And if there were videos and stills to illustrate, even better.
Besides, it wasn’t like Layla was
blogging for some lofty intellectual news outlet. She had her own insatiable reader base and advertisers, and it was her responsibility to see they were properly fed in the way they’d come to expect.
For maximum impact (and maximum credit), she needed to publish the piece ASAP. Ensure hers was the story people read the moment they woke up and reached for their green juice.
She gnawed her bottom lip, crossed her fingers, took one last look at the stills with the snarky captions she’d added, and pressed Post. For better or worse, it was out there now, and there was no looking back.
THIRTY-EIGHT
ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?
Aster Amirpour rolled onto her side, bent her knees to her chest, and clutched her hands to the sides of a head that felt like a herd of elephants were stomping directly on top of it.
She didn’t know which was worse, her parched and aching throat, or her killer headache. Until she forced herself into a sitting position, untangled her legs from the black satin sheets, pushed her soles against the white flokati rug, and tried to stand, only to fall back onto the bed. It was definitely the dizziness, followed by the nausea, with the headache and parched throat placing third and fourth respectively.
“Ryan,” she groaned, in desperate need of some aspirin and a bottle of water that might hopefully kick-start the recuperative process. Unable to speak above a whisper, she rolled to his side of the bed and cracked an eye open, only to find it abandoned.
She thrust her arm out before her, ran her hand across the sheets. They were cold to the touch. As though he’d left a long time ago and hadn’t bothered to return. But that wasn’t possible, was it?
She bolted upright. Wincing against a surge of queasiness, she squinted through burning eyes at a bold and masculine space filled with modern, slightly oversize furniture. An enormous leather chaise, mirrored tables, and a king-size bed.
She dropped her head to her hands, unable to recall any details after leaving the club. The only thing she knew for sure was she was naked, alone, and she had no idea where she was.
Did the room belong to Ryan?
Was she in his apartment—or was it a fancy hotel suite?
She checked the bathroom and explored the adjoining den, finding more modern furnishings, more hard angles, sharp corners, and mirrored surfaces, but no Ryan. After a thorough check of each room, including the closets, it was clear he was gone, so she sent him a text that read: Where R U? When he failed to reply, she called, but it went straight into voice mail.
With the sun already peeking through the drapes, sneaking home unseen would prove an impossible feat. Her car was still parked at Night for Night, and that stupid jerk who claimed to adore her enough to steal her virginity apparently couldn’t be bothered to stick around long enough to drive her back to the club to retrieve it. There was no other way to read it. He hadn’t even bothered to leave a note.
She dropped to her knees, dragged her purse from under the chaise, and went about collecting her belongings. Her bra and underwear were on opposite sides of the room, but they were torn, sticky, and so totally disgusting she couldn’t bear to look at them, much less wear them. Her dress had been flung on the floor next to the couch in the den, and despite having once loved it more than any other dress she’d ever owned, now it seemed as trashy and contaminated as she currently felt. She wadded it into a ball with the undergarments and dumped the mess into the trash.
Though she drew a line at abandoning the Valentino stilettos. Ryan had taken enough. No way would she lose the shoes too.
In the bathroom, she ran some cool water over her face, but no matter how much she splashed and rubbed with the washcloth, she still looked like hell. Her eyes were bloodshot, her makeup smeared, and she bore the wild, abandoned look of someone staggering beneath a burdensome load of regret. Scraping her hair into a messy topknot, she rifled through the few pieces of clothing hanging in his closet and wondered if Ryan actually lived there. Still, there were jeans and a soft blue button-down shirt, and she didn’t think twice about claiming them.
After rolling the jeans at the hem, she tucked the shirt halfway in, secured one of his belts at her waist, shoved her feet into the stilettos, swiped his dark sunglasses from the dresser on her way out the door, and began the long walk of shame home.
THIRTY-NINE
BULLET WITH BUTTERFLY WINGS
Tommy Phillips grasped the pillow next to his head and propped it over his cheek, reluctant to let in the light of a new day if it meant leaving the contented cocoon of his dreams.
His dream life—his waking life—they’d merged together so seamlessly there was no longer any boundary between them. It was like he’d spent the entire night kissing Madison Brooks—first in the Vesper, where she’d gazed at him through those exquisite violet eyes—only to carry the memory of her into his dreams, where she welcomed him into her arms once again.
Kissing her was insane! The kind of thing he never imagined would happen to him.
What was even more insane was the undeniable connection they’d shared. Tommy was sure he wasn’t just a rebound, a convenient way for her to feel good about herself after discovering her boyfriend’s betrayal. She was genuinely drawn to him. There was no disputing the evidence.
She’d trusted him to look after her, protect her, whisk her away from the gawkers and see her to safety.
Trusted him enough to see her as she really was, minus the veil of celebrity, just a real girl, drinking a beer, and kissing a boy she clearly had a crush on.
He sank deeper into the sheets, remembering the look in her eyes . . . the sweet wistfulness of her sigh . . . the play of her fingers at the nape of his neck . . . the intoxicating feel of her lips pressed against his . . . the regretful tinge in her voice when she’d left.