Page 24 of Aced (Driven 4)
In full 3D effect.
My whole body tenses. I want to pull the pillow over my head and hide, and in fact, I do just that for a brief moment to collect my thoughts and try to find the me that’s hiding underneath layer upon layer of humiliation and mortification. But I can’t live like this—hiding in shame—so I allow myself a momentary pity party before I get up to face the feared chaos.
The phone call to my parents last night comes back to mind. How supportive they were amidst my apologies for the embarrassment caused, and the promise that this footage was not something Colton and I even knew about. How my mom kept reiterating they were sorry someone was trying to exploit us in the worst way, but that the most important thing was to take care of the baby and my health.
Who thinks they’d ever have to make that apology to their parents? Ugh.
The baby shifts and reminds me how very hungry I am and how full my bladder is. I rise slowly from the bed, take care of my morning business, and then set off to find Colton and food. We need to talk. I shut him out last night so I wouldn’t take my disbelieving anger out on him when this whole thing is just as much my fault as his.
I prepare myself before I look out our bedroom window to the gates at the front of the house. Being on the second story allows me to see the street clearly and of course the minute I move the curtains, I wish I hadn’t.
Paparazzi lurk there, milling around, waiting for any movement from our house. They’re vultures waiting for the tiniest bit of flesh they can tear away and use to their liking: to sensationalize, to vilify, to exploit, and to manufacture lies.
And it’s not like they haven’t seen enough of my flesh already.
My stomach tightens at the sight. Too much. Too fast. I wince, worried what this is doing to my blood pressure. The room around me becomes foggy as dizziness overwhelms me momentarily. I fear what I’m going to find when I go downstairs to my laptop, which adds pressure to the constriction in my chest.
I sit on the edge of the bed and attempt to calm myself. The welfare of the baby my only thought as I try to regain the determination I felt ten minutes ago to face head-on whatever the day brings. A few deep breaths later, my cell on the nightstand vibrates. The name on the screen causes me to cringe. With quiet resolve, I have no choice but to answer him.
“Hello?”
“Are you okay, Rylee?” My sweet boy—now grown man in college—coming to the rescue.
“Hey, Shane. I’m okay. I’m sorry.” The apology is off my tongue in an instant. Two words I feel like I’m going to be saying a lot in the coming days.
“Do you need me to come home?” The simple question has tears welling in my eyes. I’d like to blame it on the hormones but I can’t. Yesterday showed me how cruel the masses could be to no one in particular and yet today, this moment, I’m shown once again how much good there is still in the world. That a boy once lost, who I spent a lifetime comforting and trying to help heal, has taken to me like I am his own. And there is something so very poignant about the thought that it’s exactly what I needed to receive.
“You have no idea how much that simple question means to me, Shane. I appreciate the offer more than you know, but there’s not much anyone can do. More than anything I’m mortified . . . It’s just . . .” I exhale audibly into the connection because what exactly am I supposed to say? I know he’s an adult now, that he understands as much as anyone the fishbowl world I now live in, but that doesn’t take away any of the awkwardness.
“It’s okay. You don’t need to say anything. Colton and I talked last night. He explained everything.” I breathe a slight sigh of relief because that saves me from having to take a step in this dance of discomfort. Well, at least when it comes to Shane.
I’ll still have to address the boys at The House at some point. The thought causes me to roll my shoulders in unease.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive down?” he asks again. “I can skip some classes tomorrow.”
“No. Thank you, though. I don’t want you skipping any classes. Just hearing your voice has made me feel better.”
“Okay. If you’re sure.”
“Positive.”
“Okay. Speaking of classes, I’ve got to get to one right now.”
We say our goodbyes, and I sit on the bed with my phone clutched in my hand. All I can think about is Shane and the little ray of sunlight his call afforded me. How that little boy I took in at The House way back when has grown into this incredible man who worried enough about me to call Colton to make sure I was okay.
There is right in this world. And I helped make it. I hold on to that thought. I think I’m going to need it in the coming days.
I make my way down the stairs listening for sounds of Colton in the kitchen. That flutter of panic happens when dead silence greets me. When there is no response to my whistle for Baxter, I head toward the downstairs bedroom that houses our workout equipment to find the door shut, the beat of Colton’s feet hitting the treadmill coming through it.
And as much as I need to talk to him, I also need to face the reality of what my world now looks like through the microscope of public scrutiny. Besides, by the way he’s pounding the belt of the treadmill, I have a feeling Colton needs the release the exercise will bring.
I grab an apple on the way to the office but don’t even bother to take a bite of it once the screen of the computer flickers to life. Images upon images of myself litter the monitor. Good images. Bad images. Violating images.
No wonder the treadmill sounded like it was going to break. Colton must have been surveying the damage before he ran.
The pictures suck the air from my lungs so it takes me a moment, my eyes wide with horror, before I can even my breathing. And as much as I know I should turn the computer off and not click on the links to see the public’s perception, this is me. My life. I have to know what I’m facing.
With a reluctant hand, I click on the first Google link and am brought to a massive gossip news site. An image of some of the boys and me from a promotional event a few months back dominates the page, but it’s the title that owns my mind. “Risky Business: Sex tape vixen leads our troubled youth.”
