Page 53 of Twisted Little Thing

I grab the plates and make my way over to the table where two women are waiting for their food. They are about ten to fifteen years my senior and are not count among our regulars. At least I have never seen them here before.

One thing I notice as I am approaching their table is the tabloid magazine lying open on the table next to one of them. I mentally roll my eyes, even though I am sure Evan – and Yuka – would scold me for being so judgmental.

"One cheeseburger and er –" I say, checking the other plate. "One bacon special?"

"I'm the cheeseburger," one of them says, raising her hand with a big smile on her face.

"Okay, here you go," I say, as I place the cheeseburger in front of her.

I affix my service smile and turn around to the other woman – just in time to see her giving me a weird stare. She has long dark locks and is wearing very thick glasses that make her stare appear even more intense.

She looks at me as if she's seen a ghost.

I try to ignore it as I place her order in front of her. "And... here's your bacon special."

Her eyes don't leave me for a second, but her expression turns from that almost shocked stare into a skeptical frown.

I prepare to leave the table. "Enjoy your meal, ladies! Let me know if there's anything I can –"

"Holy shit," the spectacle-wearing woman exclaims. "Aren't you the girl who was with Evan Beckhart this weekend?"

My heart stops. I stare down at her in shock in reaction to her comment. My face must have lost all its color within a mere second.

How on earth did she...

"What?" the other woman now says. "A waitress?"

She casts me a look that displays nothing but disgust and disbelief. I frown at her for the way she just called me a waitress in that derogatory tone, as if I was the most despicable person alive.

"Yeah," the woman with the glasses says, now finally averting her eyes from me to grab the magazine next to her. She hastily flips through the pages until she finds what she is looking for.

I try to see what she is pointing at as she turns the magazine around and shows it to her friend. They both look back and forth between the article and me.

"Damn, you're right!" the other woman says in a loud voice, now facing me again with that devaluing expression.

I ignore her and try to get a better glimpse of the article. My heart is racing as I see the headlines. Pink, giant letters, underpinned with a questionable number of exclamation marks that read: Evan Beckhart skipping charity event for HER!?!

My jaw drops as I see the photos plastering the short article. There are very unflattering pictures of me running out of that damn hotel's entrance with my hair flying all over the place and exposing the hickeys on my neck all too well.

I am sweating and shaking, overwhelmed with fear – and rage. Those damn women are still staring at me, exchanging words that I can barely hear because my ears are ringing and my vision is blurring with tears.

I turn around, feeling the venom in the women's eyes burning into my back as I race off to hide. Completely ignoring Stephanie's concerned look, I run past her to the bathroom, where I lock myself in.

I take out my cell phone with shaking hands and dial his number.

It rings once, twice, five times before his voicemail answers.

Of course.

What did I expect? The way he has been acting in regard to this damn paparazzi craziness, it was only to be expected that he wouldn't answer my call.

I try calling it again. And again.

Tears are running down my face. I feel so ashamed, so manipulated, so humiliated, and exposed.

A waitress. How dare they call me a waitress in a tone like that!

How does anyone dare publish pictures of me? Why did Evan not warn me? Not talk to me even?

I feel so desperately alone dealing with this. And it shouldn't be this way. No one should be allowed to make feel like this. No one!

"Where the hell are you?!" I cry when his voicemail answers for the fourth time. "Evan, what the fuck is this?!"

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