But more than that, this recording shows the essence of our relationship.As it was.
We’ll come—together because, yes, that is an actual thing—and moments later, Dylan’s arm will catch my waist and pull me up from my post-orgasmic collapse across the bed. He’ll crush me to his chest, and we’ll both look up at the camera he’s holding.
We’ll smile.
We’ll look so happy.
Blissed out.
And so in love.
And when that happens, right here in my tiny flat above my newly opened beauty salon in the bum hole of Scotland, my friends will learn what an awful person I am. They’ll discover I’ve been keeping great whopping secrets from them. That I’ve lied.So many lies.And I’ll have to come clean and tell them the real reason I left Los Angeles—the whole sordid tale. I’ll have to admit I know the man currently screwing me on-screen a little more than just biblically.
Dylan damn-him Duffy.
One truth will lead to another, and I’ll have to confess that I not only went to bed with Hollywood’s hottest bachelor, but that I also married him without breathing a word to those I know and love.
And as if that’s not going to be hard enough to say, I’ll have to tell them it’s over.
And that it’s all my fault.
‘For the love of fuck, just turn that thing off!’
Chapter Two
Ivy
CanI be bitter even if it’s my fault? Technically, I mean.
Whatever. At least, I can’t take the blame for the leaked video footage because I’d deleted my copies—yes, that’s right, plural—from my phone and hard drive months ago.
Ivy Adams, now available on hard drives everywhere... being driven hard.
Nope, I’m definitely not to blame for the release of the Dylan Duffy sex tape currentlybreaking the internet,according to Nat.
But I can’t describe my relief that whoeverisresponsible for invading my privacy deleted the ending. Presumably to protect their asses and prevent a lawsuit. Or maybe the ending hit the cutting room floor as it lacked that all-importantp-in-vaction? Whatever the reason, the fact that neither of our faces appeared on camera prevented me from losing it—stopped me from falling to the shaggy rug in my living room in a crying, hyperventilating state. It also prevented my subsequent death from heart failure brought on by shame. Because despite my frantic demands, Natasha didn’t hit the stop button. Her excuse? She was just too stunned. Apparently, she’s never heard me yellfuckacross a room before.
That’s because I rarely lose my shizz, and I rarely swear. Not out loud, anyway. Outwardly, I’m just a little bundle of Zen even during the times I’m an internal mass of seething f-bombs. At least, I am when I’m thinking of him.Dylan if-it-moves-I-fuck-it Duffy.
Anyway, I’m not sure I believe Nat’s excuse. She’s a bit of a dirty bird and probably wouldn’t have stopped the clip anyway.
But following my mini-meltdown, Nat and June went home, though not before a couple of hours of gossiping and at least fifteen minutes of book talk. In the kitchen now, I ignore the dirty dishes in favour of pulling out a chair and firing up my laptop, while also counting my lucky stars that my best friend and current roommate, Fin, wasn’t here to watch me flip out. She would’ve had me under some tough interrogation right now, and I just don’t have the strength left for any sort of deflection. Mum was right when she said liars should have good memories.
Sodding video. Bloody privacy invading... twastards, whoever they may be.
So I’m pleased she’s not here. She rang earlier to say she’d missed the causeway timings and was spending the night in one of the cottages over on the island where she’s working right now—a little island just off the mainland where a hotel development is underway. To be honest, I’m just happy she manages to get out of bed these days. The job may be way beneath her education and skill set, but it’s good for her. My best friend could do without any extra drama in her life, and watching my ass receiving a solid sexing under the ripped body of a movie star is a can of worms she shouldn’t have to see nor deal with the subsequent fallout.
Like me, Fin’s recently returned to Auchkeld after years of living a very different life. Though, unlike me, she’s here at no fault of her own. Her husband recently killed himself even if she is in denial about it. But that’s a whole other story.
I place my palms on the scarred kitchen table, attempting to centre myself.Deep breaths. Be calm. There is no key to serenity. The door is always—
‘Come on, you piece of... of crap!’ Scowling, I rattle my laptop a little, which doesn’t help it, or my inner peace. The chair legs grate against the floor as I push away from the table, standing abruptly. Then I flip the kettle on... while flipping my laptop off... with a finger. It seems a watched laptop never reboots and instead decides on an evening of updates.
As the heating element in the kettle sets to work, I lean one hip against the counter. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I begin to type, still angry and wanting to make sense of why my bum is currently posted across the internet.
I’m not going to watch it. I’m not... even if I did ask Nat to send me the link. Like she’s not going to ask a multitude of questions aboutthat. But I need to make sense of why this is happening. Why now, at least.
Reasons for releasing a sex tape, I type.
