His eyes close like he’s so relieved he might cry, and he presses his lips to my forehead.
“Okay.” He lets out a breath. “So we have a sex tape out there now.”Then he laughs, like he can’t help himself, and flops down onto his back on the bed. “A sex tape. Of us.Of coursethis would somehow happen.”
I’m still numb, still waiting for the panic and all the OCD thoughts to sweep me under like a tidal wave, but I find myself smiling at his reaction. He’s right. It’s ludicrous, after how careful we’ve always been about this kind of stuff—never even sending each other naked pictures, let alone deciding to make our own personal porno.
“At least we’ve been working out,” I say, and he laughs some more, and even though I can’t join in, the sound of his laugh—even this sort of crazed “Oh my god, how is this my life” laugh—is so good to hear.
After a moment, though, he sits up, and his expression is serious again. “But everything else in it—God, we talked smack aboutTanner and talked about getting married and Ivy and your OCD . . .” He shakes his head, then looks over at me. “How are you doing?”
I give him the most honest answer I can. “I don’t know. You?”
“Horrified. And pissed.That was ours, all of it. Not anyone else’s.”
I get what he means. When you’re a celebrity, especially at our level, so much of yourself—your life, your loves, your family—is for public consumption, whether you like it or not. So to have things you are able to keep private, things you fight to keep as just yours, at least untilyoudecide to share them—that matters. It keeps you from feeling like you’re owned by the world and their constant craving for headlines.
And now they know it all.
I rub my forehead. “Josh says we should tell security right away.”
Blake nods. “Camilla said the same thing.That video, I watched just enough to see the angle, and god, the thing’s pointed right at us. How did we miss a camera there?The only thing across the room there is—” He stops, his eyes widening, and it hits me at the exact same time it does him.
Shit.
Ivy’s computer.
Ivy’s computer.
We run into the main room, and Blake grabs the laptop. He swipes the track pad so the black screen turns into Ivy’s background pic, a female pro-surfer riding the perfect wave. Blake checks a few things, and now I can feel my heart pounding harder, cutting through that numbness.
Blake groans. “The computer software that monitors what she’s been doing has been turned off.” He snaps the laptop closed, his knuckles so white against the silver of the computer, I think for a minute that he might throw it.
My throat is sandpaper. “Do you thinkshecould have done this?”
“I want to say no,” he says, and god, I do too—not the least of which is because oh my god, could our twelve-year-old daughter have actuallyseen us have sex,which is bad enough, and then decided to put it on theinternetto punish us?
“She couldn’t,” I say, but I don’t believe my own words. “She knows how we feel about privacy. She knows . . .”
I trail off. Because she knows that all of the things she’s done lately are wrong, but she did them anyway.
Blake’s expression is a thundercloud. “We need to talk to her. Now.”
I agree, even if it means putting off getting security—which won’t really be necessary, if it was our own daughter behind this. And if she is, then that’s something I’d rather keep out of the press, if at all possible.
If it’s ever really possible.
I feel more eyes on us than usual as we leave the trailer. People look up from their phones and tablets, conversations stopping awkwardly as we walk by.The video is spreading, everyone watching. Everyone knowing. Judging.
It’s too much; my brain can’t even take it in. I clutch his hand.
“Kim, Blake,” Sarah Paltrow says, “Troy wants to get the next scene—”
“We need to talk to security,” Blake says firmly. “And our daughter. Where’s Ivy?”
Sarah pauses, then points over in the direction of catering. “When should I tellTroy you’ll be ready?”
“We’ll let him know,” Blake says and tugs me after to follow.
I look back to see Sarah raise her walkie talkie, passing on the message.
