Fake (West Hollywood 1)

The messages from my fans were nice, though. Of course, just having fans felt bizarre. I’d done nothing of note beyond date someone famous. Guess they enjoyed seeing my normal alongside the spectacular. How sad was our society that a girl with curves and the occasional bad hair day could still be deemed a novelty? But I knew being lifted from minimum-wage drudgery into a life of luxury was a dream. And they might like me for that reason. Or who they perceived me to be.

There were requests for interviews and an offer to write a relationship advice column. No thank you. I barely knew what I was doing on a good day. And Patrick’s new partner preferred keeping a low profile according to Angie. Apart from the strategic public appearances we were making about town, of course.

Fakery sure could be a complicated endeavor.

So I ignored everything on my cell except the messages labeled “urgent” and “sorry” from Mei. And that’s when everything went to shit.

Patrick’s bedroom door was still shut, so I knocked. Nothing happened. Maybe because I’d knocked so softly it would take a person with super-enhanced ears to have heard my gentle tapping. My stomach curdled, my shoulders slumped. And the way shame and anger fought it out inside of me pissed me off.

I knocked again. This time with meaning.

A moment later, Patrick, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, skin still damp from his shower, appeared before me. Given the situation, I couldn’t even enjoy the view.

“Norah,” he said, frown in place. “What’s wrong?”

“You haven’t talked to Angie or looked at your cell?”

“No. Not yet. Why?”

I’d taken the time to put on old jeans and a faded black tank—not the kind of clothes Patrick’s partner should be seen in, but who knew how much longer this role would last? And I needed the comfort of the familiar. Soft cotton and good memories. Also, this definitely wasn’t a pajamas moment.

My hands balled into tight fists. “A photo has leaked. It was taken of me about five years ago. Me and a guy I was seeing at the time.”

He just blinked.

“There’s not that much on display . . . I mean, there’s some nipple that the sheet isn’t quite covering. But mostly it’s just cleavage, you know?” I turned away. “It was a personal thing for me and him. Just a happy snap taken in the bedroom. It was never meant to be seen by other people.”

His frown turned into a scowl.

“I realize this will interfere with your plans to rehabilitate your reputation and all. The damn internet trolls are loving the drama,” I said. “Patrick’s New Girl’s Raunchy Past. Assholes. Like they’ve never taken a nude. Or partially nude.”

Still nothing from him.

“At any rate, I, um, I’ve spent some of the money—”

“Stop,” he growled. “Some asshole either stole or released a photo of you without your consent. That’s either revenge porn or theft.”

“Yeah.”

“You must be furious.”

“I would really like to burn shit down right now.”

His gaze was full of empathy. The worst possible response, because I did not want to cry. As he’d said, this was a time for righteous fury. Not hopeless, stupid, useless tears.

“Let me get dressed and we’ll sort it out,” he said.

“Okay.”

That was a lie. We didn’t sort it out. Mostly because he fled as soon as he got dressed and got off the phone from Angie. Bastard. Men sucked.

“It was supposed to be private,” I said, for not the first time. It was nobody’s damn business that that photo had been taken. None.

I’d been sitting on the sofa, nursing a coffee and feeling sorry for myself, when Mei arrived. Then Angie called and asked to be put on speaker, and here we were.

“How do you want to handle it?” asked Mei.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want me to call Patrick’s investigator to see if they can find out under what circumstances the photo came to be released?” asked Angie.

“It’s been years since I even talked to this guy,” I answered. “We were dating for like a couple of months at most. I don’t have a clue if he sold it or posted it for a laugh or what the hell happened.”

“Okay,” said Angie.

I hid my face in my hands. “I don’t want to make any moves that involve spending someone else’s money on investigators or lawyers until we know what he wants.”

He being Patrick. The man missing in action.

“Well, Patrick is out and not answering his cell. What we do is up to you for the time being,” said Angie, which was rather magnanimous given the contract.

My fake boyfriend had deserted me. A bare five minutes after he heard about the situation, he was dressed and out the door. Gone. That had hurt almost more than having my right breast publicly exposed to a not-so-adoring public. I’d texted Gran and told her the situation was under control. A bald-faced lie if ever there was one.