She read a few of the comments below.
Ha ha he’s so funny he was my favorite
Whatever happened to him?
Click here if you want a larger pen1s.
“Who doesn’t?” Britt muttered.
Despite what she’d told her sister, it wasn’t as though she didn’t get lonely. It was just that getting back up on that horse often seemed more daunting than never experiencing another “pen1s” again, and she could live with a bout of loneliness now and again.
There were other videos, too: snippets from talk shows and red carpet interviews. A John Tennessee McCord supercut of some of the dangerous stunts onBlood Brothers. She’d take a look at those later.
She flipped back to the photos.
With a peculiar reluctance she hesitated to examine too closely—because it actually felt like jealousy, which was patently ridiculous—she chose the “Tennessee McCord with Rebecca Corday” category.
God, but Rebecca Corday was pretty. Miles of titian hair and a face that was delicately, distinctly chiseled apart from a big soft set of lips. She offered something fascinating and magnificent to the camera no matter what part of her was turned to it. There were posed photos, both of them dressed like royalty, beaming, their arms linked with a sort of triumphant possession, on various red carpets. There were everyday moments caught by some stalking photographer: walking together down some sidewalk, each of them wearing jeans and a T-shirt and carrying a grocery bag. Standing in a park so closely their foreheads touched, each of them wearing a smile.
There was John Tennessee stepping out of swim trunks on a beach in some glamorous tropical locale, clearly nude—a modest black rectangle had been photoshopped over his penis—and there was Rebecca stretched out on a lounge chair, smooth pale perfection in two scraps of cloth some people might call a bikini covering her privates.
Just lots and lots and lots of photos of the two of them. She always seemed to be laughing. He always looked proud and possessive.
The magazine covers: “Rebecca Corday: Why John Tennessee McCord is the perfect man for me.” “Everything you wanted to know about Rebeccasee! How they met, their first kiss, and More!” “How Keeping Separate Pads Keeps Rebeccassee’s Romance Piping Hot!” “Why Rebecassee doesn’t need to be married to feel committed.”
Then there were a couple of paparazzi photos of them stone-faced, walking side by side, in Los Angeles. One of what was clearly an argument, judging from her clenched fists and drawn-taut features and open mouth. She didn’t look very pretty, then.
He stood a few feet away from her, his face angled away, hands shoved in his pockets, face thunderous.
The last video of him she could find was one that was almost a year old, courtesy of TMZ.
He was rushing through a busy airport, head down, a knit cap pulled down over his head. Clearly some kind of failed attempt at disguise. When the entire world has seen you walk and talk on screen for nearly a decade, it must be pretty hard to hide.
“Hey, John Tennessee! We hear Rebecca Corday dumped you in Cannes. What did you do to deserve it?”
“Yeah, what was the last straw for her? Your last movie embarrass her?” another reporter chimed.
The assholes were laughing at him.
John Tennessee McCord flashed a single look at the camera lens. His eyes were shocking. Hunted, haunted, hollow, stunned and weary. About a day’s worth of stubble covered his grimly set jaw.
Britt’s heart lurched.
He said nothing to the jerks with the camera. Kept his head down, kept walking. Faster.
And still the cameras followed him.
“We heard she left with Sir Anthony Underhill. Guess there’s no more Rebeccasee, eh? Guess it’s Rebeccathy now, eh?”
Britt leaned back in her chair.
Suddenly she was deeply ashamed. She felt no better than either one of those stalking videographers, poring over the digital artifacts of a man’s life.
And she didn’t really know anything more about him now than she had before she Googled him.
That made her no better than a voyeur.
The “Olympic-caliber flirt” had scribbled a note on her order tag. But then, his livelihood depended in part on his ability to charm women to their eyeteeth and hypnotize them with his blue eyes.
