by Bromberg, K.
Out of habit, she reaches out and rubs her hand over my belly and deep down, beyond my embarrassment, I know the baby is the real reason I’m lost in a fog. I can’t even process the thought that one day our son or daughter is going to google their mom or dad and come across us having sex on the hood of a car. In a garage. In public. How do you explain that?
My whole body tenses at the thought, the burn of tears back with a vengeance. “How bad is it?” I ask for what feels like the tenth time today. Again, I don’t really expect an answer as I reach up to wipe away the tear that escapes and slides down my cheek.
“Well . . .” she starts and trails off, trying to find the right words. “When I told you to have some wild, reckless sex with the man, I guess I should have added the caveat to have some wild, reckless sex where there weren’t any cameras.”
All I can do is sigh, thankful she’s trying to infuse some humor into the situation but not really feeling it. “Not funny.”
“C’mon. That was a little funny,” she says, holding her thumb and forefinger an inch apart.
“There’s nothing funny about this whatsoever. Just tell me,” I say again, wanting to know how bad it is because I’m too chicken shit to look myself.
She blows out a breath, and I close my eyes wanting to crawl inside myself. “It’s bad. Like Internet frenzy, social media everywhere, reporters will be at the gate for some time, type of bad.”
“Fuck.” One word says it all for me.
“That’s kind of what got you in this position so maybe we should choose a different word.”
I turn my head to look at her, not amused at all despite the exasperated smile turning up the corners of my mouth. “How about bullshit?”
“That’s a good one. You’ve definitely stepped in it.”
“Did you watch it?” I ask, because she is the one person who’s going to give me the truth and not sugarcoat things. She nods her head slowly, serious eyes holding mine. “And?”
“It’s definitely you and Colton, if that’s what you’re asking,” she says, cutting straight to the chase and causing my stomach to churn. I know she is holding back a flippant comment—“a damn, girl” or “a holy hotness”—and I appreciate her restraint.
“Did Colton tell you about the whole . . . everything yesterday?”
“Yes,” she states matter-of-factly and looks back toward the ocean beyond.
“Why? Why would someone do this to us, Had?”
“If I had one guess, I’d say money,” she muses, “but that’s what I don’t understand. If it was all about the money, wouldn’t the person sell the tape to make a bazillion dollars? The only thing that makes sense is someone seriously wants to fuck with you guys.”
I want to cry. I want to sob. To rage. However, I push the heels of my hands over my eyes and just press them there, hoping they miraculously hold back the tears. Because as screwed up as it is in my mind, I feel like if I cry—if one tear leaks over—then this is really real. This isn’t a nightmare I’m going to wake from.
“This can’t be happening,” I say to no one and everyone.
“Colton’s worried about you,” she says softly. “Wants to talk to you.”
“He should be,” I snip and then wince. “Look.” I sigh. “I know he is but I need to clear my head for a bit before I talk to him. I mean, I have my parents calling and Tanner, and God only knows who else is leaving one of the million messages on my phone. I don’t want to talk to anyone right now.”
“I get it,” she says, as I rest my head back on her shoulder. “But you’re going to need to talk to everyone at some point or else you’re going to explode.”
“I know,” I murmur, closing my eyes and wondering how I’m going to face anyone again. Exploding sounds like a more viable option.
But I can’t.
The baby. I have to focus on our little miracle and not let any of this affect my stress, my health, or my blood pressure because it’s still too early for him or her to come. I have to keep it together. Bury the emotion. Hide from the embarrassment. Push down the pain. Do what it takes.
I have this baby depending on me.
I’m a mom now. My needs come second.
“WHO THE FUCK IS IT, Kelly?” I pinch the bridge of my nose as I stare at my computer screen. Fucking Google and its far-reaching fingers. Pictures upon pictures of Rylee stare back at me. Stills taken from the video. Her body on display for the world to see, and all I can see is red. Rage in my blood, revenge on my mind. Finding the bastard who did this is my only thought so I can plow my fist into his face and then ask why if he’s still conscious.
“I’m on it.”
“Well, while I wait a few thousand more downloads will occur. No biggie,” I say, sarcasm front and center, even though I know this isn’t his fault. Shit, it’s only been hours since the video appeared and it’s already everywhere: TMZ, Perez Hilton, YouTube, E!, fucking CNN. You name it; it’s there. “I want this bastard found the fuck out.”
“And then what, Colton? It’s not like they stole it from your house and then uploaded it. It was a random video taken in a public place. It’s fodder for public use.”
“I don’t give a fuck,” I shout into the phone. It alerts another call, and I cringe when I look down to see who it is. Dad. Fuck. “I gotta go. Keep me up to speed.” I stare at the phone for a fleeting second, not wanting to tackle this just yet, before I switch the call over. “Dad.”
“Hey,” my dad says. In that single word I can hear him searching out how I’m doing. He never fails. No matter what curveball my life has thrown, my dad has always had my back.
“I take it you’ve seen the big news.” Sarcasm is my friend today. Well, that and fucking Jack Daniels, but I had to cut myself off to prevent getting plastered. I need a clear head so I can deal with this crap. And so I can be there for Ry, my only focus in this whole shitstorm.
Even with valid reasons to abstain clear as fucking day, my eyes veer from my empty glass over to the bottle sitting on the kitchen counter. The sight of the whiskey tempts me. Sings to me like a siren luring me to crash and burn.
“Just wanted to check and make sure you and Rylee were okay.” Thank fuck he finally speaks, pulling me from the temptation to drown my problems away. I swivel so my back faces the kitchen—and the bottle—while I wait for him to say more, ask the questions I know are on his tongue. Yet I’m met with silence. Rolling my shoulders, I blow out a breath as I try to let in the one person who matters most when all I want to do is shut people out right now.
“I’m worried about her,” I confess as I look out the window. She’s still curled up on the chaise lounge where she’s been since Haddie left. The food next to her untouched. It’s fucking killing me to not go out there and talk to her, but I’m the reason she’s hurting.
I’m not going to let her pull away. Don’t think she will. But she asked for space, and I’m giving it to her. For now.
“It takes a lot to catch me off guard, Dad,” I say finally as my mind runs faster than I can say the thoughts, “and this . . . fuck . . . this just blindsided us.”
“I don’t want an explanation, son. I’ve lived this life too long to know how people twist and manipulate things to hurt others. I’m just calling to let you know we’re behind you. I’m here if you need to talk and to make sure you take care of her.”
“She told me she trusted me to handle this, and now? Now, I don’t even know what the fuck to say to her.”
“How about you start by using her name.”
My knee-jerk reaction is to yell at him for the comment, but it dies on my lips when I click another link with the mouse and more images of Ry fill the screen: close-ups of her face, her tits, her spread legs, her goddamn everything.
I’m sure my dad can hear the sound of my fist hitting the desk through the connection and yet he says nothing. The drywall calls to me. It’s so much more tempting to hit—satisfying—because the destruction is there, visible, and yet helps fucking nothi
ng.
“Her name? Easier said than done, Dad. I brought her into my public world, pushed her, and now this is what she gets for loving me?”
“I bet she gets a whole lot more than that, Colton, or she wouldn’t be with you.” His words hang on the connection as I struggle whether or not to believe him. Is the more worth enough for her to stick with me through all of this?
His words repeat in my head.
I sure as fuck hope he’s right. Everything’s been too perfect as of late. Is this the other shoe dropping to put me back in my place and remind me how cruel fate can be?
“Remember, son, marriage isn’t about how madly in love you are through the good times, but how committed you are to each other in the bad times.”
And as cheesy as my dad’s advice sounds, I hear it. Hold on to it. And hope to fucking God it’s the truth because the shit has most definitely hit the fan.
“She won’t even speak to me.” I chuckle in frustration and force myself to turn off the computer. If I see one more image I have a feeling the drywall will be too tempting to resist. Unclench your fists, Donavan. Shove down the urge to hit something.
“I probably wouldn’t want to speak to you right now either,” he says. “You grew up in this world. As much as your mom and I tried to shelter you from it, the cameras were always there. You’re used to them, the intrusion. She’s not. She’s always been a private person and now the two worlds have collided in such an intrusive way. You need to give her some space, let her come to terms with feeling violated, and then you need to do something to remind her how very special that moment was to you two so you don’t let the vultures take that away from you.”
Yeah. Because once they take a part of your soul, they only want more. And fuck if I plan on letting them have another piece of it.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“I’m always here if you need me. Let’s hope a huge story will come along and brush this under the rug sooner rather than later.” One can hope. “You can’t control this, son. The only thing you can do is to turn your wounds into wisdom.”
My phone beeps again as I glance back to Rylee and her unmoving figure so very close but who seems so far away. “Yeah. Thanks, Dad. I’ll talk to you soon. Chase is on the other line.”
“Chase.”
“You need to make a statement, Colton.” As much as I love my publicist’s straight-to-the-point manner, right now I don’t really want to hear a fucking thing she says.
“I shouldn’t have picked up,” I say drolly, the only warning to her of the mood I’m in.
“Or the both of you need to make a public appearance and show you aren’t fazed by any of this. The Ivy or Chateau Marmont?” she asks, knowing me well enough to ignore my comment.
“You’re reaching for pie in the goddamn sky if you think I’m going to let Rylee anywhere near a public place right now.”
“I get it, but you need to face the chaos head-on.”
“Out of the fucking question. Now tell me how bad it is on your scale.”
“Well, no publicity is bad publicity,” she says, causing every part of me to bristle with anger.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”
“Look, I’m not going to sugarcoat it, but it’s what you’d expect from the fickle, sex-starved masses. You look like some sex god where attaboys will be handed out, and Ry looks exactly the opposite.”
“But we’re married,” I shout, pissed off they’re treating her like a whore.
“That’s how I’m spinning it. Intimate moment between husband and wife. You didn’t know about the cameras. Sell the story that some sick fuck is taking advantage of you two caught in a passionate moment. Make him out to be the bad guy and that you are the victims.”
But I’m not a victim.
Never again.
Baxter’s collar jingles as he follows me through the darkened house. My eyes burn from staring at the computer. Keeping it turned off didn’t last very long. So many images, so many comments, and every single one of them was like a personal attack on me because they were all about Rylee. And it’s only been hours since the video has been released. I fear what the morning will bring.
Turn wounds into wisdom. My dad’s words ring in my ears and yet right now I’m not quite sure how that’s possible. Wisdom won’t punish the fucker who did this. It won’t let me sleep better at night. It won’t suffice as an apology to Rylee.
When I enter the bedroom, my feet falter and my hand with my drink stops halfway to my mouth when I see her. She’s lying on her left side, body pillow tucked under her big belly and between her legs, sound asleep. Every part of my body tenses and relaxes simultaneously at the sight of her: perfection I don’t deserve in any way, shape, or form.
Fucking Rylee.
My breath.
My life.
My kryptonite.
And now I’ve brought whatever the fuck this is down on her.
I sit in the chair across from the bed in our little sitting area that overlooks the beach darkened by the night beyond. It takes all I have not to crawl into bed and pull her against me and reassure her that everything is going to be fine again when she wakes up. Because it isn’t. Far fucking from it.
Silence is much better than bullshit.
So I sit in silence with my legs propped on the coffee table in front of me and pour myself another glass of whiskey. I can drown in it now—let it sing me to sleep—since it’s way too fucking late at night for anyone to need me.
I take a sip and watch Baxter go plop down on his bed. Shit, if he had a doghouse, I’d be in it tonight. And for good reason.
The alcohol burns but doesn’t dull the ache in my gut or take the edge off the unknown and worry. Only Rylee can do that, and she’s still not speaking to me.
I’ve done this husband thing for almost six years now. Thought I was doing a pretty damn good job at it. But then something like this happens and I’m reminded how little I can actually control, especially when it comes to taking care of those around me. There’s no stopping the crazy we are going to wake up to in the morning. In my heart of fucking hearts—the one she brought back to life again—I know this for a fact.
Just like I know we can withstand this tornado we’re in the middle of. It won’t be the first. I sure as fuck hope it will be the last. Such optimism when I’m used to living by the hope for the best, expect the worst approach.
Who the fuck did this to us? And why?
Thoughts, theories, speculation. All three circle in my head and none of them make sense.
Rylee. My goddamn perfection in this whirlwind of chaos and bullshit. She is the only thing still crystal clear to me. My spark. My light.
My chest constricts. We’re introducing a baby into this mix.
That lick of panic that’s been on standby is dulled by the Jack, but it’s still there.
Still flickering.
Still telling me there’s no turning back.
I WAKE WITH A START. It’s more than just the baby resting on my bladder. It’s that sudden awareness when I reach out to find cold sheets, realizing Colton’s not beside me. And then before I can shift to see if he even came to bed, yesterday comes flooding back to me.
In full 3D effect.
My whole body tenses. I want to pull the pillow over my head and hide, and in fact, I do just that for a brief moment to collect my thoughts and try to find the me that’s hiding underneath layer upon layer of humiliation and mortification. But I can’t live like this—hiding in shame—so I allow myself a momentary pity party before I get up to face the feared chaos.
The phone call to my parents last night comes back to mind. How supportive they were amidst my apologies for the embarrassment caused, and the promise that this footage was not something Colton and I even knew about. How my mom kept reiterating they were sorry someone was trying to exploit us in the worst way, but that the most important thing was to take care of the baby and my health.
Who thinks they�
��d ever have to make that apology to their parents? Ugh.
The baby shifts and reminds me how very hungry I am and how full my bladder is. I rise slowly from the bed, take care of my morning business, and then set off to find Colton and food. We need to talk. I shut him out last night so I wouldn’t take my disbelieving anger out on him when this whole thing is just as much my fault as his.
I prepare myself before I look out our bedroom window to the gates at the front of the house. Being on the second story allows me to see the street clearly and of course the minute I move the curtains, I wish I hadn’t.
Paparazzi lurk there, milling around, waiting for any movement from our house. They’re vultures waiting for the tiniest bit of flesh they can tear away and use to their liking: to sensationalize, to vilify, to exploit, and to manufacture lies.
And it’s not like they haven’t seen enough of my flesh already.
My stomach tightens at the sight. Too much. Too fast. I wince, worried what this is doing to my blood pressure. The room around me becomes foggy as dizziness overwhelms me momentarily. I fear what I’m going to find when I go downstairs to my laptop, which adds pressure to the constriction in my chest.
I sit on the edge of the bed and attempt to calm myself. The welfare of the baby my only thought as I try to regain the determination I felt ten minutes ago to face head-on whatever the day brings. A few deep breaths later, my cell on the nightstand vibrates. The name on the screen causes me to cringe. With quiet resolve, I have no choice but to answer him.
“Hello?”
“Are you okay, Rylee?” My sweet boy—now grown man in college—coming to the rescue.
“Hey, Shane. I’m okay. I’m sorry.” The apology is off my tongue in an instant. Two words I feel like I’m going to be saying a lot in the coming days.
“Do you need me to come home?” The simple question has tears welling in my eyes. I’d like to blame it on the hormones but I can’t. Yesterday showed me how cruel the masses could be to no one in particular and yet today, this moment, I’m shown once again how much good there is still in the world. That a boy once lost, who I spent a lifetime comforting and trying to help heal, has taken to me like I am his own. And there is something so very poignant about the thought that it’s exactly what I needed to receive.
