“I have a lot of damage control to go do,” he said. “I don’t … I don’t know what’s going to happen with us, June. I don’t know what to tell you to do.”
I didn’t know what to do, or what else I could say to Devon to make any of this any better. Somehow, that photo was out in public now. I didn’t understand how it had happened, but I wasn’t behind it.
“Devon, I love you,” I tried. “Why would I do this?”
He flinched at the word “love,” and I wondered if it had been the wrong thing to say.
“I need to be somewhere else,” he said. “Somewhere away from you.”
And he left. I was powerless to stop him, rooted in the spot by shock and horror. He couldn’t even stand to stay in the same room as me. I was too sick to even cry, even though my stomach ached like I wanted to. It struck me to move to the window, to see him walk out, and I was just in time to see him charge through the swarm of paparazzi that had doubled in size overnight like a man possessed. He hadn’t bothered with a baseball cap. And he wasn’t bothering with being polite, shouldering past anyone foolhardy enough to stand in his direct path.
He pulled out of the parking lot so aggressively that smoke rose from his tires, twin black streaks on the pavement the only thing left of him as he rounded the corner and drove out of sight.
It was only then that the tears fell — tears of anger and frustration at both myself and Devon, at gossip websites and people who wished us ill, at the idea that the universe would keep shoving obstacles at us to keep us apart. How had this happened? I’d deleted the photo. Why hadn’t Devon believed me? Why had he thought I was behind this terrible thing?
I grabbed my phone and powered it on, scrolling back through the photos. There were selfies of Devon and me, pictures of Hawaii, adorable portraits of Nana, and then nothing out of the ordinary. Photos of cats I stumbled across in my trips across Dallas, photos of weird cars I passed in my deliveries. The photo of Devon in his hotel room wasn’t here. It wasn’t anywhere on my phone.
But then, my heart stopped. There was a folder in my photos that I hadn’t noticed before, testament to an operating system upgrade I’d agreed to install and never investigated.
Recently deleted photos. I swallowed hard and opened it. There was a few blurry photos, a photo of what had to be the inside of my purse, an extreme closeup of my thumb, and, finally, like a wound that refused to heal, the photo of Devon in his hotel room.
How had I not known about this? For once in my life, I wished I paid more attention to my phone. It was just that I never had time — not when Nana was alive, and not when I’d started dating Devon, trying to navigate the potholes of life in the spotlight in the interim. I was failing miserably. I couldn’t even keep track of what my own phone was doing.
I took a screenshot — I at least knew how to do that much — of the offending photo inside the deleted photos folder as proof. The photo was in that folder. I had deleted it — just not completely. Somehow, and this was still the biggest mystery, that photo had found its way to the Internet.
I called Devon, but it went to voicemail. I tried again, wondering if he’d shut his phone off or if he was just ignoring the call every time my number popped up on his display. But after the third time, I gave up and sent a text. At least he wouldn’t be able to ignore that.
“I found the photo on my phone,” I typed. “There was a copy preserved in this folder I didn’t know about for recently deleted photos.” I sent the text. It felt strange to me that the photo had been taken recently enough to make an appearance in that folder, but then again, my relationship with Devon had developed at a break-neck speed. It really hadn’t been that long ago.
I stared at the screen, willing Devon to reply, but he didn’t. There wasn’t even an indication that the text had been delivered. He had to have turned his phone off. I sent the screenshot of the awful picture in the recently deleted photos folder anyway, wanting him to understand that I was trying my best here.
“So I really did delete the photo,” I typed in a new message. “But it wasn’t gone for good. I wanted you to know that.” Sent.
Sent, and I still didn’t know what I was doing, what I was trying to prove. I wanted to show Devon that I wasn’t hiding anything. I’d had no idea about that stupid folder. My own technological ignorance made me cry even harder. I’d deleted the photo, but somehow, it had resurfaced because I wasn’t as thorough as I should’ve been. I hadn’t been the one to release the photo to the world, but I was still partly culpable because I was an idiot.
“I didn’t send it to anyone,” I said. “I hope at this point of the movie you’re making about our life that you include just how stupid I am.”
He could chew on those whenever he chose to turn his phone on again. I was done sending texts out into space.
But without anything to occupy my mind, my misery became unbearable. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t just sit here and wallow. I had to leave. I didn’t know where I’d go, but I had the rental car. Dallas was a big city, and Texas was an even bigger state. I’d figure this out. I’d be okay.
I peeked out the window, fully expecting the crowd of paparazzi to have dispersed after Devon’s stormy departure, but, if possible, there were even more than before. It was as if everyone in Dallas with a camera had gathered outside.
With a gulp, I realized what they were after — me.
They’d seen Devon leave the building, angry at what obviously was my fault — the photo of him in the hotel room when we’d met. Now they were waiting for me. They wouldn’t be looking to get my side of the story. They wouldn’t even be interested in what insights I had about the photo or its release or Devon’s anger.
They just wanted to capture my shame and sadness. And that’s what would happen if I tried to escape the hotel.
I’d have to wait it out. That was the only thing I could do. I’d have to wait it out — they had to leave some time — and distract myself in the meanwhile.
My hands shaking, I fumbled with the remote until I turned the television on and started channel surfing. My finger froze on an entertainment news segment on one of the channels.
“Check out this unfortunate image of Devon Ray,” the announcer was saying, barely bothering to conceal his glee. “Taken in the very same hotel where he met his current girlfriend, former pizza delivery girl June Clark, now, this gets very interesting. We have footage of both Devon and June entering the very same hotel where this photo was taken, but footage of only one of them leaving — Devon.”
I snapped the television off again. This wasn’t working. I couldn’t do this. I had to leave right now.
I grabbed my phone and called Devon again, but there was still no answer. I stopped and thought hard about my next move for a full ten seconds before making it.
“Hello?”
I cringed at myself, at the way my nose was running, the tears that were mingling with that snot. I was such a mess. I should’ve just found a hole to crawl into to live out the rest of my days in blissful hermitage, but I was reaching out to the most unlikely of people instead.
“Hello?”
“It’s June, Trina,” I said at last. “June Clark.”
“Oh, June,” she said. “Oh, dear.”
“You’ve seen it.” The resigned horror in her voice told me everything I needed to know. I made a move to end the call, certain she wouldn’t want to have anything to do with me after this, but she spoke up again.
“Of course I’ve seen it. Everyone in the entire world with access to the Internet or television has seen it.”
I wiped my face with the edge of the comforter. That definitely didn’t make me feel any better, but I stayed on the line because I didn’t know what else I could do.
“I didn’t do it,” I said.
“I know you didn’t.”
“Why are you so sure?” I asked her, befuddled. “You don’t even know me.”
“June, I find I must remind you that I was with Devon
for much longer than you were. And what’s always a package deal with Devon?”
I swallowed. “Chaz.”
“Chaz. That’s exactly right. This stinks of Chaz. That’s why I believe you. This is exactly something that Chaz would try and do.”
It was rewarding that Trina believed me, even if her support was completely unexpected. But that didn’t do very much to lessen my despair.
“Devon thinks you’ve poisoned me about Chaz,” I told her.
“I hope I’ve poisoned you about Chaz,” she said. “You can’t trust him with anything, June, and I do mean anything. The man wouldn’t tell you if you had something in your teeth before a red carpet.”
I sighed. “I let him style me before the Kelly Kane interview.”
“You did have a little too much makeup,” she allowed. “But you saw Kelly up close and personal. Too much makeup is basically her signature style.”
“I don’t understand how Chaz would’ve gotten that photo,” I said. “Yes, I took it. It was the day when we met, and both of us have been pretty open about that. But I deleted it.”
“You’re certain you deleted it?”
“Yes. Positive. Except that it was still on my phone.”
“It was what?” Trina’s voice was very nearly scandalized.
“It was in that recently deleted photo folder,” I said, my voice breaking. “That meant I deleted it, Trina, I’m telling the truth.”
“For fuck’s sake, June, don’t cry,” she said. “Just breathe. The photo’s still on your phone?”
“I did a screenshot and sent it to Devon right now,” I said.
“Why in the shit would you do a thing like that?” Trina demanded.
“I wanted to be honest,” I answered. “I told him I deleted the photo. I didn’t know that it had still been on my phone. I didn’t want to lie to him. He already thinks I’m a liar.”
“Okay. Delete the photo now so no one else can steal it.”
“Steal it?” I frowned. “You think someone somehow stole it from my phone? Is that even possible?”
“Look in the times we live in,” she said. “Someone either stole it or you gave it to someone.”
“No. I didn’t give it to anyone. The only ones who saw it were Devon and my grandmother. And Nana’s dead now.”
“You never sent it to anyone?” Trina asked again.
“I told you I didn’t. And I don’t do social media, so that’s out of the question, too.”
“Who has had access to your phone?” she asked without so much as taking a breath. Trina was really giving me the third degree, and an uncomfortable doubt started to creep into my psyche. What if she really wasn’t on my side? What if she just wanted to usher out my relationship with Devon so she could have him for herself again?
“June?”
“Sorry, I’m thinking,” I half-lied. My mind really had been racing, but it wasn’t focused on what she was asking me to focus on.
“I’m talking about anyone who even might’ve had access to your phone,” she said. “Devon, obviously. But what about Chaz?”
“I mean, I did spend a whole day with him, the day leading up to the interview with Kelly Kane,” I said. “I guess I had my phone with me, but I was too nervous to be poking around on it.”
“How can you go a whole day without looking at your phone?” Trina demanded as if that factoid was the most unbelievable one of the bunch.
“If you had to explain to America why you deserve to date its most desirable man, you’d be a little distracted and nervous, too,” I spat.
“What about during the interview?” she asked. “Where was your phone then?”
“In my purse,” I said.
“And your purse. Where was your purse?”
“With Devon. And Chaz. Backstage.”
“So he could have potentially had access to your phone during the interview?” Trina asked. “It’s possible, right?”
“Possible, but I don’t know if it’s probable. He was trying to communicate with me the entire time. And when shit really hit the fan, he was keeping Devon from charging on to the set.”
“Shit,” she remarked. “That would’ve been something, wouldn't it? People would still be talking about it.”
“People aren’t still talking about the interview?”
“No, dummy. They’re talking about Devon’s drunken double chin now. You should search it on Twitter. Some of the jokes are actually really funny.”
I felt a renewed surge of guilt. “That’s not funny, Trina. He’s so upset. I promised him I deleted that photo. I deleted it right in front of him. And now he thinks I’ve just been lying to him from the beginning about everything. That I was just waiting for this moment to really hurt him. Leading him on.”
“Okay, okay, I get it,” Trina sighed. “I know that you didn’t do it. I know that you feel bad about it. I know that Chaz is behind it somehow. But now we have to figure out how to get Devon to see the truth. He has a considerable blind spot when it comes to Chaz. It’s not going to be easy.”
“None of this is easy,” I told her. “I’ve learned that the hard way.”
“Where are you right now?” she asked.
“Dallas. Still in my hotel room. It’s surrounded by paparazzi. Devon just charged out, straight through everyone as they took his picture. I saw everything from my window. They’re waiting for me to do my walk of shame. I can’t. I’ll probably just starve to death in here. I can’t go out there.”
“Shit.” Trina was silent for a long time, but her sudden burst of laughter made me jump and pissed me off.
“I would love to know just what you think is funny about all of this,” I said slowly and angrily.
“Nothing except the solution to your problems,” she said. “Relax. Hold tight. Grab some chips from the vending machine. I’m going to call in a few favors. It might take a couple of hours.”
“I get it,” I said. “You’re in L.A.”
“Yes, but I have a few representatives in Dallas,” she said. I could hear the grin in her voice, and I once again had a stab of doubt. I was completely vulnerable right now. I’d reached out to the most unlikely of people because I didn’t have anyone else I could talk to about Devon. What if it was a terrible mistake? What if Trina was going to hang me out to dry?
“Okay, I’ll be waiting,” I said. “Will you call me when I need to do something?”
“June, believe me. When it’s time to make your move, you’ll more than know it. When it’s time, get out of there. Get to the bus station. And get your ass back to L.A. to win back your man. I’ll text you my address.”
“Okay.” I bit my lip. “Trina?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“There’s a special place in hell for women who don’t help women, June,” she said, and hung up the phone. Her statement would’ve been a little foreboding if I hadn’t been so desperate for relief from my self-imposed paparazzi siege. I wished I could’ve been braver — or at least maybe angrier. If I’d been super angry, like Devon had been, I could’ve pushed my way right past the photographers amassed outside. If possible, there were even more now than when I’d gotten here. They were eager to document this falling out. I peeked out the window, trying to disturb the curtain as little as possible, and was disgusted to see a familiar sight pull up — a pizza delivery from my former place of employment. It looked like the paparazzi was digging in for the long haul.
I didn’t know what Trina had planned for my rescue, but I didn’t have any other options at this point. I’d fucked up somehow. I just didn’t know how yet.
I felt a sudden panic. Trina had been quizzing me for the past fifteen minutes about who had access to my phone, and she’d been the one who grabbed it out of my purse back at the bus station in Los Angeles. All she’d done — or all I thought she’d done — was punch in her number in my phone. But what if she’d somehow known about the photo on my phone? Would
that have been all it had taken for her to get it and screw me over?
The doubt I had was crippling that I was barely able to pull my clothes on. Who else could I turn to if not Trina? It made me regret letting all of my high school friendships languish after I graduated, and ignoring all possible friendships in my tour of duty through college to satisfy Nana because I was so busy with caring for her. I never even chatted casually with my coworkers at the pizza place. I hadn’t been there to work. I’d been there to earn money for us, but it was the human connections in this city that would’ve gotten me out of this scrape.
Now, I had to rely on a woman physically located across the country, a woman I barely knew, to help me in a way I couldn’t even imagine.
I pulled on a hoodie and tightened it around my face. Trina had promised I’d know it when it was time to go. I just didn’t want to miss my chance, whenever it came, and in whatever form it came.
I waited at the window for a long time, despair growing with each passing minute. She told me it might take a few hours. Was she planning on coming here herself? How would that even be possible? But I became convinced as the day waned into evening that it would’ve been faster for Trina to charter a jet and come here herself and flash the cameras or something — though I most certainly doubted that had been her plan, or that she was even willing to do such a thing for me.
My eyes widened, however, just after sundown, when a large tour bus pulled into the hotel parking lot. It stopped just short of the valet area, and bulky football players started pouring out of it. I had to blink several times before realizing I was witnessing dozens of Dallas Cowboys players stepping into the hotel parking lot in full gear like it was nothing. This was too strange to be a coincidence, and I realized that, beyond my expectations, this was the distraction Trina had planned.
I made a move to grab my backpack on the bed and slung it on my shoulder, shoving my phone and the rental car keys in the front pocket of my hoodie, when I froze again at the window. The team had formed several lines, and at the sudden boom of bass from the bus, began a choreographed dance routine.
SEAN: A Mafia Romance (The Callahans Book 3) Page 50
