KING: A Daddy's Best Friend Romance

Have a great life, and do something fun with the money. Didn’t we always talk about going to Paris? You should do that.

Love, Kelsey

My heart is racing. I don’t know what to say, or what to do. I’m filled with terror, anger, rage. Oh my God, I’m going to puke. I push myself out of the booth and race to the bathroom, and I’m kneeling in front of the white porcelain, when the few bites of pie and the coffee I drank spill noisily into it.

My head is swimming. I grab some toilet paper and wipe my mouth, throw it in the bowl and flush. I stand up and stars float around my head. I grab the counter to steady myself. My face is white. I look ghoulish in this false light. My eyes are sunken and dark.

My chest is rising and falling rapidly, and I try to slow down my breathing. I don’t want to faint here in this bathroom. It’s disgusting for one thing. But at least it’s private, my brain reminds me.

Something you haven’t had for years. Privacy.

Holy shit.

Every moment I’ve been in my room, I’ve been watched. Not by one person, but potentially thousands. Hundreds of thousands. My face burns as I think of the embarrassing things I’ve done. Things we’ve all done when we thought we were alone. Images flash through my mind: I’m masturbating, crying out; I’m trying on clothes, pinching my fat roll, or oh God, in the bathroom, number two, my period. Showering. It’s horrifying. Why would people pay so much money to see that? And a quarter million has to be only the tip of the iceberg. Kelsey had lots of new clothes, lots of money when she needed it, and of course, her Karmann Ghia. That had to cost a lot. How could I have gone so long being a patsy to her schemes, and not even know it? Why would I put my trust so completely in another person and have them take complete and utter advantage of me?

Again I think of King.

It’s not him, it’s me. I’m the kind of person who attracts this. Who trusts too much, who believes what people tell them. I’m alone, I’m something to take advantage of. I don’t have anyone, and I never did.

I feel the urge to throw up again and as I turn to the stall, it’s already shooting out of my mouth. I’m projectile vomiting. Great.

The poor waitress.

It goes mostly in the toilet and I stab futilely at what didn’t with a balled up bit of toilet paper. My stomach churns like the bowl’s contents as I think of what on earth I should do now. I guess the feeling that I was separate from other people, that I couldn’t do anything without Kelsey was partly from other people and the way that they treated me. Who knows if any of them knew? Could my teachers have known? My classmates must have.

I remember someone calling me a slut, and I didn’t know why. But it must have been after I snuck my boyfriend of the time in my room and had sex with him. He mustn’t have known he was being watched, either. Unless he was in on it.

Now I don’t know if I can trust anyone. Why should I?

Is nobody trustworthy?

I’m the only one I can trust, maybe. But if I could really trust myself, I wouldn’t have ended up with R in that hotel room. I wouldn’t have let myself have a best friend betray me for my whole life.

Clearly I can’t even count on my own self when push comes to shove.

I wipe my face again. I have to go back out there, find out what the website is, see what I can learn about this. See if I can shut it down. Come to terms with the fact my whole life has changed. Nowhere is safe.

I wash my face in the diner bathroom sink, and look myself in the eyes once more. There’s something cold there that I haven’t seen before. Maybe something inside me is finally dead. Some, stupid, trusting and naive part of me is finally dead. And gone. I hope forever.

I shut the tap and grab some paper towels, running their rough texture over my skin. It doesn’t feel much better, but at least it’s private. Or at least I think so. I look around suspiciously, for cameras in the ceiling, in the soap dispenser, anywhere. Maybe nothing is private. Maybe privacy is an old, outdated concept.

Pulling the door open with a squeak, I walk slowly back to my table.

“You okay, hon?” the waitress asks. “Everything still good?” She’s suspicious. I wonder if she’s ever watched me. Does she know who I am?

“Fine, thanks,” I answer. “I’ll take that bill now,” I say.

“Sure thing,” she says, and the old register rings its totals and I hand her some money.

“Keep the change,” I say, and quickly stuff my things in my purse.

“Thanks,” she says. My stomach just rolls over and I leave, walking blindly out the door and into someone.

“Watch where you’re going,” he growls, and I tell him to “fuck off,” almost like a reflex. When he meets my eyes, I shiver. Does he know who I am to

o? Suddenly everyone’s an enemy. I pull my cardigan around myself tighter, scanning the street. The muscles in my face harden. There’s a street vendor, selling sunglasses across the way. The light’s almost ready to change, but I run out in the road, and make it across. I buy the biggest pair I can find and disappear into the subway. I grab a newspaper as well, to hide my face so that I can think things over anonymously. In New York City, one of the best places to hide is in plain sight.

I have no idea how to deal with this, who to ask, what to do. But I know only one person with the kind of money to hit the problem at its source.