I dug into it, spending hours a day, and the contacts I’d been building up over my time working for Simon came through for me. Bit by bit, in tiny fragments of information gathered as I talked to other reporters and hotel workers and taxi drivers and Hunter’s recently fired housekeeper, it all came together.
Hunter was gambling, all right, but not with money. What he put up at the poker tables was women. Specifically, young gorgeous ones desperate to become stars and willing to do anything to get there. He cozied up to them, made them starry-eyed with tales of how his friendship could get them famous, slept with them and got them to let him take nude photos of them, then had his poker buddies value them. Lucy Lucky, I discovered with disgust, had been worth only fifty grand because she was a brunette, since his buddies preferred blondes.
Hunter played his poker games with human chips.
When he owed a guy money, he coughed up his payment by convincing a girl that the guy in question could get her career going. Most of those guys could have done that, but in all my research I didn’t find any evidence that they had. What they had definitely done, though, was sleep with the girls and string them along then ditch them when Hunter discovered a new ‘poker chip’ for them. And when the girls were discarded they couldn’t do anything about it, since Hunter held their nude photos.
It wasn’t illegal, as far as I could tell. Just revolting.
I felt even more sympathy for the young women than I might have before, given that I’d also been sexual with a man I’d never have dreamed of touching otherwise to help my career. I hadn’t slept with Simon, though, and I hadn’t been passed around from man to man as some of Hunter’s prizes had. I’d been lucky.
Lucy, I learned, had also been almost as lucky as her stage name suggested, because after two guys she’d been discovered by a woman, Jo, who owned and ran the Sapphire Angel music label. Once she was under Jo’s wing it didn’t seem like any of the guys had been with her again, and I was happy for that even as I felt awful for what she’d been through and for the women who had taken her place.
I made sure, as I worked up my article, that it wouldn’t be obvious that Lucy had tipped me to it. All the pieces had been out there, actually, without her. Hunter’s inexplicable rise to fame as an actor and even more inexplicable rise as a singer, how he managed to have a new hot girlfriend nearly every week, blind items on various sites talking about young women who seemed set for stardom and then lost their way... it had all been out there, and now it was all in one place.
In my article.
I gave it everything I had. It would probably be my last article ever, because what I planned to do to show MC and Liv that I understood would almost certainly end my career.
But though it was hard to accept giving up the work that I now realized truly was my niche, at least I’d be going out on a high note, protecting young women from Hunter and his pals, and that made it worthwhile.
Mostly.
But on Friday night, after I submitted the article to Simon and accepted his immediate excited phone call and silently told him I forgave him for what he’d done to me, I curled up in a ball on the couch and cried myself to sleep knowing what I faced on Sunday at six o’clock.
Chapter Forty-Five
Sunday at five-forty, as I walked, so nervous I could hardly breathe, toward the little open-air courtyard beside the restaurant where Kent and MC and Ron and Liv and Aaron were going for dinner that night, my cell phone rang. I checked the screen, absolutely not wanting to talk to Simon, and saw Peter’s name on the call display.
“Sorry, Patrick,” I said to the bouncer from the night club. “Mind if I take this?”
He gave me a shrug. “You’re paying, your choice.”
I stopped, and he took a few steps away to give me privacy, and when I answered the phone Peter said, “Summer, I’ve got great news.”
“I could use some,” I said, looking toward the place where I would make my last stand.
He chuckled. “Want to come work for me?”
“I... really?”
“Yup. Finally got ourselves straightened out and we all like how you worked with Simon. And this article about Hunter is spectacular. Outing all those top guys like that? It’s already attracting a ton of attention and it’ll get even more Monday morning. You’ve done a great job, Summer, and we want you on our team instead of his.”
I felt like I should be jumping on this, but I couldn’t quite. Maybe because Peter was focused entirely on the men who’d done the bad things instead of on the women who’d been mistreated. Simon had been too, when I’d sent him the article, but that hadn’t surprised me. I didn’t want to move from Simon to Peter, though, if things would be the same there. “Simon had me doing a lot of sneaking around, lying to get to people. He wanted me to, anyhow. I didn’t, not all the time, but... will I have to do that with you?”
“Less.”
“Less? Not none?”
“Not none,” he confirmed. “The public wants to know about its celebrities even when they don’t want to be known. So yeah, you will have to do some. But nowhere near as much. We don’t operate like Simon. In any way.”
He put a lot of emphasis on his last three words and it made me think. “How,” I said slowly, “do you think Simon operates?”
“I’ve heard the stories,” he said, “about what it takes to get ahead with him. And you’ve managed it, so either you’ve done what he wants, which shows how determined you are to succeed, or you haven’t done it and that shows how good you are at the job. Either way, we know we can trust you now to do the job here. You’ve got great name recognition and we want you.”
Fine, but did I want them? I had, at the beginning, and desperately when Simon had been making his worst demands on me. But Peter had let me suffer with Simon, knowing what he would put me through, knowing he’d expect sex from me, instead of just trusting me himself without testing me first.
The only people who had ever trusted me, just because I was me, were Liv and Ron and Kent and MC. MC had trusted me to make her wedding dress, for God’s sake. The most important thing she’d ever wear.
And I’d screwed up.
If I went ahead with my plan, Peter wouldn’t want me to work for him. Nobody would. I’d have absolutely the wrong kind of fame for my career. I’d be recognized for all the wrong things.
But I had to do what I’d set out to do. I had to regain the trust of the people who mattered to me.
That was the only recognition I wanted.
Chapter Forty-Six
After telling Peter I’d think about his offer, and getting a sick amusement out of his surprise that I didn’t immediately leap on it, I put away my phone and began walking toward the plaza again.
“You, um...”
I looked over at Patrick. “What?”
He stopped walking. “You sure you want to do this?”
I had to stop too. “Wouldn’t have hired you if I didn’t. You bailing out on me?”
“Not if you’re sure. I just...” He shook his head. “Shit, I wouldn’t want to do it.”
“Yeah, well, neither do I. But I’ve apologized every way I can and I think this is my only option left. This has to work.”
He nodded slowly. “I’d forgive you, I’ll tell you that. If you did that, I’d have to.” He shrugged. “Okay. Let’s go. Is it time?”
I checked my phone’s screen. “Nope. And I’ll be getting a text first. But we should get over there.”
He nodded again and we went in silence except for the clicking of my hot-pink bad-luck heels to the patch of cobblestones in a nearby small park I’d decided was perfect for what I had in mind. A little higher ground than the restaurant across the street where the others would be. Maximum visibility.
My stomach twisted and I thought I might throw up, but a quick sip from my water bottle settled me down. I couldn’t throw up. I had to do this.
Patrick and I stood without speaking for several minutes, then my phone signaled a te
xt.
My heart rate tripled instantly, then my stomach flipped around again as I read, “We’re running late. Another ten minutes? I’ll text when we’re leaving, then we’ll be there in five.”
Ron only knew I wanted to know when they’d be there. He had no idea why.
“Oh,” I breathed, “they’re ten minutes late. I can’t stand it.”
Patrick placed a huge hand clumsily on my shoulder. “I’ll take care of you. It’ll be okay.”
I bit my lip, touched by his support. “You told me when I hired you I was crazy to do it.”
“You are.” He grinned at me. “But I’ll take care of you.”
By the time Ron’s next text came, I was so nervous I was seeing spots and my hands and feet were tingling.
“They’re on their way,” I said, hearing my voice shake. “Two minutes, then let’s do this.”
Patrick moved to look into my eyes.
“Don’t,” I said, pulling away. “I’m doing it.”
He gave a single nod. “You look like the boxers I used to coach right before they got in the ring. Yeah, you’re doing it. Two minutes.” He stared down at his watch. “I’ll tell you when.”
Good, because my mind was spinning so fast I’d never have been able to keep track of time. I couldn’t believe I was doing this, and yet I felt sure it was right.
Insane, but right. Necessary.
I stood taking deep breaths and trying not to pass out until Patrick said, “Time’s up. Let’s go.”
Quickly, because I couldn’t imagine doing it slowly, I pulled my maxi dress off over my head. Underneath I wore the tiniest bikini I’d ever seen. I’d bought it, not wanting to make one myself for this, and I’d hated its ugly black self from the second I saw it. Which made it perfect for today.
Patrick took the backpack I’d brought and hauled out the rolled-up sign I’d made. With the tape I’d also brought he attached the sign to the lamp post next to me, then pulled a handful of washable markers from the backpack and dropped them at my feet.
People began staring at once, and reading the sign. Patrick gave it a quick glance, but then did as he should have done and came back to me.
I didn’t look at it. I didn’t need to. I’d agonized enough over it that I had it memorized.
“I’m Summer Young and I’m a horrible friend. I’ve betrayed the trust of everyone I’ve ever known. I’ve only slept with one man in my life because I won’t do it unless I’m married. I gave my boss Simon a hand job for better work. Come over here, ask me whatever you want, then grab a marker and write what you think of me on my body.”
I’d cried over the poster, making it, but I didn’t cry now. I’d gone past that. The secrets I’d never wanted to tell were all out in the open now, the same way I’d put my friends’ secrets out in the open, and I was going to show them that I knew how much it hurt and I’d never do it again.
The first guy approached after barely enough time for him to have read the sign. His friends snickering behind him, he said, slurring his words a bit, “Seriously? We get to write on her? Wherever we want?”
Patrick drew himself up to his full height, and the guy stumbled back. I wasn’t surprised: it was like watching a grizzly bear preparing to attack.
“Bathing suit stays where it is,” Patrick rumbled, “and you don’t touch it. Or I make you regret it. And not on her neck or face or hands or feet.” I’d set that rule so that if this worked and I was forgiven I could maybe go out for dinner with Ron and the others without showing the marks. “Otherwise...” Patrick kicked the markers toward him. “Yeah. Wherever you want.”
As men scrambled for markers, the first guy stepped in front of me and said, “You’ve only slept with one guy? Man, why? I’d love to bang you.”
I swallowed hard. “Yeah, only one,” I said softly. “Wanted it to be special.”
He laughed and uncapped the marker he’d scooped up. “Okay, whatever. It’s not, but you’ll figure that out.” He looked me over then said to his friends, who now surrounded me, “It’s like pissing on virgin snow. No marks yet. Where should I put mine?”
Another marker, held by someone I couldn’t see, began moving over my bare lower back. I twitched, startled, and the guy behind me said, “Just hope she stands still. I’m making a mess back here.”
The guys in front of me laughed, I raised my chin so I wouldn’t cry, and Patrick said, “Just do it and fuck off already.”
Two guys crouched before me, one to write on my ankle and the other across my stomach, and the first guy wrote, as his eyes had told me he would, across my chest, his wrist grazing my boob every chance he could. I willed Patrick to notice, and after a few times he snapped, “Hey, watch it. Marker touches her only.”
“Oh,” he said, looking shocked. “I’m so sorry. Didn’t mean to.”
He finished and stepped back to hand the marker to his friend, and though I didn’t want to I lowered my eyes to try to see his words.
“It says, ‘Horrible friend or not, I’d do you’,” the guy said helpfully.
“I would too,” the next guy said, scrawling something on my side, “but I want to know why you gave your boss a hand job. You that desperate for work?”
“He wanted me to sleep with him but I wouldn’t,” I said, feeling sick but determined to stick to the rules I’d set up. No privacy. Whatever they asked, I had to answer.
“Honey, I’ve got a job for you,” he said, thrusting his crotch toward me as another guy snatched the marker from him and set to work. “Don’t even have to sleep with me. Just open that pretty mouth.”
Patrick stiffened beside me, but I’d told him he couldn’t stop them saying whatever they wanted to me.
Yet another guy made me spread my legs so he could write on my inner thigh. I didn’t look to see what he’d written, but whatever it was made the guy after him howl with laughter and announce he was writing “Me too” under it.
Each guy egged the next one on, and there were so many camera flashes I could barely see. No women lined up to write on me, but they did stand in front and ask me why I was doing this and whether I was getting off on showing off my body and having strangers touch it.
In fact, I wasn’t sure I could handle it much longer without throwing up. Many of the guys wrote over each other’s words so they could lay the marker, and their wrists whenever they could sneak a feel that way, on my most private areas, and stranger after stranger studying my nearly naked body and then making contact with it was a million times worse than I’d expected it would be.
And I’d been having nightmares about it for a week.
I answered every question I was asked, as the guys shouted them at me. I told my favorite sex positions and how old I was when I lost my virginity, I discussed endlessly what I was and was not willing to do without being married, and I even did my best impression of what I sounded like having an orgasm. Every last question I got asked, no matter how private, I answered at once. I had to.
When I was yet again explaining that I’d let a guy feel me up over my sweater but not under it, Patrick reached over and took my hand. I locked my fingers through his, feeling them stretching apart because his hand was so big but so grateful for his support I didn’t care.
“It’s been four minutes,” he said softly. “You sure they’re coming? We’re going to have cops here soon.”
Patrick had warned me that would happen if I spent too long at this since I was definitely causing a disturbance, which was why we’d waited to start until I was sure Ron and the others would arrive soon. They were later than I’d expected. I couldn’t do this much longer. Both because of the police and because I couldn’t take much more. “Check my phone,” I muttered. “In the backpack.”
He raised his voice and said, “All of you stop. Hold up a second,” and went digging for my phone. Not a single guy protested at the delay, no doubt scared of Patrick. That was why I’d decided to hire him to come along. For this to work, I couldn’t be in control of what h
appened, but I needed someone to be.
“Got a text,” he said, straightening up and taking my hand again. “Says they’re parking. Sent a minute ago.”
So I was nearly done. One way or another, this was about to be over.
“Keep going,” I said, through clenched teeth.
The guys swarmed me again, but the next one to take a marker turned out to be the last one. As he squatted before me and wrote something along the top edge of my bikini bottom, Patrick gave my hand a squeeze and said, “I think I recognize a guy over there. That them?”
I looked down the slope toward the restaurant and saw the people who mattered to me. They were looking at the crowd, clearly confused, then the mass of people parted a bit and I saw them recognize me.
MC’s mouth dropped open, nearly brushing the white furry collar of her leather jacket, and Liv clapped both hands over her own mouth. Aaron started forward, and so did Kent, but Ron was way ahead of them.
He came storming up to me, his eyes full of stunned horror.
And locked to my face.
Only my face.
From the moment I saw him our eyes didn’t break contact, and I knew he wasn’t studying my exposed flesh. He knew I wouldn’t want that.
When Ron stopped in front of me, another guy said, “End of the line, pal,” holding out his hand for a marker.
“We’re done here, pal,” Patrick said before Ron could answer.
The guy bristled, but Patrick pulled himself up to an even more intimidating height and turned to him. “I said, we are done. Get lost. All of you. Now.”
I heard a few protests from further down the line, but Patrick simply turned his head to look at the complainers and they took off.
The others reached us and MC, her eyes wide and her face nearly as white as her collar, said, “What are you--”
Fifteen Minutes of Summer Page 23
