The Game Plan
Page 76

“I’ll split the money with you,” she says, parting her thighs.
I look over her head. “I’m going to go out on a limb and suggest that earning money on your back will eventually eat at your soul.”
“Are you calling me a whore?” she screeches.
Oh, I want to laugh. I really do. Only I want to punch the wall more. I take a breath and relax my fists. “Out. Before I call the police.”
I hear her huff, and she launches off the bed, gathering her clothes.
“Are you gay? Is that it?”
And there it is, the cheap shot. I don’t even answer. When she stomps past, I look down. Thankfully she’s dressed—if you call the band of pink spandex that barely stretches over her ass a dress. “Come anywhere near me again, and I will call the cops.”
Her face flushes red. “I wouldn’t fuck you now if you begged me on your knees, asshole.”
Right. That’s why she’s hovering in front of me, her eyes wild and desperate. I gesture to the door, and she snarls again before rushing off. The slam of the suite door tells me I’m alone.
I want to sink into my bed and sleep. But I’m not touching it now. Instead, I reach for the phone and prepare to hand hotel security their ass.
It isn’t until I’m in a new suite—comped after profuse apologies from the management—and crawling under fresh sheets, ready to drift off, that my eyes snap open with dread as I realize something. The little witch stole my phone.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Fiona
Expect the unexpected has got to be the most annoying phrase ever. I mean, if you’re expecting it, how can it possibly be unexpected? And yet that stupid phrase runs like a taunt through my head when in the kitchen for my morning coffee, I open my browser—as I always do—and see my own face smiling back at me.
It’s weird. I stand there looking at myself, the same face I see every day in the mirror, but I can’t quite accept that it’s me. Why is a picture of me front and center in my Twitter feed? And then the shape of me takes more meaning. It’s not just my face. Not by a long shot.
Hot prickles of sheer horror explode over my face, my arms, my entire body. Bile surges up my throat as I stare at the picture—multiple images of the same picture—that’s been splashed all over social media.
It’s me, managing to grin as my tongue reaches out to flick a familiar, pierced nipple. Jesus. It’s the picture I took in bed with Dex, me in all my naked glory draped over his chest as I playfully lick his nipple. We’d been laughing as we took the selfie. Having fun.
“Here’s one for my wallet.”
“Shit,” I whisper now, though there’s no one here to hear it. “Shit.”
Because somehow that picture, complete with my bare tits pointing straight at the camera, is now out in the world.
I don’t want to exist anymore. Not die, just stop existing. Ugliness is a taint that seeps through my skin, as heavy and itchy as a hair blanket. It claws at my chest, digging deeper, tugging on the center of my sternum.
Curling in on myself doesn’t help. It doesn’t matter how tight a ball I squeeze my body into, it still feels violated, on display.
Another picture released: the one I sent to Ethan of me wearing nothing but a bra. I’d posed like a pinup girl, teased him about not giving me my undies back. I’d felt safe giving that pic to Ethan, felt sexy and wanted. Not so much now.
So much ugliness. Endless tweets, Facebook messages, Instagram messages— telling me I’m a whore, asking if I’d like to fuck, picking apart my body, leering at it. I tried not to look, but it was nearly impossible to hide from, not when a tidal wave of disgusting hate and judgment washed over me in one swoop.
I’ve turned off my phone and crawled into a corner in the bedroom. I know I should talk to Dex at least. But I can’t. I can’t move.
Vaguely, I hear the front door of open. Everything in me tenses.
Dex is in Arizona. Even if he managed to get the first plane out, I doubt he’d be here by now. Dex I can handle. I think. I don’t know for certain because the picture was definitely from his phone. How did it get out? I’m afraid if I ask him, I’ll rage. I know he didn’t do it. But still. How?
Swift footsteps give a dull echo as someone strides across the living room downstairs. Don’t let it be Dad. Not him. Just the thought of my parents seeing those pictures makes me want to throw up. And I know Dad will see. It’s as inevitable as the sun setting. Dad shouldn’t have the code to Dex’s house, but who knows with that man. For all I know, he might kick the door in.
“Fi? Fi, honey?” Ivy’s voice.
I turn away, facing the wall. Maybe she won’t notice me.
But then the bedroom door opens, and her tall, slim form is silhouetted in the ambient light. That’s all it takes for sobs to break free.
“Oh, Fi.” Ivy is instantly by my side.
Her strong arms pull me close as I cry, clinging to her like a raft.
“Honey.” She pets me, murmuring nonsense words the way our mom did when we were little.
I don’t know how long I cry. I’m sick with it, my stomach aching and writhing.
I feel someone else come into the room, and then a big hand strokes the back of my head. It’s Gray. “Fi-Fi, we’ll get you through this.”
He talks so low, it’s barely audible. But the anger under his words is fierce. I appreciate it, but he’s wrong. No one can help me through this. The world has labeled me a grasping whore who fucked Ethan Dexter for a prize and took pictures of it. God, they’ve made what we are so ugly and foul.