by Lex Martin
“You’re not sharing me. When I made that post, I was looking at a video of us, not anyone else. I mean, yes, I watched the other video, but I got off to you for the main event.”
She has to know that she’s the only woman who gets me that worked up. Do I watch porn? Yeah. Big fucking deal. But everything is such a plastic imitation—fake scenarios, fake words, fake caked-on makeup—that I can barely stay hard.
She doesn’t look like she believes me. “Please. You do that every time?”
“No, of course not every time. But this last time, yeah.” I rub the bridge of my nose under my glasses. “Listen to me, Evie, for fuck’s sake, I’m in love with you, not them. You.”
Her eyes widen, and she blinks like she can’t believe I just said I love her. She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. She shakes her head.
“So if guys sent me videos jerking off and licking their cum, telling me they wanted to fuck me and come on my tits, saying it didn’t matter if I had a boyfriend because they wouldn’t tell anyone, saying they’d meet me any time, any place, and I got off to it—that would be okay?”
Fuck, no.
“Evelyn, that’s not the same.” Instantaneous rage blasts through me at the thought of guys going after my girlfriend. Of wanting to touch my girlfriend. Goddamn it, it is the same.
Disappointment clouds her expression. And with slow, purposeful movement, she rises from my chair, looks me straight in the eye, and says, “I don’t know where this leaves us. I’m not sure I’m cut out for this.”
Before I can process what this means or what to say—or even put some fucking clothes on—she picks up her purse and walks out the front door.
30
Evie
Shitty doesn’t begin to describe my Monday morning.
I finally get off the world’s longest conference call and muster the energy to return some files to Penny. As I rub the coffee stain I dribbled down my shirt a few minutes ago, she has pity on me and hands me a cookie.
“I could eat fifty of these right now,” I lament, wishing I had stayed in bed. I’m so exhausted, my temple pounds.
I hardly slept after my argument with Josh last night. He left me three messages afterward, and I texted him that I need some time to clear my head.
But now I’m doubting myself. Because who tells someone like Josh Cartwright she needs space? Idiots like me. Except for this one thing, he’s perfect. He’s sweet and thoughtful and so loving. The few times we’ve been out in public together, he’s never so much as glanced at another woman. Except for the porn. But what guy doesn’t do that?
Can I live with women inboxing him with personalized videos? I don’t know, but now that my anger has died down, now that I realize how wound up I was over last night’s horrid dinner and how I overreacted, my heart aches at his absence. I know I need to pull up my big-girl panties and talk this out with him.
The fact that this is about sex makes it all the more difficult. I mean, who wants to discuss your masturbation habits?
Ugh, I suck at adulting.
Part of me thinks as long as he doesn’t message any of those women or interact with them online, I need to accept this. It’s not like he talks to these girls or meets with them. Yeah, no. He’d be a dead man then.
But me getting worked up over my boyfriend, the porn blogger, looking at porn makes as much sense as a vegetarian who gets pissed off because his salads contain lettuce.
I’m just jealous. I can admit that. I’m not sure how to deal with these emotions. I’ve never, never felt this way about anyone, not even my ex, and I don’t want to be crushed.
Beneath my fear and mild hysteria, his words linger. I love you.
God, I love him too.
And I never even told him.
That has to be my first priority. To tell him I love him. To apologize for snooping. To tell him we’ll work through this and that I need him to have a little patience with me while I get used to this idea. And maybe I adopt a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. It’s not like we don’t screw like horny bunnies on crack. It would be different if he wasn’t an attentive lover. If we never had sex.
Except he always wants me. He always has his hands on me. His gaze always tells me he thinks I’m beautiful and desired and loved.
My heart thumps erratically because I need to talk to him. Maybe I can take an early lunch and go see him.
I glance around, wondering if I’ll be missed if I step out for a while, but the hallways are empty, which is odd for mid-morning on a Monday.
“Where is everyone?” I mumble as I finish off the rest of Penny’s cookie.
She points upstairs. “A big partner meeting. They all went running up there half an hour ago, and a few people are in court.”
I nod and head toward my office.
“Wait,” she calls out. “You’ve had several calls from your friend Kendall.”
Frowning, I turn back to Penny. “Really? Why didn’t she call my cell?”
“She said she tried but it kept going to voicemail, and she says this is urgent.” Looking around to make sure we don’t have any eavesdroppers, she whispers, “Her message was, ‘Call me right fucking now.’”
Penny laughs, but it feels like someone dropped a lead anchor in my gut. Kendall would never leave a message like that with someone other than me unless the situation was apocalyptic. I wonder if this has anything to do with seeing her ex this weekend.
I thank Penny and shuffle to my office and close the door as I pull out my phone. Shit, it’s been off since I charged it during my shower this morning.
As soon as my cell powers up, Kendall’s all-caps texts flash on the screen.
CALL ME. NOW. RIGHT NOW.
THIS IS A 911.
WHERE ARE YOU?!?!
Then she sent me a link to an article. All the words run together, but two pop out at me—blogger and Cartwright.
Ohmigod.
I scramble to click on the link. For once, it loads right up, except the words I read are my worst nightmare.
And Josh’s.
My hands tremble when I see the full headline, and I can’t scan the rest quickly enough.
Josh is going to freak the fuck out.
I don’t understand how this happened.
Who the hell leaked this?
My heart beats furiously in my throat and saliva collects in the back of my mouth.
But everything slows down—my vision blurs around the edges, making those two words at the end of the article crystal clear.
Because it’s my name.
I think I’m gonna puke.
31
Josh
The lukewarm, bitter coffee envelops my tongue, and with a gulp I drain the sludge at the bottom of my Keep Portland Weird mug. That last dose of caffeine pushes me up out of the creative zone-out I’ve been in for the last hour and a half. I could use a refill. I lean my chair away from my desk and stretch, looking around my now-populated office.
It’s Monday, and as usual, I arrived before everyone else to work in the early morning solitude. It also helped me escape the dark thoughts I’ve had since my fight with Evie. She basically told me not to call her, that she’d call me. It hasn’t been twenty-four hours yet, and already I’m going stir-crazy.
So I drowned myself in the Sellwood theater plans for the last several hours, but I could use a break. I stand up and open my office door, signaling that it’s okay to disturb me. As the noise from the rest of the office wafts in, I check out the skyline.
The sun bathes Big Pink in a particularly rosy glow. With no drizzle in the way, the downtown features come into sharp focus. The traffic buzzes below us, and airplanes soar from PDX. It’s the kind of day for movement.
I need to do something. Show Evie she’s the only one for me. Let her know that the response to my blog means nothing compared to her. I pace.
Meredith pokes her head in. “Need a warm-up, Mr. Cartwright?”
“Yes, please.”
/> She takes my mug, gives me an odd look, then smiles. “Figured you’d need it to get through today.”
What does that mean?
Do I have an appointment that’s escaped my mind?
I check my calendar. Nope. Nothing unusual.
Glancing around, I notice there’s a strange energy in the office, an excitement that doesn’t normally happen on a Monday morning, except after something noteworthy like the Super Bowl or the Academy Awards, when everyone’s talking about it the next day. But this past weekend, there was nothing. I have no idea why the office is tittering. The phones are ringing like crazy.
With my hand in my pocket, I stroll out of my office into the main galley of cubicles, and like an orchestra conductor signaled, everyone falls silent, except the phone keeps ringing. No one picks it up, though.
Okay, now what the actual fuck?
Handing me a refilled cup of coffee, Meredith says, “Here you go, big guy.”
Someone giggles.
Furrowing my brow, I thank Meredith and go back into my office and shut the door. I pause with the mug half way to my mouth when the noise immediately returns to the elevated levels.
Now I’m fucking paranoid.
What the hell is going on?
The red light for my phone messages blinks. I haven’t checked my emails yet. I’ve been so absorbed in drafting.
But pulling out my cell, which has been on silent, I see twenty-nine text messages since I got to work.
I am now officially freaked out. What happened? Did someone die? Was there an attack? Is Evie okay?
Have I been found out?
I click on Drew’s text first.
Send nudes, followed by various selfies where he’s clearly inebriated.
Not helpful.
But I breathe a sigh of relief.
Evie’s simply has a link and says, “Did you see this?”
I click on it.
With my heart beating in my ears, the roar so loud I can’t hear the rest of the office, I see the headline splashed across TMZ.
POPULAR PORN BLOG FEATURES MEMBER OF CARTWRIGHT FAMILY
Gary the Gossip reported earlier today that the anonymous blogger behind the viral All About the D blog is actually Joshua Aden Cartwright, youngest son of Portland’s famed Cartwright family and brother to Senatorial candidate Spencer Cartwright.
The blog, which portrays full-frontal male nudity in whimsical situations, has spawned a mini-empire of merchandising, including adult novelties by Caligula Toys and other partners.
There is no word from Spencer Cartwright’s campaign regarding his younger brother’s X-rated pastime.
Although a spokeswoman for the Cartwright family categorically denied the report, Gary the Gossip insists his sources are reputable. Joshua has been seen with local attorney Evelyn Mills, who is rumored to be the hand model in a graphic video. Click here for NSFW photos…
And there’s a picture of my bored face from Spencer’s ribbon-cutting ceremony.
Next to my face is a black box that repeats the warning that the image is graphic, and when I click on it, I’m greeted by a photo of my cock.
Oh, motherfucking hell.
The sound of the coffee mug smashing on the floor is the only reason I know I’ve cleared all the shit from my desk with a swipe of my arm.
Rage and humiliation mingle in a dangerous concoction in my chest. In a blind panic, I call Evie.
“I was about to call you—” she starts, but I interrupt.
“What the actual fuck? How could this happen? It was your job to ensure this never happened.”
And then I’m pissed at myself for taking this out on her. I let out my breath and try to get myself under control. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to blame you. I’m just… This is… This fucking sucks. I don’t know what to do.”
“I have no idea how it happened, Josh, but trust me, we will get to the bottom of it and take appropriate action. If anyone breached the NDAs, we will litigate. This is damage to your reputation—and mine.”
That hurts. It hurts that I fucked up her reputation, and it hurts that being associated with me is now an embarrassment to her. I was raised better than that.
“I need to see you, Evie.”
She’s quiet for a moment.
“Let’s meet at the café. I don’t have time to run back to your condo. I have too much to do here. Too many fires to put out,” she says, with an edge to her voice now too.
My phone is a grenade—a bomb full of unread messages bearing bad news. The pin has been pulled out. I want to throw it, but it’s stuck to my hand. With a sinking gut, I check the rest of my texts.
Every single member of my family has texted me to call them.
Life can’t get any worse.
32
Evie
Using the back of my hand, I wipe the spontaneous tears that streak down my face the moment Josh and I get off the phone.
He might have apologized for biting my head off, but that doesn’t lessen the sting of knowing his first reaction was to blame me.
With a sniffle, I realize I need to see what else the media is saying.
Reaching for the mouse, I click on a few more links and notice that Gary had written an article about Josh last week, which Josh never even mentioned. I skim it quickly. It’s about Josh and his ex and how he’s dating someone new now. God, why do people care about someone’s dating life?
Was this my fault? If Josh had told me about the article Gary wrote last week, could I have prevented him from digging further? Why didn’t Josh say anything? Was he that busy? Or is he so used to having his personal life splashed across gossip blogs that it didn’t register?
The hard knock on my office door makes me flinch, but the person on the other side doesn’t wait for me to respond before it opens.
“Evelyn, aren’t you a vision,” Angela says with a self-satisfied smile as she takes her phone out and scrolls down the screen, stopping to cluck her tongue at me. “Can’t say I’m not the teeniest bit jealous you’ve been fucking the hottest guy in Portland, but next time you do any hand modeling, you might want to get a manicure first.”
Since Angela has dropped any attempt at civility, I roll my eyes. “What do you want?”
Aside from enjoying a front-row seat to my humiliation.
“To be a partner, and now that my number one adversary is out of the running, I’ll have to readjust my goals in life. Thank you for challenging my vision for myself,” she says with a smirk.
Shame in the form of tears builds behind my eyes. Furiously, I blink. Of course my dream of being a partner is over. One moment did this. One stupid decision.
I want to tell her to fuck off, but I can’t say a thing. My mouth opens and closes. And opens and closes. And… nothing comes out.
She starts to walk out but then turns back to me with an evil smile and adds, “By the way, Malcolm said, and I quote, ‘Get your ass upstairs now.’ The partners are waiting to see you.”
Fuck. Fuck!
You are in some deep shit.
I close my eyes, resigned that I have to trudge upstairs with coffee stains on my clothes and my face all splotchy. Quickly, I reach for the compact in my purse.
Jesus, the horror.
Mascara is smudged under my eyes, and my nose is bright red. Manically, I blot my face with powder before I button up my suit jacket. At least you can’t see the coffee stains on my blouse now.
Realizing I’ll be late to meet Josh, I send him a quick text letting him know.
When I head out into the hall, I’m in a daze. Will they fire me? My lifelong goal of being an attorney may not be everything I dreamed it would be, but I’ve worked damn hard to get here.
As I round the corner, Nathan is heading into his office, and he pauses to give me a somber smile. Damn, does everyone know that I’m headed to my own funeral?
“Hang in there, Evelyn,” he says quietly.
I nod, grateful that he’s not giving me the snide
treatment I got from Angela. “Want my ficus tree if I get canned?” The very idea makes bile burn the back of my throat, but I swallow hard and somehow manage to keep my breakfast down.
He chuckles. “Nah. I’d only kill it. Besides, they won’t fire you.” He leans closer and whispers, “Remind them that they want the Cartwright business. Use it as leverage.”
Is that the only card I have to play? I don’t want to use Josh’s family for job security. Maybe it’s a foolish notion. I might have gotten my foot in the door because Malcolm knew me when I was little, but I’ve busted my ass the last three years to earn this position, and I want to keep it because I’ve paid my dues. Not because I’m dating a Cartwright.
My eyes water. Josh and I never resolved our argument from this weekend, and before we could talk about it again—calmly and rationally this time—Gary the Gossip’s article imploded our lives. A sinking feeling weighs my shoulders. Will Josh and I be able to survive this?
Blinking quickly, I thank Nathan for the encouragement and drag myself up the staircase. When I knock on the conference door, one of the partners opens the door and motions for me to come in.
“Evelyn, grab a seat,” Malcolm says from the other side of the room.
There’s only one chair available, and it’s positioned at the very middle of the long table.
The partners—all men—and Malcolm’s secretary, who is taking notes, stare back at me.
I sit and force myself to meet their eyes. They’re my jury, and as every attorney knows, if your jurors can’t look into your eyes when the verdict is read, you’re fucked.
My heart sinks when most of them look away. One shakes his head. Another one blatantly stares at my chest.