by K. Bromberg
He sits down on the table in front of me and the look on his face tells me he’s waiting for me to tell him to leave me alone. We stare at each other for a few seconds, so many things pass between us in the gaze and yet I can’t say a single one of them.
“I don’t know. I’ll find out and try to fix this.” It’s all he can say and yet I know there is no fixing this. There is only fallout and that in itself scares the crap out of me because there is no parachute to help us float above the chaos this video will create.
“I know,” I say quietly. I shake my head trying to stop the imminent tears I don’t want to shed.
“Are you okay?” he asks and I know he means about everything, but I don’t have the wherewithal to lie to him.
“The baby kicked.” I can’t tell him I’m okay, because I’m not. I have too many things going on in my head, and I just need to process it all. He won’t stop looking at me and right now I don’t want to be stared at. Currently, too many people online are gawking at me, and yet the one who can see the deepest into me is the one I don’t want looking. All I want to do is crawl in a hole and be left alone, and therein lies the problem.
My privacy is nonexistent.
“I just want to be by myself for a bit.”
“Ry, please.”
“No. I just need to wrap my head around this.”
I can see him want to tell me not to go, to stay here and talk to him, but I can’t. I don’t even know what to say to myself. I can’t comprehend where I go from here or how I can rebound from this to claim my life back.
The waves crash onto the beach below. I watch them, know the breeze is hitting my face by the way my hair moves with it, but I can’t feel it. My thoughts run wild, images in my mind that were so meaningful now turned into someone else’s sick, twisted pleasure. I’m nauseated to think that somewhere, someone might be getting off right now on a video of us having sex. Creating fantasies in their own mind, making their own sound effects to it.
My stomach churns as I imagine some dark, seedy room with a creepy guy and a box of Kleenex. I know I’m overreacting but the image keeps repeating in my mind.
Feeling so exposed, so vulnerable, I curl into a tighter ball on the lounge chair where I’m sitting on the lower patio. These feelings are so foreign to me that I’m struggling to accept that this situation is actually real. Since we’ve been married, vulnerability has been absent in my life. That feeling of helplessness is nonexistent. Colton has never made me feel that way. Besides the random articles here and there, we’ve been able to keep our life ours, unaffected by the outside world. I have never doubted in his ability to smooth things when they go awry. We’ve turned to each other, reassured each other, taken care of each other.
And I know that those three actions aren’t going to fix things now.
We can’t say it’s a bullshit story—someone out to make a name for themselves—because their name is irrelevant when it comes to sex in the public eye. It’s going to be our names splashed around, twisted into some sordid story so I’m made to be some whore because let’s face it: the men usually get hero status while the women are left with the tarnished reputation.
Normally I’d be in auto-fix mode by now. That’s what I do, who I am. If there’s a problem, I attack it with a clear head and try to mitigate damages and get it taken care of. I don’t think there is a single way to mitigate anything when it comes to this situation and that’s what’s staggering me. Even worse, I’m sitting here, wanting to sink into oblivion but have my phone in my hand, fighting the urge to see how bad things really are. I have a feeling the fact that I had to turn my ringer off an hour ago to get some peace and quiet is already telling me the answer.
“Hey,” Haddie says. The cushion next to me dips when she sits down and puts her arm around me. I should be shocked she’s here, but I’m not. She always seems to know what I need to hear. Whether Colton called her because he feels lost that I don’t want to speak to him right now or because she came on her own accord, doesn’t matter. And as much as I want to be alone, wallow in whatever pity I have for myself that is useless anyway, it also feels good to have her beside me. The one person who will know what I need or don’t need to hear right now because she knows me inside and out.
Out of habit, she reaches out and rubs her hand over my belly and deep down, beyond my embarrassment, I know the baby is the real reason I’m lost in a fog. I can’t even process the thought that one day our son or daughter is going to google their mom or dad and come across us having sex on the hood of a car. In a garage. In public. How do you explain that?
My whole body tenses at the thought, the burn of tears back with a vengeance. “How bad is it?” I ask for what feels like the tenth time today. Again, I don’t really expect an answer as I reach up to wipe away the tear that escapes and slides down my cheek.
“Well . . .” she starts and trails off, trying to find the right words. “When I told you to have some wild, reckless sex with the man, I guess I should have added the caveat to have some wild, reckless sex where there weren’t any cameras.”
All I can do is sigh, thankful she’s trying to infuse some humor into the situation but not really feeling it. “Not funny.”
“C’mon. That was a little funny,” she says, holding her thumb and forefinger an inch apart.
“There’s nothing funny about this whatsoever. Just tell me,” I say again, wanting to know how bad it is because I’m too chicken shit to look myself.
She blows out a breath, and I close my eyes wanting to crawl inside myself. “It’s bad. Like Internet frenzy, social media everywhere, reporters will be at the gate for some time, type of bad.”
“Fuck.” One word says it all for me.
“That’s kind of what got you in this position so maybe we should choose a different word.”
I turn my head to look at her, not amused at all despite the exasperated smile turning up the corners of my mouth. “How about bullshit?”
“That’s a good one. You’ve definitely stepped in it.”
“Did you watch it?” I ask, because she is the one person who’s going to give me the truth and not sugarcoat things. She nods her head slowly, serious eyes holding mine. “And?”
“It’s definitely you and Colton, if that’s what you’re asking,” she says, cutting straight to the chase and causing my stomach to churn. I know she is holding back a flippant comment—“a damn, girl” or “a holy hotness”—and I appreciate her restraint.
“Did Colton tell you about the whole . . . everything yesterday?”
“Yes,” she states matter-of-factly and looks back toward the ocean beyond.
“Why? Why would someone do this to us, Had?”
“If I had one guess, I’d say money,” she muses, “but that’s what I don’t understand. If it was all about the money, wouldn’t the person sell the tape to make a bazillion dollars? The only thing that makes sense is someone seriously wants to fuck with you guys.”
I want to cry. I want to sob. To rage. However, I push the heels of my hands over my eyes and just press them there, hoping they miraculously hold back the tears. Because as screwed up as it is in my mind, I feel like if I cry—if one tear leaks over—then this is really real. This isn’t a nightmare I’m going to wake from.
“This can’t be happening,” I say to no one and everyone.
“Colton’s worried about you,” she says softly. “Wants to talk to you.”
“He should be,” I snip and then wince. “Look.” I sigh. “I know he is but I need to clear my head for a bit before I talk to him. I mean, I have my parents calling and Tanner, and God only knows who else is leaving one of the million messages on my phone. I don’t want to talk to anyone right now.”
“I get it,” she says, as I rest my head back on her shoulder. “But you’re going to need to talk to everyone at some point or else you’re going to explode.”
“I know,” I murmur, closing my eyes and wondering how I’m going to face anyone a
gain. Exploding sounds like a more viable option.
But I can’t.
The baby. I have to focus on our little miracle and not let any of this affect my stress, my health, or my blood pressure because it’s still too early for him or her to come. I have to keep it together. Bury the emotion. Hide from the embarrassment. Push down the pain. Do what it takes.
I have this baby depending on me.
I’m a mom now. My needs come second.
“WHO THE FUCK IS IT, Kelly?” I pinch the bridge of my nose as I stare at my computer screen. Fucking Google and its far-reaching fingers. Pictures upon pictures of Rylee stare back at me. Stills taken from the video. Her body on display for the world to see, and all I can see is red. Rage in my blood, revenge on my mind. Finding the bastard who did this is my only thought so I can plow my fist into his face and then ask why if he’s still conscious.
“I’m on it.”
“Well, while I wait a few thousand more downloads will occur. No biggie,” I say, sarcasm front and center, even though I know this isn’t his fault. Shit, it’s only been hours since the video appeared and it’s already everywhere: TMZ, Perez Hilton, YouTube, E!, fucking CNN. You name it; it’s there. “I want this bastard found the fuck out.”
“And then what, Colton? It’s not like they stole it from your house and then uploaded it. It was a random video taken in a public place. It’s fodder for public use.”
“I don’t give a fuck,” I shout into the phone. It alerts another call, and I cringe when I look down to see who it is. Dad. Fuck. “I gotta go. Keep me up to speed.” I stare at the phone for a fleeting second, not wanting to tackle this just yet, before I switch the call over. “Dad.”
“Hey,” my dad says. In that single word I can hear him searching out how I’m doing. He never fails. No matter what curveball my life has thrown, my dad has always had my back.
“I take it you’ve seen the big news.” Sarcasm is my friend today. Well, that and fucking Jack Daniels, but I had to cut myself off to prevent getting plastered. I need a clear head so I can deal with this crap. And so I can be there for Ry, my only focus in this whole shitstorm.
Even with valid reasons to abstain clear as fucking day, my eyes veer from my empty glass over to the bottle sitting on the kitchen counter. The sight of the whiskey tempts me. Sings to me like a siren luring me to crash and burn.
“Just wanted to check and make sure you and Rylee were okay.” Thank fuck he finally speaks, pulling me from the temptation to drown my problems away. I swivel so my back faces the kitchen—and the bottle—while I wait for him to say more, ask the questions I know are on his tongue. Yet I’m met with silence. Rolling my shoulders, I blow out a breath as I try to let in the one person who matters most when all I want to do is shut people out right now.
“I’m worried about her,” I confess as I look out the window. She’s still curled up on the chaise lounge where she’s been since Haddie left. The food next to her untouched. It’s fucking killing me to not go out there and talk to her, but I’m the reason she’s hurting.
I’m not going to let her pull away. Don’t think she will. But she asked for space, and I’m giving it to her. For now.
“It takes a lot to catch me off guard, Dad,” I say finally as my mind runs faster than I can say the thoughts, “and this . . . fuck . . . this just blindsided us.”
“I don’t want an explanation, son. I’ve lived this life too long to know how people twist and manipulate things to hurt others. I’m just calling to let you know we’re behind you. I’m here if you need to talk and to make sure you take care of her.”
“She told me she trusted me to handle this, and now? Now, I don’t even know what the fuck to say to her.”
“How about you start by using her name.”
My knee-jerk reaction is to yell at him for the comment, but it dies on my lips when I click another link with the mouse and more images of Ry fill the screen: close-ups of her face, her tits, her spread legs, her goddamn everything.
I’m sure my dad can hear the sound of my fist hitting the desk through the connection and yet he says nothing. The drywall calls to me. It’s so much more tempting to hit—satisfying—because the destruction is there, visible, and yet helps fucking nothing.
“Her name? Easier said than done, Dad. I brought her into my public world, pushed her, and now this is what she gets for loving me?”
“I bet she gets a whole lot more than that, Colton, or she wouldn’t be with you.” His words hang on the connection as I struggle whether or not to believe him. Is the more worth enough for her to stick with me through all of this?
His words repeat in my head.
I sure as fuck hope he’s right. Everything’s been too perfect as of late. Is this the other shoe dropping to put me back in my place and remind me how cruel fate can be?
“Remember, son, marriage isn’t about how madly in love you are through the good times, but how committed you are to each other in the bad times.”
And as cheesy as my dad’s advice sounds, I hear it. Hold on to it. And hope to fucking God it’s the truth because the shit has most definitely hit the fan.
“She won’t even speak to me.” I chuckle in frustration and force myself to turn off the computer. If I see one more image I have a feeling the drywall will be too tempting to resist. Unclench your fists, Donavan. Shove down the urge to hit something.
“I probably wouldn’t want to speak to you right now either,” he says. “You grew up in this world. As much as your mom and I tried to shelter you from it, the cameras were always there. You’re used to them, the intrusion. She’s not. She’s always been a private person and now the two worlds have collided in such an intrusive way. You need to give her some space, let her come to terms with feeling violated, and then you need to do something to remind her how very special that moment was to you two so you don’t let the vultures take that away from you.”
Yeah. Because once they take a part of your soul, they only want more. And fuck if I plan on letting them have another piece of it.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“I’m always here if you need me. Let’s hope a huge story will come along and brush this under the rug sooner rather than later.” One can hope. “You can’t control this, son. The only thing you can do is to turn your wounds into wisdom.”
My phone beeps again as I glance back to Rylee and her unmoving figure so very close but who seems so far away. “Yeah. Thanks, Dad. I’ll talk to you soon. Chase is on the other line.”
“Chase.”
“You need to make a statement, Colton.” As much as I love my publicist’s straight-to-the-point manner, right now I don’t really want to hear a fucking thing she says.
“I shouldn’t have picked up,” I say drolly, the only warning to her of the mood I’m in.
“Or the both of you need to make a public appearance and show you aren’t fazed by any of this. The Ivy or Chateau Marmont?” she asks, knowing me well enough to ignore my comment.
“You’re reaching for pie in the goddamn sky if you think I’m going to let Rylee anywhere near a public place right now.”
“I get it, but you need to face the chaos head-on.”
“Out of the fucking question. Now tell me how bad it is on your scale.”
“Well, no publicity is bad publicity,” she says, causing every part of me to bristle with anger.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”
“Look, I’m not going to sugarcoat it, but it’s what you’d expect from the fickle, sex-starved masses. You look like some sex god where attaboys will be handed out, and Ry looks exactly the opposite.”
“But we’re married,” I shout, pissed off they’re treating her like a whore.
“That’s how I’m spinning it. Intimate moment between husband and wife. You didn’t know about the cameras. Sell the story that some sick fuck is taking advantage of you two caught in a passionate moment. Make him out to be the bad guy and that you are the vic
tims.”
But I’m not a victim.
Never again.
Baxter’s collar jingles as he follows me through the darkened house. My eyes burn from staring at the computer. Keeping it turned off didn’t last very long. So many images, so many comments, and every single one of them was like a personal attack on me because they were all about Rylee. And it’s only been hours since the video has been released. I fear what the morning will bring.
Turn wounds into wisdom. My dad’s words ring in my ears and yet right now I’m not quite sure how that’s possible. Wisdom won’t punish the fucker who did this. It won’t let me sleep better at night. It won’t suffice as an apology to Rylee.
When I enter the bedroom, my feet falter and my hand with my drink stops halfway to my mouth when I see her. She’s lying on her left side, body pillow tucked under her big belly and between her legs, sound asleep. Every part of my body tenses and relaxes simultaneously at the sight of her: perfection I don’t deserve in any way, shape, or form.
Fucking Rylee.
My breath.
My life.
My kryptonite.
And now I’ve brought whatever the fuck this is down on her.
I sit in the chair across from the bed in our little sitting area that overlooks the beach darkened by the night beyond. It takes all I have not to crawl into bed and pull her against me and reassure her that everything is going to be fine again when she wakes up. Because it isn’t. Far fucking from it.
Silence is much better than bullshit.
So I sit in silence with my legs propped on the coffee table in front of me and pour myself another glass of whiskey. I can drown in it now—let it sing me to sleep—since it’s way too fucking late at night for anyone to need me.
I take a sip and watch Baxter go plop down on his bed. Shit, if he had a doghouse, I’d be in it tonight. And for good reason.
The alcohol burns but doesn’t dull the ache in my gut or take the edge off the unknown and worry. Only Rylee can do that, and she’s still not speaking to me.