by Nadia Lee
“Aren’t sex tapes sort of passé now?” Kristen muses out loud, then finishes another glass.
“Not when it involves an underage model, a producer and a politician.”
Both of her eyebrows rise. “Wow.”
“I don’t want to do it though. It doesn’t clear your name or your rep.”
“I see.”
We’re close, too. We just need a couple more pieces of intel, so we can link everything together in just the right way. Then both the teen and the paparazzo from Ming Ming’s pool party will go down, and Kristen’s reputation will be restored.
If I had things my way, I’d have them mowed down by a landing Dreamliner for the grief they caused Kristen. But since there are pesky things like the law, I’ll restrain myself.
“So until your name’s cleared, take some time off and relax,” I say.
“Relax…” She sighs, then chugs down a third glass. “Maybe. At least I’m going to have lots of time to pursue what I set out to do. You should be relieved.”
“What do you mean?”
“Finding myself a man. Like you said before, it should take care of the problem of stalkers. And seeing me happy in a relationship with, you know, an adult might make people realize teenage boys aren’t my type. You know, in case the plan to clear my name takes too long. I can’t put my life on hold forever.”
I say nothing.
“You should be thrilled. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”
It was and it is. But I’m anything but thrilled. Since I don’t even want to think about her dating other men, I say, “Once you get your life back to normal, Lola is going to realize what a huge mistake she made when she laid you off. You’re a great designer. Elizabeth loves your custom rings, and didn’t Ryder say something about spoiling his wife for delivering a baby girl? He may commission a piece from you.”
Instead of cheering her up, it makes her frown. “Maybe. But that’s something I did on the side as a hobby. And I don’t want him to commission a piece out of pity.”
I tilt my head. It’s paradoxical that she can be so smart and confident at times, so insecure and uncertain at others. Vulnerable. “He doesn’t strike me as the type to do something out of pity,” I point out. She needs to know she’s just that good.
“Maybe. But I don’t want to think about all that right now. I don’t want to think about anything except drinking.”
I understand the need to lick one’s wounds. And the need to hang on to your pride, because sometimes that’s the only thing keeping you from doing something you’re going to regret the next day.
Part of me wishes I could be the support she needs, someone she could lean on to draw comfort. If I hadn’t said the things I said to Maman… If she hadn’t heard what I said… But right now, the last thing Kristen wants from me is a shoulder to cry on.
The story of my life. I excel at giving women a fantastic time in bed, but the other stuff? Yeah, that’s debatable. And I know from experience that a healthy relationship needs more than great sex.
“You can go now,” Kristen says after finishing the bottle. Her words are just a tad slurred.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I want to watch over you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re hurting. And I don’t want to leave you alone, drinking.”
“Fine. Whatever.”
She stares at the empty bottle and glass, her lips pursed. She looks so forlorn and sad, like a puppy that just got kicked for no reason other than wanting to be happy.
“If Lola apologizes, do you want your job back?” I ask her.
She considers, then shakes her head. “No. I wouldn’t want it back.”
“You loved it there.”
“Yeah, I did. But it was a one-way thing. They didn’t love me back. They didn’t stick up for me. So…” She shrugs. “It doesn’t matter.”
I feel horrible at her dejected tone. It doesn’t feel like she’s just talking about Lola, but about how things have gone between us. And the thing is, unlike Lola, I really do think Kristen is something special.
She waves her phone at me. “You know, I’m going to use all these apps and find myself a guy from accounting.”
“A guy from accounting?”
“Yeah. Tolyan told me I should.” She goes and grabs another bottle of white.
“I don’t get it,” I say when she’s back.
“He said I need a stable, normal and nice guy who thinks it’s his lifelong mission to make me happy. And you know what? He’s right. I feel like I deserve that. Why should I be the only one who loves? Why shouldn’t I be loved?”
Her questions create a painful hitch in my chest. And so I uncork the wine for her, because that’s the only thing I can do.
Chapter Twenty-One
Kristen
“You really need to stop drinking so much. No matter how hard you try to pretend, you aren’t Lizochka.”
The words boom in my head like a series of bombs going off. I wince, burrowing deeper under the covers. I object to Tolyan being in my room, but there’s very little I can do about it. I can barely keep my head attached to my body.
“What time is it?” I moan finally.
“A quarter after noon.”
Holy mother of God! I’m so freakin’ late! I jackknife up, then clench my teeth when my stomach threatens to heave everything. A weirdly sour tang fills my dry mouth, and I make a face.
“Inadvisable to move so suddenly when you’re hung over,” Tolyan observes. Mr. Helpful.
“Yeah…thanks.”
“What’s the rush anyway? You don’t have to go anywhere.”
The events from yesterday flood my brain, like pop-ups on a spam site. Karen firing me because that’s what Lola wants. My coworkers staring at me like a circus freak. Then Antoine being so damn nice to me as usual because…
I slowly swivel and put my elbows on my knees, cradling my head…so it doesn’t land on my feet. “Where’s Antoine?”
“At work.”
“You’re off today?”
“I’m finished with the alphabetizing.”
I can’t decide if he’s joking. Probably not.
“Water and aspirin.” He hands me a tall glass plus four white pills.
I swallow all the pills and drink all the water. No argument this time. “How about coffee?”
“Downstairs.”
“Ugh. You mean I have to walk?”
“And you have to eat something.”
My stomach churns dangerously at the thought of food. “Uh… I don’t think so.”
“Don’t worry. Unlike your confused Frenchman, I won’t try to feed you bacon.”
“What confused Frenchman?”
“Antoine. A Frenchman who thinks he’s British.”
“He does not.”
“Have you heard him talk?”
“That’s just the accent. His vocabulary is all American.”
Tolyan cocks an eyebrow, then helps me stand and go downstairs. I don’t have to have a mirror to know I look like hell. I can tell my hair’s sticking out weirdly, and my face feels grimy and gross. I probably forgot to get the makeup off.
Somehow I managed to change into a nightshirt—a simple cotton tee, not one of the sexy items Jo delivered—before crawling into bed. I frown. Did I have any help? My fuzzy brain says Antoine might’ve been in my room to make sure I didn’t break something trying to change while drunk. And he was a perfect gentleman.
I purse my lips. He could’ve tried to cop a feel. I wouldn’t have minded too much.
No. Wait. Stop right there. I’m supposed to get over him, not hope he feels me up while I’m drunk and naked and…stuff.
“So when did you get here?” I ask.
“Six.”
“When are you leaving?”
“When Antoine gets back.”
It’d be easier to pull teeth out of a T-Rex skull. “Don’t you have to organize Liza’s paperclips or something?” The question slips ou
t before I can catch myself. Oh shit. I’m going to get my ass kicked now.
“Scheduled for tomorrow,” he says flatly.
I stare at him, unsure if he’s kidding. Tolyan isn’t the first person you think of when you’re thinking a bright and fun and…you know…well-adjusted reasonable human being.
As we reach the kitchen, I smell the fresh java and slightly burnt aroma of toast. I pour myself coffee first, then nibble on the toast. Tolyan turns on the TV and surfs around. I look at it, wondering if there’s anything that can keep my mind off the fact that I’m unemployed.
“Look at those weasels, getting what they deserve,” Tolyan says as four men are dragged away in handcuffs.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Don’t you recognize those two on the left?”
I blink, then stare at the TV screen. Oh yeah. I remember them. The freckled redhead with pale gray eyes is the paparazzo who sold my topless picture, and the guy next to him is…
Wait. Is that the underage punk people are accusing me of flashing?
The anchor explains the four engaged in various scams, most of them targeting women. They engineered situations where the women ended up in embarrassing or compromising pictures, and then they’d approach them for money to make everything go away. All of the perpetrators are in their twenties, and the cops finally made arrests with enough evidence to charge them.
“Oh my God. That kid wasn’t a kid?” I blurt out.
“Some people look young.”
“But…in his twenties? He seriously looks like he should be in junior high.”
Tolyan says nothing.
“Bastard,” I snarl at the TV. “And I got called #PedHo for nothing.”
“Sue them for defamation then.”
I shake my head. “I’d settle for an apology.”
“Don’t hold your breath. I don’t do CPR.”
I give him a sly look. “Not even for Liza?”
“Not even for Lizochka.”
“Why not?”
“Unsanitary.” The flat note in his voice says the discussion is finished.
I shrug and hurry to finish my coffee. Finally, the nightmare is over! People won’t harass me anymore. And despite what I said, I know they won’t apologize. So many people on social media are unkind because they think it’s their right to incessantly complain and criticize, while wondering why their lives are going nowhere fast.
Then I remember what Antoine said last night. Is this his doing? He was so determined to restore my reputation. Should I text him and ask? But if I know for sure…
Argh. Why is he being so nice?
“What is it?” Tolyan says.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“I can read your face. You went all soft, then got curious, then got mad. What is it?”
What the… Am I that obvious? I clear my throat. “I was wondering…if the cops had help. It looks like those guys were doing it for a while.”
“Ryder Reed’s people were on it, but Antoine did most of the work. He was determined to make things right.”
So. As I suspected.
“Don’t read anything into it. He probably did it for Dominic.”
“My brother asked?”
“It’s difficult to marry off a young woman who has a black mark. A woman should be sweet-tempered and soft-spoken—with a sterling reputation—in order to marry well. And your brother does want you to marry well.”
Wow. The twenty-first century totally skipped this guy. “How do you know this?”
“All men want the women in their family to marry well.”
I shake my head and check my phone. I have multiple texts, and I reply to Dominic first, who wrote, It should be all good now. I’m glad Antoine came through again.
That he did. Did you ask him to fix it?
A few minutes later, Dominic writes, No. He does what he thinks is required, and I trust him.
Next I see Liza’s texts. She’s relieved the truth is out, and people know I’m a victim, not some child-seducing sociopath. But she’s completely outraged I was let go.
My jaw slackens. How did she find out? Did Tolyan tell her?
It’s okay, I type. Actually, it’s better this way. At least I won’t be wasting my life with people who have such little faith in me. I hit send. If I repeat it to myself enough times, it really won’t feel so bad.
If you want, I can recommend a lawyer who specializes in wrongful termination.
Liza, always on my side. I don’t want the publicity. I want everything to go away. A few days off won’t be too bad either.
Let me know if you change your mind. And I’m throwing out everything by Lola, and her label will never be seen in my closet again.
I smile, touched. Lola isn’t worth it, not while you’re on your honeymoon. I’m sorry my drama interrupted your time with Dominic.
You’re family, Kristen. You’re important.
I hold on to the thought.
Tolyan stays the rest of the day. Antoine never comes. It’s probably for the best, I tell myself. Now that the #PedHo phase of my life is over, it’s time I get serious about getting over him.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Antoine
Friday starts normally. Well, almost normally…aside from Maman sending me twenty-five texts before six a.m. to let me know Tante Nicole is having a party—which I apparently should boycott “just to show her”—and Tante Nicole calling at six ten to invite me to said party. She apparently managed to finagle access to a citrus grove owned by the Pryce family. She considers it a coup of sorts, since the Pryces are wealthy and influential. I don’t like it because they’re also Dominic’s in-laws. Tante Nicole never does anything without a good reason.
After my call with Tante Nicole, fifteen more texts arrive from Maman, all on the theme that Tante Nicole is so desperate to marry Nicolas off, she’ll do anything, including begging the Pryce family for the use of the grove. But she’ll lose. No woman wants a pretentious bore who writes books designed to treat insomnia. Maman adds ten smug emojis, in case I miss her glee.
The inane juvenility of the rivalry between Maman and Tante Nicole is just ridiculous. I read that people get over their embarrassment of their parents in their twenties, but I haven’t gotten over shit. If anything, Maman and Tante Nicole fight with more malice and pettiness now that they’re older.
When my assistant spots me, she hands me a mug of fresh coffee. “Are you all right?” she asks. Sarah’s been with me for a while, and she’s learned to tell my mood at a glance.
“Fine.” I’m not the sharing type, and she’s a professional colleague, not my confidante.
She arches an eyebrow. “If you need anything, let me know.”
I nod and shut the door behind me, then see the mug and sigh. It’s the one Kristen gave me two years ago for Christmas. She got it from Paris, and it has the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe and You are what you drink in bright red cursive. I take a sip of the hot brew because it’s either that or sigh again.
Kristen didn’t text or call yesterday. I thought she would after seeing the news. And even if she didn’t see it, I know for a fact that Dominic let her know her name’s been cleared.
Not that I did all the work for Brownie points. But if it were two days ago, she would’ve called me, her voice breathless and full of joie de vie. And it would’ve put a big smile on my face because she’s such an infectious, sweet thing. Having her treat me like a non-entity while demanding I act like a total douche around her feels like somebody’s shaving my bones with a meat cleaver…but at the same time, it’s probably for the best.
“It is for the best,” I say, as though if I give voice to the idea it’ll become truer and I’ll feel good about it.
Nope. I still feel like crap.
My phone buzzes. I whip it out of my pocket, just in case. A text from Tolyan. Such a deflation. Then I frown. He’s supposed to be watching over Kristen.
What’s your cousin’s inter
est in Kristen?
Uh… What? I take another sip of my coffee and respond, What are you talking about?
She has a date with Nicolas Albert Augustus Saint-Tours. That’s your cousin, correct?
Yes.
He has a lunch date with Kristen today.
No fucking way. I told Nicolas to stay the hell away from her. She’s too good for the likes of us.
I call Tolyan. “Are you sure about this whole thing?” I say the second he answers.
“It’s my job to be sure. I also know about your grandfather Jonas’s proposition.”
What the hell? That isn’t public knowledge. Obviously, Tolyan has been spying on my family.
“Since you’re his cousin,” he continues, “I’ll let you take care of him. But if you don’t think you can put God’s fear into the boy, let me know and I will.”
“No need. Nicolas is my problem.”
“On that point we agree.” He hangs up.
I call Nicolas. The fucker ignores me, and it goes straight to voicemail. God damn it.
Pissed, I track his phone. One way or another, he’s going to stay the hell away from Kristen.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Kristen
An afternoon coffee would’ve been my preference. Coffee is always better for a first date; if the guy turns out to be a dud, I can cut it short and make my escape.
But Nicolas said lunch was the only time he could get away. Apparently his boss is a “dick of epic proportions.”
And I do have to eat. So why not have a sandwich together? If it goes well, I can stay an hour. If not, I can bail in half. Blame an emergency meeting or something. I don’t have those anymore, but Nicolas doesn’t know that.
I hope he turns out to be a great guy. The kind of guy who makes fireworks go off inside me with a look. Or maybe he can be the second guy ever to make me want to drag him to a nearby hotel and screw his brains out…so I can forget the first.
I’m eight point five percent recovered from Antoine. I’ve given myself five weeks to get over him—one week per year of unrequited love—and it’s been three days. With the right guy, I’m sure I can accelerate the process. I might even be able to move on in less than four weeks. Or maybe even instantly. Some people fall in love in a second. Just look at my brother and his wife.
