Princely Passions
The Internet Goes Crazy With New Revelations…
Is This For Real? Or is Gisele Taylor Trying To Sell Us a Bill of Goods?
My chest hurts, and I think for a moment that I might hyperventilate, but staring at these headlines…
Surely not. Surely this isn’t what I think it is.
It can’t be. Gisele, lying next to me, each breath an adorable little snore; Gisele, dancing in my arms last night; Gisele, cumming in my arms…
Hands trembling, I click on an article at random and start skimming it.
Oh Gisele, how could you?
There, she talks about how I’m taking this experimental drug and how I’m high half the day and how I don’t remember doing things and she’s interviewing doctors about the drug and she’s…
She’s betraying my trust. Every word, every syllable on the page is a betrayal.
I vault out of bed, shoving my feet into my shoes before realizing that I have to put on my socks first, and okay, maybe my boxer briefs and my pants and then my shoes would be helpful and I’m throwing the clothing on, not even caring, just wanting to get out of there, away from the person I had trusted, the one person in the world that I’d told, and who’d broken that trust, who’d taken it and smashed it into smithereens, all to get a story, a headline that no one else could get—Exclusive! Why Stone Slayer Pulled a S
layer (And the Truth on Whether It’ll Happen Again)—and using me, oh God, so calculating and cold. I’m used to people wanting to be close to me because of what they think they can get from me. I’m used to people conniving to be around me so they can get what they want and fuck the rest, but I’d trusted Gisele and I don’t know why.
Magnetism?
Stupid Stone. Stupid, stupid Stone. Trusting a reporter. The most rookie mistake in the book.
And as I’m fleeing the room, I can hear Gisele calling out to me, asking me what’s going on. I must’ve woken her up somewhere along the way, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. I have to run and I can’t go back.
My better-than-cocaine Gisele has turned out to be the most destructive force of all.
137
Gisele
Tears are dripping off the end of my nose, which officially makes me the most pathetic Gisele who's ever walked the face of the planet. Here I am with Apollo and Ashley—who I’ve taken to calling Ashlo in my mind because they’re never more than three inches from each other’s sides—and Kathy. We’re at one of the hottest bars in NYC—the Pink Elephant—and I should be laughing and drinking and having a grand ol’ time.
Instead, I’m a mess. Like, a mess.
Have I mentioned that I have tears dripping endlessly off the end of my nose? I think my bourbon is half bourbon, half tears at this point, but I can’t seem to stop.
“What were you thinking?” Kathy asks, unsympathetically. And, not for the first time. She’s asked me some variation on this question three times already. I'll admit that so far, I’ve just been shrugging and bawling harder as my “answer,” so I suppose I deserve this endless string of questioning.
“I thought I was helping!” I wail. A passing waitress pats me on the shoulder consolingly before moving away to serve another customer.
Even complete strangers are trying to make me feel better.
Have I mentioned the endless tears yet? Like those recycling fountains that never run out of water, my tears are just streaming down my face.
I'm not a pretty crier—let’s not kid ourselves on that topic.
“How?” Kathy asks, perplexed.
I want to throw something at her head—how dare she take his side?—but a small part of me (a tiny, eensy-weensy part of me) admits that she’s right.
God, I hate that.
“Everyone was so judgmental of him after he pulled a Slayer at that concert, I thought that by telling the world what was really going on, they’d stop judging him so harshly.”
“You mean, telling the world that he’s not in control of his own body and will do what anyone else wants him to while he’s high on drugs every day, that he’s somehow a more sympathetic character?”