You live your life in front of the masses and—”
“And what? You think this doesn’t bug me?” He steps into me, chest heaving, anger palpable. “That I’m not devastated that a special moment between you and me is now on display for everyone to see? You think I give a rat’s ass about people seeing my dick? I don’t, Rylee. Not in the fucking least. I feel violated, and it’s not because of me but because of you. I care because it’s YOU. I worry because it was my idea and you went along with it when I knew that wasn’t your norm, and now what? Now you’re going to blame me for this and do I don’t know what to our relationship?” The muscle in his jaw pulses as he clenches his teeth, his hands fisting, and eyes begging me for forgiveness that isn’t his to ask for. I went with him willingly. I let him fuck me on the hood of the car and now years later look what’s happened.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. Too many emotions are overwhelming me and pulling me in so many directions. He stands, the glass clinking as he sets it next to the bottle of Jack Daniels, before taking a few steps away from me, running his hand through his hair, and then stepping back toward me.
“If we let this get to us, we’re letting them win. Giving them exactly what they want,” he says, an unspoken plea for me not to shut him out right now.
And as much as I know his words hold truth, when he reaches out to me, I step back. The pressure in my chest increases and my head starts to hurt. I feel vulnerable, and I hate that feeling.
“My dad,” I murmur, my heart beginning to pound so fast I become dizzy. “My dad’s going to know about this. And Tanner.” I’m not sure why the idea is so very devastating to me when I know they’d never watch it when a public of voyeurs will, but it does all the same.
The tears well as I think how embarrassed my parents are going to be. When I think of how my mom is going to have to answer questions at work or how my dad’s going to react when his buddies at his weekly poker match ask him if that’s really his daughter on the tape.
The sharp pain comes out of nowhere and despite immediately knocking the breath from me, I gasp out in pain. Colton’s at my side in an instant as I brace one hand on the back of the lounge chair while my other one holds onto the swell of my belly. The immediate thought of ‘No, it’s too early,’ fills my head . . . and terrifies me.
“Ry.” The fear in his voice matches how I feel. “Please sit down.”
I roll my shoulders to get his hands off me. As much as I want him to pull me close right now, I also don’t want to be touched at all. Don’t want to be coddled. Don’t want to be soothed. My nerves are raw and abraded; my emotions have been raked over the coals. When I sit down and stare at my hands folded in my lap, I will the baby to move to tell me he’s okay while I try to calm down the riot of instability inside me.
And of course as I slow down, I’m forced to think, to let reason seep through the disbelief, and I hate when I feel the tears begin to burn in the back of my throat.
“Who would do this, Colton?” I finally look up and meet his eyes. I hate seeing his suffering, but I can’t find it within me to comfort him like he is me. I know that makes me a bitch, but all I can think about is my job. The boys. My parents.
Us.
I know we can survive this, know we’ve weathered storms before, but we are now in such a different place in our lives than the other times. We are on the cusp of bringing this new life into our world. How do we manage the chaos from the outside when our inner circle is shifting too? Even the smallest of storms can cause damage, but how can you repair it when you can’t even see it coming?
He sits down on the table in front of me and the look on his face tells me he’s waiting for me to tell him to leave me alone. We stare at each other for a few seconds, so many things pass between us in the gaze and yet I can’t say a single one of them.
“I don’t know. I’ll find out and try to fix this.” It’s all he can say and yet I know there is no fixing this. There is only fallout and that in itself scares the crap out of me because there is no parachute to help us float above the chaos this video will create.
“I know,” I say quietly. I shake my head trying to stop the imminent tears I don’t want to shed.
“Are you okay?” he asks and I know he means about everything, but I don’t have the wherewithal to lie to him.
“The baby kicked.” I can’t tell him I’m okay, because I’m not. I have too many things going on in my head, and I just need to process it all. He won’t stop looking at me and right now I don’t want to be stared at. Currently, too many people online are gawking at me, and yet the one who can see the deepest into me is the one I don’t want looking. All I want to do is crawl in a hole and be left alone, and therein lies the problem.
My privacy is nonexistent.
“I just want to be by myself for a bit.”
“Ry, please.”
“No. I just need to wrap my head around this.”
I can see him want to tell me not to go, to stay here and talk to him, but I can’t. I don’t even know what to say to myself. I can’t comprehend where I go from here or how I can rebound from this to claim my life back.
The waves crash onto the beach below. I watch them, know the breeze is hitting my face by the way my hair moves with it, but I can’t feel it. My thoughts run wild, images in my mind that were so meaningful now turned into someone else’s sick, twisted pleasure. I’m nauseated to think that somewhere, someone might be getting off right now on a video of us having sex. Creating fantasies in their own mind, making their own sound effects to it.
My stomach churns as I imagine some dark, seedy room with a creepy guy and a box of Kleenex. I know I’m overreacting but the image keeps repeating in my mind.
Feeling so exposed, so vulnerable, I curl into
a tighter ball on the lounge chair where I’m sitting on the lower patio. These feelings are so foreign to me that I’m struggling to accept that this situation is actually real. Since we’ve been married, vulnerability has been absent in my life. That feeling of helplessness is nonexistent. Colton has never made me feel that way. Besides the random articles here and there, we’ve been able to keep our life ours, unaffected by the outside world. I have never doubted in his ability to smooth things when they go awry. We’ve turned to each other, reassured each other, taken care of each other.
And I know that those three actions aren’t going to fix things now.
We can’t say it’s a bullshit story—someone out to make a name for themselves—because their name is irrelevant when it comes to sex in the public eye. It’s going to be our names splashed around, twisted into some sordid story so I’m made to be some whore because let’s face it: the men usually get hero status while the women are left with the tarnished reputation.
Normally I’d be in auto-fix mode by now. That’s what I do, who I am. If there’s a problem, I attack it with a clear head and try to mitigate damages and get it taken care of. I don’t think there is a single way to mitigate anything when it comes to this situation and that’s what’s staggering me. Even worse, I’m sitting here, wanting to sink into oblivion but have my phone in my hand, fighting the urge to see how bad things really are. I have a feeling the fact that I had to turn my ringer off an hour ago to get some peace and quiet is already telling me the answer.
“Hey,” Haddie says. The cushion next to me dips when she sits down and puts her arm around me. I should be shocked she’s here, but I’m not. She always seems to know what I need to hear. Whether Colton called her because he feels lost that I don’t want to speak to him right now or because she came on her own accord, doesn’t matter. And as much as I want to be alone, wallow in whatever pity I have for myself that is useless anyway, it also feels good to have her beside me. The one person who will know what I need or don’t need to hear right now because she knows me inside and out.
