Look at my friend Vaughn, who got an internship in England.
Or Knight, who was attending his college of choice and slaying the fuck out of life.
I wanted to say reality catches up with the myth. Always.
Instead, I walked back to her and kissed her temple. “Just fame,” I said.
She nodded, seeming to understand all I wasn’t saying. Sailor reciprocated by pressing her hand over my heart, stopping me from moving away.
“About Syllie,” she said. “What he said about you… I just want to share something my father once told me. He said if you love someone, and they love you, there’s no point taking offense in what they say or do to you, because they never mean you harm, anyway. And if you don’t love someone, if you don’t care about them, then there’s no point in taking offense in what they say or do to you, because you don’t care about them. Either way—”
“You don’t get offended,” I finished. It was a fair point; even I had to agree.
She smiled. “Yes. This Sylvester Lewis guy, you don’t care about him. Don’t make it personal, then. Just bring him down.”
We shared an awkward hug, during which I wondered when my limbs had turned so goddamn clumsy, and then I retired to my bedroom before I did something stupid.
I got an incoming text message before I’d even closed the door. Sailor?
Maybe she changed her mind.
Maybe it’s a booty call.
That temple kiss was a killer.
But no, it was Alice, my old flame. The chick my father may or may not have paid a fortune to keep her mouth shut. I never bothered to ask her if she jumped on the bandwagon, because the answer would hurt like a bitch. Still, I’d messed around with her not even weeks ago. What was fucking wrong with me?
Everything, you moron. That’s why you have a babysitter.
I opened the message. It was another thirst trap. This time a picture of her pink-lace-covered crotch with her hand shoved inside the panties. Real subtle. It was followed by an actual text.
Alice: Skype? ?
I turned my phone to silent and crashed, dreaming of Sailor straddling my face and riding it.
When I woke up, all I had were nocturnal emission, a killer headache, and a thirst for Syllie’s blood.
Hunter used a GPS app to get to his parents’ gigantic mansion.
He didn’t know the way by heart, something he admitted to me with a sullen frown that ripped through my chest like a bear’s claws. We had to be buzzed into the premises after waiting at the iron-wrought gate for fifteen minutes for a servant to open for us.
“Sorry I don’t have a key,” he mumbled sourly. I nodded.
“God. This place looks like the Castle of Otranto. You sure your grandfather’s ghost isn’t roaming around?”
“If it is, I bet it’s taken up residence in the help quarter’s bathrooms. He was a notorious rake.”
“Takes one to know one.”
“I’d be hiding in the showers—not my parents’. But damn, it’d be a good time.”
The trip up the drive went silently, me clad in a sensible, off-white dress—mainly to appease his parents—and Hunter with a sour frown. The gates rolled closed slowly behind us, almost tauntingly so.
My parents were going to crap themselves when they saw me wearing something so feminine, but I knew Hunter was on edge about this visit and wanted things to go as smoothly as possible.
Guilt also gnawed at my gut for shutting him down for the rest of the week leading to today. Part of it was about protecting myself from getting attached to him, and the other part was trying to extinguish public relations fires.
The day after Hunter and I shared sushi and that temple kiss, Lana Alder had challenged me to discuss the feud between us during her appearance on Rise and Shine, America. I watched the video on YouTube on repeat while sitting on the toilet, long after I finished my morning pee. She’d grinned slyly as she turned to the camera.
“I wish I could be as supportive to Sailor Brennan as I am toward my other Olympic sisters. Unfortunately, she did something unforgivable to me. I think it’s high time she addressed it publicly, seeing as she’s been relentlessly promoting herself in the media. People need to know the real Sailor Brennan, not the person she tries to appear to be.”
Lana went on to suggest that someone with heavy pockets must be backing me, but she made it sound like whoever it was also rolled me between their sheets. I got a phone call from Crystal not an hour after the interview aired, her phlegmy smoker’s cough assaulting my ear.
“You have to tell me what happened between you and Lana so I’ll know how to approach this.”
“I can’t,” I croaked. I didn’t want to repeat it in anyone’s ears.