Page 51 of Whiskey Splash

Cold streaks through me. Terrified of what images will be uploaded and passed around the internet.

Will it be those last moments with us getting out of the pool? Me naked, him naked? Or do they have cameras that can take pictures in the dark? Did they take shots of me spread out under his tongue, yelling obscenities and coming?

Shit!

How could this possibly happen?

How could I be so stupid to let my guard down?

All the What-Would-Arie-Do fun and games is complete bullshit. Especially when this happens. Only, Arie, she could deal with this sort of thing. She’s so comfortable and alive in her body that she’d happily pose nude for the world to see. Me? I’m the twin who gets centipedes and spiders in my stomach and the feverish impulse to throw up.

I yank a bathrobe from the shelf, knocking down several towels in the process, wrapping myself in it and pulling the strings tight so I am as covered as possible. I’m a mummy swaddled in terry cloth. It should feel soft, but the tiny bristles scrape against my nakedness like a metal brush scouring my sensitive and flushed body.

Which I deserve.

I’m the naive girl who thought a fun night with Desmond Pike would not come with consequences. I bundle myself in the robe, sinching it tight and turning off the light. I can’t look at myself in that mirror, I can’t face my reflection, that girl in all that brightness, and the harsh stinging reality that’s crashing in on me. I slump against the door and slide down till I’m sitting on the cold tile, darkness surrounding.

I can’t believe this is happening—again! I let down my guard and bam! There’s someone taking pictures in my most private moments. It was one thing for Jeremy to share intimate moments with his friends, it’s another for it to be public and uploaded to the internet. That’s the sort of thing that never goes away.

Ever!

From now on, if I apply for a job, every prospective employer will enter my name into Google and—Voila!—a front row seat to Esme as Desmond Pike’s late-night poolside escapade!

I bury my head in my knees trying to breathe, my nose running and my face damp, telling myself this isn’t as bad as I think it is. Maybe nothing will get out. Maybe Desmond will beat the guy to a bloody pulp and he’ll be nothing more than meat soup. I heard those punches, the bone crack. The guy is probably sitting in a lump with a bloody nose and Desmond’s trashed his camera.

But part of me knows I’m being naive. I didn’t think things would be so bad with Jeremey either. I thought it was one image to one friend, and it would all blow over. But then there were strangers snickering in hallways and assholes soliciting me.

I breathe, try to focus—inhale, exhale—try to get my heart rate to slow down. Try to get my hands to strop trembling.

It hits me that I should probably check on Desmond, or be calling the cops, or security, but my phone is out in the main room and there’s no way I’m moving. I’m not going back out there. Hell, I’m not even sure how I’m going to get out of this bathroom and get home tonight. All I want is to be back at my house, curled up in the one safe place I know, and mentally hitting delete on the last week of my life!

I hear Desmond’s muffled voice filtering in from under the door. He’s far away, out in the other room somewhere and he isn’t yelling anymore. He’s talking to someone, on the phone maybe, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. He must be calling security, or maybe someone on the crew, his handler, or whatever people you have when you’re an actor and the paparazzi bust into your life. He sounds far too calm for my ratcheting heart, as if he’s used to this sort of thing, like it’s normal.

How can this ever be normal?

No wonder actors are fucked up.

A few minutes later, I hear the sound of the elevator ding, followed by commotion and more voices. More lights are flicked on out in the other rooms or hall, and a harsh yellow glow seeps into my tiny chamber of darkness from under the door. That slice of light creeps up along the thigh of my bathrobe, too bright, too incriminating, and I inch to the far side of the bathroom and lean against the tub to get away from it.

There are footsteps—lots of them, back and forth—along with muffled voices and shadows pacing behind the doorway.

Desmond must have called security because I catch fragments of conversations: someone apologizing, inquiries about if he wants to change rooms, questions about how the intruder got up here, does Desmond want to press charges.

I hug my knees to my chest, not sure what to do, feeling forgotten and wanting to disappear.

I need to go home.

Only, I’m not walking out there in my bathrobe, not with whoever is out there. I work at this hotel. I’m bound to know at least one, if not all, of the security officers! There’s a strict no-sleeping-with-guests policy!

They’ll get me fired.

Worse, I can’t bear the questions and strange looks, the eyes that will look at me and judge, thinking, ‘What’s a nice girl like Esme doing in a celebrity’s penthouse? Oh right, of course, she’s fucking his brains out. Just another one of his skanky tramps.’

I could try to sneak out, but that’s probably impossible. Especially since I need to get my tote bag and personal belongings which are on the table in the main room. And worse, my dress it slopped like evidence next to the pool, they’ll know someone was here with Desmond and probably have to question me.

My cheeks burn. This is unbearable. This is like everything that happened with Jeremy, except now there are police officers involved. How could I be so stupid!

The doorknob jiggles forcefully and my heart lodges into my throat.

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