Even in her panic, she sounded irritated. “Of course everyone is all right, Randall. Just get the damned phone.”
I looked up at Noah, who was staring at me questioningly, and held out my hand. “Can I borrow your phone?”
He didn’t waste time responding, just dug in his pocket and then handed me his cell.
“Okay, Kayla. Got it.”
She let out a long breath. “Okay, sweetie. Go to thedirty.com. Then hit the city link and choose Seattle. It’s near the top.”
I followed her instructions. With poor reception, it took Noah’s phone several seconds to connect during each step. The whole time Kayla was telling me not to panic. That everything would be okay. That no one would believe it anyway. That we’d clear it all up.
And then the article showed up over the black-and-pink background. My face, the new headshot my agent had demanded, was front and center. “Kayla, what even is this? I’ve never heard of….” The headline came into focus.
I almost fainted, which I’d never done in my life. I had to read the headline four or five times to believe it. To even make sense of the letters over Kayla’s gush of words and the pounding of blood in my ears.
Randall Morgan, Youngest Son of the Morgan Empire, Revealed as a Prostitute
“I gotta go.”
Kayla’s frantic voice sounded as I lowered my phone and hit End, cutting her off.
She called back instantly.
I didn’t answer.
“Randall?”
I glanced at Noah. I’d forgotten he was there. Everything went cold.
“Randall, what’s wrong?”
My first instinct was to chuck his phone across the restaurant. Smash it into the wall so he couldn’t see the article.
Feeling my eyes sting, instead I reached across the table to hand him the phone. Then watched as his eyes grew large as he read.
Chapter Fourteen
RANDALL MORGAN,Youngest Son of the Morgan Empire, Revealed as a Prostitute
Randall Morgan, the pretty face and the youngest son in the Morgan Empire, probably isn’t someone you’ve heard of. But that’s all about to change. Randall Morgan is the son of Vincent Morgan, a bigwig of the Microsoft Corporation. His older brother, Dustin Morgan, who has quickly worked his way up the Amazon ladder, is another moneymaker in his own right. The Morgans are well-known for their position as in the Seattle elite.
Labeling himself the black sheep of the family, Randall Morgan chose a career as a moderately successful photographer, and has gradually become more well-known in the Seattle art scene. It seems family money and artistic endeavors haven’t satisfied Randall Morgan’s lust for life, or at least for things that aren’t so vanilla. A source, who requested to stay anonymous, confirmed Randall Morgan moonlights as a prostitute, using his massage business to attract gay clientele.
Not only does Randall use massage as a cover for prostitution, he also uses his photography business. It seems he lends more than a helping hand in his photography sessions. The source, who is an ex-client, also stated Randall has a hot temper and is often verbally abusive to the men who pay for his services. Looks like the millions of daddy’s dollars aren’t able to keep up with Randall’s expensive tastes, and he needed to take things into his own hands. Or maybe Randall, as our source pointed out, can’t have his fetishes met by going on dates like everyone else. For all you gay men out there looking for an easy, dirty time, make sure you give Randall a call soon. It looks like his prices are about to soar.
I reread the article twenty times. At least. Though I had no idea why. By the third read-through, it was seared onto my brain for life.
Noah had simply stared at his phone after he’d read it over breakfast. He looked up at me, hurt in his eyes, but wasn’t able to meet my gaze for more than a moment.
I tried to say something. But I either couldn’t get my mouth to work or there simply wasn’t anything to say. Noah apparently felt the same way.
We paid for breakfast, got into the car, and drove back to my apartment, neither of us saying anything.
Though he still had a couple of hours before he needed to go to work, Noah took his dogs and left. Saying nothing other than he’d call me after work and that he needed to think.
I’d started to hug him, but couldn’t make myself do that either. I couldn’t touch him. I felt diseased. Sick. Like I was contagious. I watched him go, then crashed onto the couch. I thought I’d break down and sob, but even that didn’t happen. I just sat there, reading and rereading the damn thing.
Stupidly the only thing I could think waswhy me?How was it even news? Nobody cared about what I did. They barely cared about what my family did, outside some society-page type of crap.
