It’s me.
On TMZ.
Or, at least, Ithinkit is.
Breathless with sudden tension, I pinch and zoom on the photo in front of me, squinting desperately in the hope that it’ll turn out to be someothershort blonde girl handing a bearded Jett Carter a drink in a bar that looks suspiciously like Joe’s.
It… could happen? I guess?
It doesn’t, though.
The harder I stare at the pixelated photo, the surer I am that it’s me. And the surer I am that it’s me, the harder it becomes to breathe through the wave of panic that’s currently crashing over me.
Stay calm, Lexie. Stay calm…
The photo has been taken through the slightly grimy window of the bar, so it’s not as clear as it could be. It’s clear enough, though, for me to recognize my own stupid self, leaning over 3.5’s table while he gazes up at me, smiling up at me in a way I don’t even remember.
Did 3.5 smile at me like that last night?
And how come I don’t remember it, if so?
Iknow I was just placing yet another tray of drinks in front of him when this shot was taken, but the angle of the photo makes it look like we’re almost touching, his eyes level with my bust, which I appear to be almost thrusting into his face.
Oh my God.
My heart hammers painfully in my chest as I glance down at my non-existent boobs, barely able to believe they would betray me like this.
Thiscannotbe happening. It justcan’tbe.
I blink rapidly, then rub my eyes quickly for good measure, convinced that when I open them again, the photo will be gone, like a mirage in the desert. I was thinking about me and 3.5 — Jett — in the bar last night, and now my brain is trying to convince me I canseeus, too. I’m… I’m probably going mad! Yes, that’s it! I’m just losing my mind, that’s all. Which I know isn’tgreat, obviously, but which is still preferable to someone taking a really shit photo of me at work, and then sending it to TMZ.Seriously.
My hopes rise slightly at the thought that I really could just have imagined all of this, and then instantly crash when I tentatively open my eyes to find that, not only is the photo very much still there, there’s a second one right underneath it.
Just when I was thinking things couldn’t get worse.
The second photo is worse. Much worse, in fact.
This one’s been taken through the wrought-iron gates of Jett’s mansion, and shows me standing next to my car in the early hours of this morning, my eyes wild and my hair disheveled as I fumble with the key.
Is… is thatseriouslywhat I look like?
Horrified, I bring the screen of the phone up to my face, taking in the pale skin and puffy eyes of the woman in the photo; a woman I absolutely refuse to recognize as myself, even though I know the chances of there being two scruffy blondes leaving Jett Carter’s house in an ancient Honda this morning must be slimmer than one of Jett’s supermodel exes.
And that’s pretty damn slim, trust me.
“IS THIS JETT CARTER’S LATEST HOOKUP?” screams the headline of the article accompanying the two photos. “Heartthrob actor spotted TWICE with mystery blonde.”
It goes on to breathlessly explain that the “heartthrob” in question was spotted enjoying the company of a “leggy blonde” (That would be me.) at Joe’s Bar in Hollywood, hours before the same woman (Me, again) was seen leaving his house, having apparently spent the night there.
Then there’s a bunch of snide stuff about all of Jett’s ex-girlfriends, coupled with some “witty” observations about how I’m the latest in a long line of one-night stands.
Are you fucking kidding me?
For a second, I’m so offended by the tone of the piece that I almost forget it’s not real. Jett and me, I mean. He wasn’t “enjoying my company” in the bar (And Icertainlywasn’t enjoying his…), I didn’t “spend the night with him” (Well, Itechnicallydid, I suppose. Just not in the way they’re trying to imply.), and there’s no way in the hell that I’d consent to be the latest in a long line foranyone. Not even Jett Carter.
Not that he’s asked me, of course.
Oh, and I’m not really “leggy” either, to be honest, but I’m not going to quibble with that one.
