What the fuck did he do—post them to my goddamn Facebook page?
Pinching the useless micro-SD card in my fingers, I dropped it on the tile floor at my feet. I yanked at the lamp on the nightstand, but it must’ve been screwed down or something, because it didn’t budge. I pulled the clock off instead, slamming it on the chip over and over, shards of plastic from the destroyed timepiece flying in chunks across the floor.
Why did every guy fuck me over?
Why couldn’t I ever put my trust in the right place?
Did I have some giant target on me that painted me as an idiot just begging to be taken advantage of?
I banged the largest piece of the broken clock against the floor again, smashing my finger this time. I winced, the skin jagged where a piece of plastic had sliced me. Blood welled up and I sucked my finger into my mouth, tears stinging my eyes.
I gave in to the self-pity this time. I pushed reality away and let the sobs rack my body while the thunder and rain drowned out my gasping breaths and choked cries.
As the storm quieted, so did my tears, until they were a silent, but steady stream leaking from the corners of my eyes. My breath was still ragged as I tried to pull together a few scraps of courage to open the email Rue sent. As if I really wanted to see those private moments splashed across a website for the general public to judge.
That power he talked about? I guess he forgot to mention it transferred to him afterwards.
I climbed onto the bed where my computer sat. Where the evidence of my shame lay waiting to destroy me. The laptop suddenly felt like a viper, coiled and waiting to strike while I was at my weakest.
My eyes burned as I blinked to clear my vision. I powered on my computer, my heart thumping painfully against my ribs. My fingers tapped out a nervous rhythm on the bedspread while it blinked and beeped through its startup routine.
I hesitated with the cursor over the email icon, knowing wherever the link inside led me was going to break me. Shatter me even more than I already was from West.
Biting my lip, I clicked open the program, then followed the link in the email Rue had titled URGENT!
A popular porn site loaded on my browser. One of the most popular ones I knew of, its cheesy logo in the corner of my screen.
On the top of the page labeled Top Amateurs, I saw it.
A still of myself, draped across a bed, the paper airplane tattoo on my ankle clearly displayed on the bottom of the screen.
But that wasn’t what made my breath catch. Wasn’t what made my hand clench into a white-knuckled fist. Wasn’t what my made my eyes narrow to slits.
No, the bed on the screen wasn’t covered with black silk sheets and surrounded by filmy panels.
And I wasn’t wearing red lace.
And I wasn’t alone.
Stretched out next to me, eyes out of the field of view, but signature smirk firmly in place, was the one man I hadn’t thought about in months. His legs intertwined with mine and he nibbled on my neck, one hand squeezing my ass. My face was visible, tilted toward him, mouth open and eyes pressed closed with pleasure.
The first man who broke me.
Asher Snowdon, the ex-boyfriend I’d left behind when I’d escaped to Reynolds Island. The asshole whose electronic equipment I’d destroyed, dumping it in a full bathtub with laundry soap and bleach. The one who’d planned on proposing to me before I’d discovered that not only was he screwing my photography assistant, but had filmed encounters with both of us.
And shared the videos with his friends.
And, unless this was all just a nightmare, with the whole fucking world too.
I BLINKED, MY eyes flying over the screen. The flickering red-and-yellow banner at the top of the website screaming CONTEST in block letters caught my attention. Ten-thousand dollars would go to the top amateur porn video with the most votes. From what I could tell, the competition had been narrowed down to the top dozen videos.
And I starred in two of them.
Rebecca, my old photography assistant—and possibly Asshole’s new girlfriend for all I knew—also made an appearance, in a submission titled Busty Brunette Likes Anal.
Classy.
Mine were called Blonde Girlfriend Can’t Get Enough and Blonde Likes it Rough.
Thirty-six minutes and twenty-three minutes long. Almost a full hour.
Of me.
Naked.
Vulnerable.
Open.
Exposed.
Deceived.
Manipulated.
Violated.
Betrayed.
It didn’t feel real. It was like the girl on the screen—the one who undoubtedly moaned Asher’s name and shuddered under his touch, leaning into his caresses, demanding more, professing her love—was a prior version of me. Sadie 1.0.
Because the current me couldn’t ever imagine a reality that involved this.
Where I would ever welcome strangers to witness the most intimate of acts.
Except that time in the bed of West’s truck at the drive-in, his fingers deep inside me.
Or the time in the stairwell when anyone could’ve walked in.
Or the time in the parking lot, outside of Anchor, just before this trip.
But those were different. The risk of discovery was there, yes. But not outright exhibitionism. Not pimply faced teenagers, jerking off in dirty gym socks, alone in their bedrooms. Or lonely middle-aged men fantasizing about what they’d never have again.
So maybe I lost my mind and my common sense when I was with West. But with Asshole? With our sex scheduled neatly into his day planner and when spontaneity was something other people did? No.
I hadn’t expected this.
Hadn’t really known him at all, obviously.
The same way I didn’t know West.
Pushing them both from my mind, I focused on the screen again. I was currently in second and third places. Rebecca’s ass ranked sixth. I shouldn’t have smirked at that, but I did.
Oh, God. What was wrong with me? Had I sunk so low that I was pleased my illicit sex tapes were more popular than hers? But yeah, if I was going to be stuck at the bottom of the barrel, at least I was still higher than her skank ass.
Take that, bitch.
Hovering over the description, I made yet another disturbing discovery. Asshole had given himself a porn name. While I was relegated to my role as Blonde, he’d upgraded himself to Ben Dover.
I doubted he came up with that himself. Cleverness wasn’t his strong suit.
The sheer number of votes cast was mortifying. Five figures of thumbs ups. Pages of comments appeared below each video.
Ride that bitch.
Damn, she’s hot.
I bet she’d like a good spanking. Try that next time?
Would you consider a threesome?
Her cu—
I couldn’t read any more of them.
The crude words strangers felt entitled to make about my body, my actions.
My worth as a person shriveled. I wasn’t Sadie Mullins, the emerging photographer. Or Sadie, the trustworthy friend. Or Sadie, a girl worth loving.
No. I was only a piece of flesh. A pair of tits and a hole to fuck. Some hair to yank, an ass to slap. I wasn’t even worthy of a name, real or fake. I was reduced to simply the Blonde.
Some chick others could watch, judge, mock, covet, whatever. Just another dumb porn slut, moaning for more.
Numbness filled me, making my limbs heavy and my eyes burn.
I just wanted to get through the rest. See what other parts of me Asshole had given away, parts that no longer belonged to him. If I did it quick, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so bad.
Like tearing off a bandage. One quick yank, then it’d be over.
My cursor hovered over the play button of the first video, but I hesitated. I wasn’t sure I really wanted to see which nitty gritty details were bared on the videos. Wasn’t sure I really wanted to watch myself naively offering my body up to the man I thought I’d marry.
Thank God I’d escaped before he proposed.
My eyes dropped lower, noticing a link below the video.
Interviews with the Stars—Behind the Scenes Facts from the Finalists.
No. No no no no no.
It was bad enough my body was on display. Tell me he hadn’t talked about us too.
My hand shook as I selected the one for Ben Dover.
Q: So, Ben. What made you decide to enter this contest?
A: Honestly? I knew had a good chance of winning. And I could use the prize money.
Q: Oh? What do you plan on using it for if you win?
A: I had an unfortunate accident with some of my electronics awhile back. I need to do some upgrading.
Q: Did you make your videos just for the contest? Or have home videos always been a hobby of yours?
A: My girlfriend, the blonde, is obviously hot. And my friends were all single. I made the first ones just to rub it in their faces. Show them exactly what I had that they were missing out on. And then they wanted more. And, honestly, yeah, it was cool knowing they were jerking it to my girl. So I kept filming.
Q: And the brunette?
A: You know, my friends started making some requests. Wanted to see some kinkier stuff. Things I knew my girlfriend wouldn’t be down for. Turns out, the brunette was more than willing to help out.
Q: So your girlfriend was okay with everything?
A: She never knew. A man’s gotta have some secrets. Right?
Q: Ben, you’re obviously a popular man, with three videos in the finals. Tell us—do blondes really have more fun? Or did you prefer the brunette?
A: Well, they were both good in different ways. The blonde, it was deeper with her, ya know? She loved me. Would’ve done anything for me. Well, almost. You saw the video with the brunette. I had to go to her to get some backdoor action. But, hell, sometimes it’s nice to mix things up. Sometimes you don’t want to make love. Sometimes, you just want a good, hard, dirty fuck. So I’d say blondes are sweet, but brunettes are spicy.
Q: Yet the entries with the blonde, at the time of the interview anyway, are more popular. Why do you think that is?
A: Because it was real for her. The brunette—she knew what the deal was. We were fucking. For the camera. For an audience. It was still hot as hell, but there were no genuine feelings involved. The blonde? She was my girlfriend. I knew every inch of her body. Knew how to kiss her, touch her, tease her, take her just right to get the kind of reaction I did. The kind everyone seems to like. And I think it’s that realness that made the difference.
Q: Are you still with her?
A; Not right now. But I wouldn’t be surprised if we ended up together in the end. I mean, seriously, did you see the videos? We’re amazing together. She’ll miss it and be back. I have no doubt.
I threw up a little in my mouth as white-hot rage filled me.
I’d be back? What planet was he living on?
He’d shown his friends. He’d shown the world.
And now my friends—wait a minute!
How did my friends find out?
I scrambled for my phone, hitting the button that was my shortcut to Rue’s cell.
She answered on the first ring. “Sadie, we—”
“How did you find out?”
“We have other things to worry about right now. We nee—”
“How. Did. You. Find. Out?” My jaw ached I was clenching my teeth so hard.
“Sadie.” Her voice softened. “That’s not what matters here.”
“Tell me.” I had to know.
She sighed and my free hand curled into a fist. “I was at the Wreck, meeting Theo for drinks last night. Aubrey was there with her minions and they were laughing at something on her phone, and I overheard your name so I went to investigate.”
“Aubrey?!” My screech was reminiscent of a bird of prey. A hawk maybe, screaming as it dove for the soft-bellied animal it hunted. Except, she was the hawk, and I was the helpless field mouse in this scenario.
“If it makes you feel any better, her iPhone met an unfortunate end in a pitcher of grog.”
I pinched my eyes shut and huffed out a short humorless laugh. “Thank you for that.” Rue would always have my back. Always. At least there was one thing I could count on in my life.
“What we nee—”
“How did she know?”
Rue’s voice carried a note of impatience this time. “I don’t know. She’s not important. She’s never been important. You are. Now, we need a plan. I’ve already contacted a lawyer in Nashville, and I have three hacker friends working on getting the videos blocked as we speak . . .”
She kept talking but the words no longer registered.
Fucking Aubrey.
I glanced at my laptop again. The contest had started four weeks ago. I wondered how long she’d known. How many people in Reynolds Island she’d shared the link with.
The place where I’d hoped to start over. Be respected. Maybe build a business. A life.
Fuck, two weeks ago I’d even been imagining starting a family with West one day.
“ . . . Are you listening?”
“No. Not really.” My mind was spinning a million miles an hour, but going nowhere. A hamster in a wheel.
How the fuck was I going to recover from this?
“Sadie!” Rue’s voice was sharp. No nonsense. “Listen. To. Me. I’m not even going to ask why you didn’t mention that there were sex videos of you floating around.” I hadn’t told her because I had been ashamed. I’d simply told her that I’d found out he’d been cheating on me with Rebecca, my assistant at my photography business when I lived back in Nashville. After I’d drowned his electronics, I thought I’d handled the sex tape issue on my own. Could pretend it had never happened. Clearly, I was wrong. “ . . . But it’s too late to worry about that now. I’ve already got a plan in place. You’re going to be fine. And Asshole . . . he’s going down.”
The steely determination in her voice fortified me. I borrowed strength from her confidence and certainty. Forcing myself to pay attention as she outlined what steps she’d already taken and what things had already been set in motion, I wanted to kiss her.
Rue. God bless Rue.
She was brilliant.
Evil.
Devious.
And on my side.
Most importantly, she was right.
Asshole was going down.
I didn’t know if I’d be okay when the dust all settled after this. If I’d have any friends other than Rue. Any clients who would hire me again. But I did know one thing.
Asher had messed with the wrong woman.
GRADY ACCEPTED MY lie about a family emergency without a qualm, making me pause and wonder if word of my newfound infamy had reached him as well. But his eyes held no derision, no disgust, no pity. Just concern. He insisted I let him know if there was anything he could do to help, then arranged for a cab to pick me up and take me to the airport in the morning, which was the earliest flight I could catch. I assured him that I had enough photos to cover both campaign ideas we’d discussed, and I’d have the finished product ready the next week.
Assuming he didn’t fire me and ban me from the Water’s Edge properties in the meantime.
Did my contract have some kind of morality or respectability clause? I knew this project was a big deal for Grady—a potential turning point in his career. And I didn’t want my newfound notoriety to reflect poorly on him.
At some point, I’d have to come clean. He took a chance on me and didn’t deserve to have his reputation tainted because of it too.
But not yet. Not when everything was still so fresh and sharp. I needed to do it when I could get the words out without reverting to a soggy, weak, broken version of myself. When I could fully accept that I’d been a victim, and the shame didn’t belong to me, but instead showed the true character of Asher Snowden.
Predatory. Despicable. Untrustworthy.
Men who preyed on women,
especially through sexual domination or humiliation, deserved a special place in hell.
And, with Rue by my side, I was going to make sure he got exactly what he deserved.
I didn’t run into Nick, for which I was thankful. I didn’t know what to say to him at this point anyway. The last time he’d seen me, I’d been mostly naked, plunging my fingers in and out of myself, moaning with pleasure. To say I was embarrassed would be an understatement. Even more so now after learning about Asshole’s deception. There was no way he’d ever look at me with a shred of respect again.
When I’d cleaned up the mess in my room, the small memory card of my session with him was bent and cracked, rendering it unusable, my session lost for good. Those pictures would never be viewed—by him, myself, or anyone. And deep down, I was relieved. I wasn’t sure I needed to see them on a screen. See the open vulnerability I’d shown to Nick, when really it had been West on my mind.
Those moments—they’d been true and pure and unscripted. I knew if I could’ve seen my eyes in the photos, they would’ve revealed far too much about how my heart still clung to West. Refusing to let go. And I really, really needed to let go of him.
As I boarded the small plane, I pushed him from my mind, letting my anger at Asshole take center stage. When I’d first found out about his infidelity and the sex tapes, I’d felt hurt, used, betrayed. I’d run away like a little girl to lick my wounds.
But he’d underestimated me.
I was done cowering. The woman who’d emerged from the wreckage he’d caused was stronger. Stood up for herself. Knew she was worth more. And was not going to take this shit lightly.
Hell, no.
If he thought some ruined electronics were bad the last time, I was really going to blow his mind when I returned to Nashville.
But first I had a layover in Miami.
Where an early tropical storm pelted the city, canceling flights for two days.
Two days where I sat in a cheap, shitty motel next to the airport because, of course, all the nice hotels were already full of other stranded passengers. Where I stared at the generic palm tree print hanging crookedly on the wall and the carpet that was a weird grayish-brown color probably picked for the way it would hide stains I didn’t want to think about, and waited while the plan Rue and I concocted solidified. Phone calls made. Favors called in. Team assembled.
Soaked (The Water's Edge #2) Page 9