Chapter Five

Kristen

“Oh my God!” I screech. “How…? What the hell is this?”

My hands shaky, I stare at the picture. My brain registers the details. As much as I want to call it a fake, it’s not.

“It’s from the pool party yesterday,” I blurt out, then smack my forehead a few times, praying this is just some weird ass dream induced by the extra fishy fish tacos I gorged on for lunch.

When I wake up—any second now!—my face will be wet with drool from napping on my desk. At least that’s preferable to this!

“Ming Ming’s party,” Antoine says.

“Yes.”

Ming Ming is one of Liza’s closest friends. She defies the stereotype of a good, submissive Asian girl. Not that she’s super wild, but she pushes the boundaries without crossing the line that would bring shame to her politically connected family. It’s a skill I admire greatly.

“Ming Ming apologized for what happened,” I add.

And she looked as though she wanted to flay the obnoxious teenager who yanked my bandeau, her face like some demonic goddess of fury. Her security team seemed ready to hand her knives and hold down the intruder. The only reason she didn’t is probably because there were too many witnesses. And maybe because I just laughed it off as a harmless stunt. What can you do with a bratty teen anyway, except hope he matures into something better than a bikini-top yanking idiot? I wasn’t going to have one minor incident ruin the party for me, and I still had a fabulous time and forgot all about the prank…until now.

I give the phone back to Antoine. “I’m sure this is going to die down soon. It isn’t like a sex tape, and I’m not famous or anything.”

He runs a hand over his face. “That’s debatable. You didn’t read the so-called article, did you?”

“No. Should I have?”

“The cocksu—the ‘writer’ hinted you flashed an underage boy.”

“I did not!”

Antoine says nothing.

“You know I didn’t, don’t you?” I ask, desperate.

He looks insulted. “I can’t believe you have to ask.”

“Just making sure.” I have no idea how Antoine feels about me. Or what he thinks about me. He’s like a rock—doesn’t give you much to work with.

“I suggest you don’t look at your social media accounts.”

“Why not?”

He sighs heavily. “It’ll be better that way.”

Just what the heck is happening on social media? I fish out my phone and swipe to the second home screen, where I keep all my distraction apps. Oh my God. The Facebook app alone has over four hundred notifications. Twitter is worse. I don’t even want to look at Instagram.

Still, I open Facebook. Maybe people are sympathetic. I mean, it isn’t like I asked to have a picture of my bare boobs posted online.

But that isn’t how it goes. So many are outraged I dared to show my breasts to a “poor, helpless child.” Some are even comparing me to a pedophile, saying I should be prosecuted and locked up. Nobody cares that I was the victim at the party. And the Hollywood Blaze cropped the picture so that it looks like I’m flashing the jerk. If I flashed him, why does my side still sting a bit from the rough yanking?

My teeth clench. All these people saying crap about me have no idea what really happened. But they’re piling on based on a freakin’ online tabloid site’s lurid speculations.

I stew during the entire drive home. Me being the center of a manufactured crime is not one of the circumstances under which I dreamed of spending time with Antoine.

Thankfully, the front of my apartment building is paparazzi-free. They probably haven’t realized I already left Lola, Inc.

Antoine walks me all the way to my apartment door. I stop, then turn to him. “Sorry for being a bother,” I say tightly. It isn’t how I envisioned the rest of the day.

“No, it’s my fault. I should’ve been there yesterday.”

He should’ve, I agree. Not to guard me, but to appreciate me in my new bikini and to let me ogle his body. “It’s not your fault. You don’t know how things might’ve turned out if you’d been there. The party was crowded and hectic.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

Normally that would cheer me up, but not right now. “Sure. Thanks.”

I stab the key into the lock and twist. The key turns easily, and I walk inside, slamming the door shut. I punt a couple of empty Amazon boxes, wishing they were that teen’s ass instead.

After dumping my laptop bag and purse on my couch and kicking off my shoes, I walk toward the bedroom to change. The door is ajar. Suddenly I sense something move in the bedroom and stop. What the…?

I don’t have a pet. There shouldn’t be any movement. I sniff. The air smells odd too…some kind of acrid musk…

Sweaty, overeager paparazzi? Breaking and entering is a real crime, but they probably don’t care about such minor technicalities. I clench my hands. Okay, fuckers, bring it on.

I kick the door open.

A man in his late thirties or so jumps up from my bed. His fiery orange-and-red hair sticks out like porcupine quills, and the feverish light in his bloodshot eyes makes him look positively deranged. But what hits me the most is the fact that there isn’t a stitch of clothing on his lanky frame, which is paler than my bed sheets.

“I’ll show you what a real man feels like between your legs!” he announces with arms spread, a toothy and maniacal grin splitting his face.

My gaze takes in what no woman ever should. I reach for a heavy crystal vase full of roses on my vanity, and I shriek bloody murder.