My stomach churns as I imagine some dark, seedy room with a creepy guy and a box of Kleenex. I know I’m overreacting but the image keeps repeating in my mind.

Feeling so exposed, so vulnerable, I curl into a tighter ball on the lounge chair where I’m sitting on the lower patio. These feelings are so foreign to me that I’m struggling to accept that this situation is actually real. Since we’ve been married, vulnerability has been absent in my life. That feeling of helplessness is nonexistent. Colton has never made me feel that way. Besides the random articles here and there, we’ve been able to keep our life ours, unaffected by the outside world. I have never doubted in his ability to smooth things when they go awry. We’ve turned to each other, reassured each other, taken care of each other.

And I know that those three actions aren’t going to fix things now.

We can’t say it’s a bullshit story—someone out to make a name for themselves—because their name is irrelevant when it comes to sex in the public eye. It’s going to be our names splashed around, twisted into some sordid story so I’m made to be some whore because let’s face it: the men usually get hero status while the women are left with the tarnished reputation.

Normally I’d be in auto-fix mode by now. That’s what I do, who I am. If there’s a problem, I attack it with a clear head and try to mitigate damages and get it taken care of. I don’t think there is a single way to mitigate anything when it comes to this situation and that’s what’s staggering me. Even worse, I’m sitting here, wanting to sink into oblivion but have my phone in my hand, fighting the urge to see how bad things really are. I have a feeling the fact that I had to turn my ringer off an hour ago to get some peace and quiet is already telling me the answer.

“Hey,” Haddie says. The cushion next to me dips when she sits down and puts her arm around me. I should be shocked she’s here, but I’m not. She always seems to know what I need to hear. Whether Colton called her because he feels lost that I don’t want to speak to him right now or because she came on her own accord, doesn’t matter. And as much as I want to be alone, wallow in whatever pity I have for myself that is useless anyway, it also feels good to have her beside me. The one person who will know what I need or don’t need to hear right now because she knows me inside and out.

Out of habit, she reaches out and rubs her hand over my belly and deep down, beyond my embarrassment, I know the baby is the real reason I’m lost in a fog. I can’t even process the thought that one day our son or daughter is going to google their mom or dad and come across us having sex on the hood of a car. In a garage. In public. How do you explain that?

My whole body tenses at the thought, the burn of tears back with a vengeance. “How bad is it?” I ask for what feels like the tenth time today. Again, I don’t really expect an answer as I reach up to wipe away the tear that escapes and slides down my cheek.

“Well . . .” she starts and trails off, trying to find the right words. “When I told you to have some wild, reckless sex with the man, I guess I should have added the caveat to have some wild, reckless sex where there weren’t any cameras.”

All I can do is sigh, thankful she’s trying to infuse some humor into the situation but not really feeling it. “Not funny.”

“C’mon. That was a little funny,” she says, holding her thumb and forefinger an inch apart.

“There’s nothing funny about this whatsoever. Just tell me,” I say again, wanting to know how bad it is because I’m too chicken shit to look myself.

She blows out a breath, and I close my eyes wanting to crawl inside myself. “It’s bad. Like Internet frenzy, social media everywhere, reporters will be at the gate for some time, type of bad.”

“Fuck.” One word says it all for me.

“That’s kind of what got you in this position so maybe we should choose a different word.”

I turn my head to look at her, not amused at all despite the exasperated smile turning up the corners of my mouth. “How about bullshit?”

“That’s a good one. You’ve definitely stepped in it.”

“Did you watch it?” I ask, because she is the one person who’s going to give me the truth and not sugarcoat things. She nods her head slowly, serious eyes holding mine. “And?”

“It’s definitely you and Colton, if that’s what you’re asking,” she says, cutting straight to the chase and causing my stomach to churn. I know she is holding back a flippant comment—“a damn, girl” or “a holy hotness”—and I appreciate her restraint.

“Did Colton tell you about the whole . . . everything yesterday?”

“Yes,” she states matter-of-factly and looks back toward the ocean beyond.

“Why? Why would someone do this to us, Had?”

“If I had one guess, I’d say money,” she muses, “but that’s what I don’t understand. If it was all about the money, wouldn’t the person sell the tape to make a bazillion dollars? The only thing that makes sense is someone seriously wants to fuck with you guys.”

I want to cry. I want to sob. To rage. However, I push the heels of my hands over my eyes and just press them there, hoping they miraculously hold back the tears. Because as screwed up as it is in my mind, I feel like if I cry—if one tear leaks over—then this is really real. This isn’t a nightmare I’m going to wake from.

“This can’t be happening,” I say to no one and everyone.

“Colton’s worried about you,” she says softly. “Wants to talk to you.”

“He should be,” I snip and then wince. “Look.” I sigh. “I know he is but I need to clear my head for a bit before I talk to him. I mean, I have my parents calling and Tanner, and God only knows who else is leaving one of the million messages on my phone. I don’t want to talk to anyone right now.”

“I get it,” she says, as I rest my head back on her shoulder. “But you’re going to need to talk to everyone at some point or else you’re going to explode.”

“I know,” I murmur, closing my eyes and wondering how I’m going to face anyone again. Exploding sounds like a more viable option.

But I can’t.

The baby. I have to focus on our little miracle and not let any of this affect my stress, my health, or my blood pressure because it’s still too early for him or her to come. I have to keep it together. Bury the emotion. Hide from the embarrassment. Push down the pain. Do what it takes.

I have this baby depending on me.

I’m a mom now. My needs come second.


“WHO THE FUCK IS IT, Kelly?” I pinch the bridge of my nose as I stare at my computer screen. Fucking Google and its far-reaching fingers. Pictures upon pictures of Rylee stare back at me. Stills taken from the video. Her body on display for the world to see, and all I can see is red. Rage in my blood, revenge on my mind. Finding the bastard who did this is my only thought so I can plow my fist into his face and then ask why if he’s still conscious.