“Oh, sure.” Mr. Morgan scoffs. “So you can get yourself into more trouble? You haven’t even shut the curtains for fuck’s sake.” He strides over to the windows and pulls down the blackout curtains. He gives me an apologetic smile. I’m huddled up at the headboard, a pillow over my crotch, though at this point my erection is basically a thing of the past. He says, “Hi, Jack. Sorry about all this.”
“All what?” I say.
His expression is sympathetic as he gives me a once-over, but it darkens again as his attention goes back to David.
“Roberta’s calling in five minutes. Put some clothes on.”
“I don’t understand what’s happening,” he says, and that makes two of us.
Mr. Morgan pulls a cellphone out of his pocket and flips through a couple of screens before he shoves it in David’s face.
“You thought Cannes was bad? That’s nothing, honey. The chitchat with Anderson at the bar? Peanuts. Now the world knows what your O-face looks like.”
The room is quiet. Slowly, David puts out a hand and gropes until he finds the mattress behind him.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as he sags back down. I crawl over the bed. Never mind that I’m in my underwear in front of a guest. Something terrible has happened.
Mr. Morgan sighs as he holds the phone up for me to see. “It’s only the back of your head, so you’re probably okay.”
But I’m not. I’m really not okay. Because I’m looking at a video of—as he said—the back of my head. I’m on the boat, the shot taken from overhead. My face is buried in David’s lap, but the Wild Eagle logo on the back of my jacket is plainly visible, as is the ecstasy on David’s face as he throws his head back.
“Jesus,” I say. “What is that?”
“Congratulations,” Mr. Morgan says. “You’re now the supporting actor in a celebrity sex tape.”
