The urge to cross my arms over my chest and cover up the word on my tee shirt is strong. I resist. It will only do the opposite and draw more attention. I need to be strong and brave it out.
I try not to think about how pissed off Mother will be, I can’t spiral into full-blown panic. That is the last thing I need. I can’t fall apart completely.
Eventually, it ends. The journey back to the car passes in a daze. More fans, more press. I handle it in autopilot mode. My smile carved onto my face.
Sliding into the car feels like bliss. Kit climbs in after me and shuts the door. Silence and near solitude descend. I could weep in relief. Instead, I move as far away from Kit as possible, until I’m pressed up against the door.
He doesn’t chase me. Doesn’t try to talk to me. As far as I can tell, he is not even looking at me. It’s wonderful, so why is my heart fluttering in dismay? What the hell is wrong with me? Out of the corner of my eye I see he is hunched over, looking dejected and miserable.
A lump forms in my throat. This is ridiculous. I haven’t done anything wrong. There is no need for me to feel bad. He damn well should be ashamed of himself. We sit in silence as the driver makes his way to Kit’s house. Guilt continues to niggle at me. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. For normal people it would have been a mortifying, but harmless prank.
We pull up outside his house. He slides out of the car without so much as a backward glance. I think I hear a muttered “Bye.” I can’t tear my eyes away from him, I want to watch him as he walks into the house but the driver pulls away and soon Kit is out of sight. Gone.
I blink rapidly. I can’t fall apart yet. Mother will be at home, waiting for me.
The car drives through our gate far too soon. I’m nowhere near ready to face her. But there has never been any choice in that.
I shuffle my way reluctantly to her study, where I know she will be. As I open the door I start speaking, as if I think that will save me.
“He tricked me, I didn’t know, I’m sorry!” the words fall out of me in a rush.
Her lips are pursed, her eyes narrow. I drop my gaze to the floor before I can see anymore. I’m a grown man but in the presence of this woman I will forever be a terrified child.
“Do you want the world to know what you are?” she hisses. “All the work I have done to hide the fact that you are a disgusting little cock-slut and this is how you repay me?”
I wince and scrunch my eyes up tight. “Sorry.” Is all I say. It’s all she wants me to say.
“I agreed to you publicly dating a man because in this sick, twisted moralless world it is good for publicity. And you dare to repay my generosity in this way? By being obscene?”
There is nothing I can do but hang my head and wait for her to finish. I’m braced for more, but a silence falls. She is scrolling through her phone. I wait quietly.
After a while she huffs. “Seems the public love your little stunt. Your popularity rating and the family name’s has shot up.”
A tentative hope blooms in my chest. Is it really going to be so easy? Is she going to forgive me?
“This doesn’t mean you can do anything else without my permission! Do you understand?” she snarls.
I nod eagerly, “I won’t.”
She sighs softly and I dare to look up at her. The anger is gone. Replaced by weary resignation.
“I do this for your own good,” she says. “I’m protecting you. The men you seduced are rich, powerful and dangerous. They survived the latest scandals and they will take action if they think you are going to talk.”
I nod my agreement even though I can’t follow her logic. Letting the world think I’m bottoming for Kit Rivers doesn’t lead to revealing all about casting couch secrets. The two aren’t connected at all. But I’ve long given up on trying to decipher how her twisted mind works. I’m just happy that she has calmed down.
I politely say goodbye to her and softly shut the study door. Then I flee to my bedroom to flop on top of my bed fully clothed. Strangely, now I can yank the stupid tee shirt off, I don’t want to.
My phone is in the back pocket of my jeans and it is digging into my ass, so I squirm to retrieve it. Surprisingly, there are notifications on the lock screen. I open them up. Text messages from Kit. A lot of them. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking when I gave him my number.
I stare at the messages without reading them, as I try to identify how I’m feeling. I don’t ever get messages. I have the phone to take the required three Instagram worthy photos a day to send to my publicist, so they can post them, if they meet their approval. The only contacts I have are the publicist and Mother. And now Kit. I’m not allowed to handle any of my other social media accounts either, so I don’t interact with anyone that way.
The phone is a fantastic prop though. I love it. Every time I’m feeling anxious I whip it out and pretend to be engrossed in it. It makes people leave me alone. It always works. Except on Kit. Memories of that time he loomed over me before apologizing, because for some twisted reason, he thought he was the jerk, flood through me. And now he has shown he is in fact an asshole.
But, despite all of that, getting personal messages feels nice. Even if they are from asshole Kit Rivers.
I open them up and start reading. Message after message of groveling apology. A soft smile stretches my lips and a strange feeling flutters in my chest. Another message pops up.
‘Thank you for reading my messages. I understand if you don’t want to reply. I’m going to shut up now. See you at work on Monday xx’
