As I watch Charley walk away and slip into the dental office, I shake my head at how fucking gorgeous that ass is. And it would look even better with my hands on her hips as she bounces on my dick. I park the car in a space as far away and hidden from the entrance as possible, then I text Ponti to pick me up.

I know I should stay sober so I can drive my car back, but all I can think of is how much is riding on this lunch with Michelle and Allie. I know Allie will probably give me the benefit of the doubt, but I can’t stop remembering the Facebook message I got from Michelle shortly after the breakup.

Being in the public eye for so many years, I’ve gotten a ton of hate-mail, especially after what I did to Charley on Insta. But the message Michelle sent me was a billion times more scathing than any comment from any internet troll. She blamed me for a lot of things in that message, but the worst thing she accused me of was using Charley, and her photography skills, to further my career.

The reason this hurt so much was because I knew that this was Charley’s deepest insecurity. And if Michelle was accusing me of something so hideous, then I knew she was also sharing her theory with Charley, and it could not be further from the truth. As easy as it is to lay on the charm with Charley — because just seeing her puts me at ease — I know I need to drink if I’m going to have any shot at letting Michelle’s vitriol slide off my back at lunch.

Ponti arrives within twelve minutes and I climb into the backseat of the black SUV with Holder, while Tyrell nods at me from the front passenger seat. They’re all wearing sunglasses and looking like they partied way too hard last night, and I can’t help but feel a pang of jealousy.

I point at Tyrell. “You’re driving my car back,” I say, settling back against the seat.

“The fuck you think I am? Your errand boy?” he replies and Holder laughs. “That’s why you got a bodyguard-slash-designated driver. Holder and I are staying at the Four Seasons. I can’t sleep one more goddamn night on that janky ass sofa at your pop’s house.”

I shake my head. “You’re the only one I trust to help me take care of my dad when I go to L.A. this weekend and you’re leaving me high and dry? That’s cold as fuck, man. Cold as the fucking tundra.”

“Aw, man. You gotta bring that shit up?” He shakes his head, probably remembering how I called him earlier to tell him I had to fire my dad’s caregiver for talking to the tabloids. “I’ll drive your damn car back, but this is the last fucking time I do this shit. Next time, you can get your shit towed. I don’t give a fuck.”

I turn to Holder and smile as we nod at each other.

“That’s how you guilt-trip a motherfucker, right there,” he says, bumping his fist against mine. “Boom.”

“Yo, Holder, you need to fix your suspended license,” Ponti says, the only sane voice among us.

“Fuck that noise,” Holder replies, pulling his pack of cigs out of his pocket. “Lawyer said I’ll have to do at least a week in county to fix that shit. And have you seen my sweet ass? Nuh-uh. I gotta wait until I’m old and undesirable, then I’ll turn myself in.”

I suck in a sharp breath through my teeth. “Ooh, baby, you’re gonna be waiting a long time.”

Tyrell laughs. “Tell me about it. That ass is sweet.”

Holder shakes his head then lights his cigarette. “Not as sweet as Ben’s. I mean, I’m not gay, but I’d be his power-bottom any day.”

“Well, I’m not gay either, but I’d blow his dad just to get a taste of the recipe,” Ponti chimes in.

Tyrell shakes his head. “The fuck? What a fucking coincidence. I’m not gay either, but I’d totally tickle Ben’s prostate and let him come in my eyeballs.”

Holder blows his cigarette smoke out the car window. “Damn, son… Still not gay, but I’d totally tie Ben to the bedpost and ride that thunder-cock cowgirl style while reading Rupaul’s biography to him.”

I nod in agreement. “That’s funny because I’m not gay either, but I fuck Ben’s hand every night.”

Holder shakes his head. “Too far, man. You went too fucking far with that shit.”

I roll my eyes as we pull into the parking lot of the only store that confirmed they have one Wacom Cintiq tablet left. I hate throwing my name around, because it’s like sending my GPS coordinates to the paps. But when the guy on the phone said he couldn’t hold it for me, I had to tell him who I was and that the tablet is for my dying father. But as soon as I see two assholes with long lenses standing in front of the tiny art supply store, I feel like kicking myself.

“Should we roll?” Ponti asks.

I shake my head. “I’ll stay in the car, you go inside and get it. I’ll text you the model number so you get the right one.”

“Should I park around the block?”

“Nah, they’ll just follow us there,” I reply, reaching into the third row of seats to grab a baseball cap I left there a few days ago. “Just park as close as you can, so you can get in and out as quick as possible.”

By the time Ponti finds an empty space in the tiny lot, there are two photographers by the SUV. There’s one pap on each side taking pictures of me through the tinted windows, while I keep my head down and eyes focused on my phone screen. Lowering the brightness on the screen, I open up a new text message from Jordan.

I don’t even want to know how he’s going to respond, so I quickly exit my Messages app and open up Twitter. As I tap the search icon, I’m not surprised to see the fourth item on the top ten trending list is “#Benley.” Glancing at Holder, I find him staring at my phone screen with an eyebrow cocked.

“Don’t click that shit, bro. Don’t do it, man,” he warns me.

I let out a resigned sigh and tap the hashtag. The first few tweets are just trolls comparing Charley to Becca. But a tweet from a popular celebrity news site gets my attention, because it contains a link to an article.

Fuck. No matter what I do, I can’t seem to protect Charley from this bullshit.

I glance at Tyrell and Holder and I’m not surprised to find both of them staring at their phones, completely unfazed by the photographers tapping on the windows, trying to get us to look in their direction. It is possible to tune this shit out. I’ve gotten pretty good at pretending the paps are no more significant than annoying fruit flies.

Most people, including me, grow up thinking we want to be . We want fortune and fame. We want the adoration of millions of screaming fans. While I concede the screaming fans are a hell of an ego boost, no one can convince me the lack of privacy is normal.

And with this thought, I suddenly remember that I stuffed a bottle of whiskey into the back pocket of the driver’s seat. Sliding my hand in, I smile when I come up with a full bottle of Four Roses small batch bourbon. I easily chug a quarter of the rich amber liquid in one go, savoring the sensation of the fiery fluid coating my throat and belly.

Closing my eyes, I lean my head back against the headrest, not giving the slightest fuck about the tapping on the windows. The clicking of the cameras fades away as my muscles get warm and loose. I’ll stop drinking soon, but not today.

My body sinks down, molding itself to the leather seat as I open my eyes and navigate back to the top trending list in my Twitter app. Three spots below #Benley is #LindbergBaby. Right below that is #DNAdontlie. I shake my head as I say a silent prayer that my FaceTime chat with Katie Lindberg this Saturday at three p.m. goes as planned.

Katie’s the only person who knew me ten years ago whom I trust to help me out of this twisted mess. If she refuses to get involved, then I’m fucked. I may end up hurting Charley more than when I broke up with her three years ago, and I don’t think either of us could survive that.