Ty bounces his leg and pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. I notice that Shane didn't even leave a mark on his face.
“No comment.”
Doherty gives a mean laugh. “Don’t worry, Wilder, step into the ring with me tomorrow and your love life will be the least of your worries. I promise to smash your pretty-boy face.”
The audience taunts with “Ohhhhhhhs!”
The crowd is eating this up, and the truth is, Doherty brought his A game to this press conference. He is shredding quiet Ty to pieces publicly. Doherty’s a one-man show, and it’s evident his opponent isn’t up to it.
“Jesus, Blaire, can you change the channel?” Izzy bursts into the room. She's been helping Mom and Nana Marty with some last-minute shopping for the wedding. I was excused, obviously, seeing as my life is a circus of fatal mistakes and misunderstandings. Everyone just got a front-row glimpse at the show earlier today.
“I think I’ve had enough of Tyler Wilder,” Izzy clarifies, as if there’s any doubt what her complaint is about the TV.
I turn off the set and arch one brow. "You do realize that Shane threw the first punch, right?" And the second, and third, and fourth...
"You do realize that Tyler is a professional XWL fighter, right?" she mocks. She plops down on our king-size bed with a sigh. Her shopping bags frame her supermodel body. "Isn't there, like, a special oath they need to take, like doctors, so that they can't hit random, non-XWL people?"
"I'm not even going to dignify that with an answer." I bury my face in the pillow next to her. Everything hurts. My head, my eyes, my body, the thoughts swirling in my head like a tornado.
I can't believe he was a male prostitute.
I can't believe he cheated his way to the top.
I can't believe I slept with him.
I can't believe I slept with him!
My bad luck can’t possibly up its game anymore, right?
Wrong.
Izzy clears her throat from her side of the bed, a clear sign that something awful is about to come out of her mouth. I lift my head from the pillow and, sure enough, she averts her gaze quickly and her cheeks flush. She is holding her cell phone in one hand. With her other hand, she reaches out to pat my head like I'm a three-year-old.
"What now?" I can't take more bad news. It's difficult enough coming to terms with the idea of not seeing Ty again, smelling his gorgeously manly scent, hearing his voice and laugh, or just watching one of his stupid guy-movies when he's next to me.
Izzy lets out a sharp breath. "I hate to do this to you…"
"Do what? There’s more? Is this “let's crack Blaire in two” day? I hope it's not going to be an annual thing.”
She chews on her lower lip. "Well, I was surfing the news on my phone and stumbled across something. Just to give you a heads up—your name and face are plastered all over a gossip website next to Ty’s. And it’s your prom picture. The really bad one.”
Don't freak out. Do. Not. Freak. Out. Just don't freak out.
"I'm freaking out," I croak, sitting up on the bed.
Soon, my legs are criss-crossed, my computer in my lap. I don't understand. A week ago all was great in the land of Blaire Stern. Grades were high. Boyfriend was hot. Vegas was tempting. Brain, Hormones and Heart played nice, and everyone knows three's a crowd. What happened?
Izzy sits next to me, squeezing one of my shoulders, offering support yet pouting at the same time. She is so used to seeing her pictures on sites like this, I don't think she gets how awkward I feel right now.
Thank God Ty is not exactly Bradley Cooper. The item on his new girlfriend (ex-girlfriend, but they don't know that yet) is getting stale pretty quickly. I have to scroll down to see the story. There's a glorious picture of him smiling in a suit, the sexy twinkle in his eyes visible for all to admire, and an awful picture of me from my high school prom. I ended up wearing the dress Izzy decided to ditch at the last minute, and since I've always been a little curvier than my twin, the shiny-gold sequined, stretch fabric hugs all the wrong places. I look like a Twix bar.
His Good Luck Charm? the headline asks. A handful of comments follow, with one asking Would you do Ty's chick? and another answering I'm guessing that he would. And did.
Now I really, really need to throw up.
But there's no time to drown in self-pity, because I'm dealing with a clogged e-mail account and a buzzing Facebook profile, dozens of people I know (along with total strangers) wondering how come they didn't know Ty and I were a thing and sending me friend requests.