Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
The expression on my face as I stare after him is pathetic. Just fucking awful. To think all of this is out there in the universe and anyone can see it. But this also means I’ve been identified. My name is in the article, and they knew exactly where to be to get these shots. Ugh.
My cell vibrates again, and I answer the call on the first ring. “Hey.”
“What are you going to do?” asks Rebecca. “These photos are spreading like a virus. You can’t go home. They’ll probably be there, right? The paparazzi and so on?”
“Yeah.”
“Come stay with me.”
“No. I don’t want to dump this mess on anyone.”
“Where, then?” she asks. “A hotel?”
“I think so. Something with security and room service.” I take a deep breath. “It should only be for a day or two.”
“They’ll see that you’re boring and go back to chasing pop stars and actors around town in no time,” she jokes. “Lilah, are you okay? Your face in that photo... You look so sad.”
“It was nothing. Just weird lighting or something.”
“That’s the excuse you’re going with?”
I sigh. “The truth is, I hardly know the man, and I doubt I’ll be hearing from him again. It’s not worth worrying about.”
“I didn’t realize you’d been in touch with him again. You really don’t want to talk about it?”
“No,” I confirm. “Not right now. But thanks. I have an appointment to get to.”
“Okay. Let me know if you change your mind. Or if you want some company in your hotel room.”
“Will do.”
My phone chimes, and a text message appears on-screen.
Josh: How could you do this to me?
Josh: I was giving you time to calm down and you fucking cheat on me? You’re such a bitch!
What an entitled prick. Kicking Josh out is fast becoming the best choice I’ve ever made.
* * *
“Stay in a haunted hotel” wasn’t on my wish list before, but what the heck? The Hollywood Roosevelt is a Spanish-style building from the 1920s. The first Oscars ceremony was held here, and the ghosts of Marilyn Monroe, Montgomery Clift, and Lucille Ball have been sighted on the premises. My loft suite has a modern king-size four-poster bed, a big comfy armchair, and a desk. It is both cool and comfortable, and only a few blocks’ walk from my second appointment of the day.
But more about that later.
Booking into a hotel in the middle of Hollywood might not seem smart for someone on the down-low. However, it’s not like I plan on leaving my room for the next twenty-four hours. It sucks to lose a day, but this will blow over. In the meantime, the bathtub is calling my name. My apartment doesn’t have one, and hot water and bubbles are sublime. The heat is particularly great on my neck and hip. Though I make sure to keep the new bandage on my wrist from my afternoon’s adventure out of the water.
Now is the time to wrangle my cell. I block Josh for both being a dickhead and a hypocrite. My bad I hadn’t already blocked him after I caught him cheating. But the feeling of liberation is immense. Just pure freedom. The amount of energy I exerted when we were together telling myself that we worked is embarassing. Live and learn.
Now might be the time to get a new phone number. I delete over a dozen messages from curious contacts who’ve seen my picture in the paper: an acquaintance from work, someone I knew in college, a roommate from way back when. They all have questions, none of which I have any interest in answering. Most of these people I haven’t heard from in years. Making friends as an adult is hard, though I also might just not be any good at it. I always had books to keep me company.
I do answer a message from Mr. Pérez with an apology. He found a photographer standing in the front garden. Staying away from home for now is the right choice.
Next is an email from my insurers confirming they’re writing off the Prius. The repairs would cost more than the vehicle is worth, apparently. I call Mom and Dad and update them on my whereabouts. Mom’s cousin had texted her about my situation. But I manage to explain things without too much trouble. Sort of. After the lotto win, they seem open to almost anything happening when it comes to me. Then I nuke anything and everything from the media. Including the offer of a stupid amount of money for a tell-all interview about you-know-who. Like I even know him that well.
I don’t mean to google myself. My fingers must have slipped, as wrinkled and waterlogged as they are. The moment it’s done, I know it’s a mistake. Dread sits heavy in my stomach. People always say, “Don’t read the comments.” But when you accidentally go viral, “Don’t read anything” would be better advice.