“I’m on it.”

“Well, while I wait a few thousand more downloads will occur. No biggie,” I say, sarcasm front and center, even though I know this isn’t his fault. Shit, it’s only been hours since the video appeared and it’s already everywhere: TMZ, Perez Hilton, YouTube, E!, fucking CNN. You name it; it’s there. “I want this bastard found the fuck out.”

“And then what, Colton? It’s not like they stole it from your house and then uploaded it. It was a random video taken in a public place. It’s fodder for public use.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” I shout into the phone. It alerts another call, and I cringe when I look down to see who it is. Dad. Fuck. “I gotta go. Keep me up to speed.” I stare at the phone for a fleeting second, not wanting to tackle this just yet, before I switch the call over. “Dad.”

“Hey,” my dad says. In that single word I can hear him searching out how I’m doing. He never fails. No matter what curveball my life has thrown, my dad has always had my back.

“I take it you’ve seen the big news.” Sarcasm is my friend today. Well, that and fucking Jack Daniels, but I had to cut myself off to prevent getting plastered. I need a clear head so I can deal with this crap. And so I can be there for Ry, my only focus in this whole shitstorm.

Even with valid reasons to abstain clear as fucking day, my eyes veer from my empty glass over to the bottle sitting on the kitchen counter. The sight of the whiskey tempts me. Sings to me like a siren luring me to crash and burn.

“Just wanted to check and make sure you and Rylee were okay.” Thank fuck he finally speaks, pulling me from the temptation to drown my problems away. I swivel so my back faces the kitchen—and the bottle—while I wait for him to say more, ask the questions I know are on his tongue. Yet I’m met with silence. Rolling my shoulders, I blow out a breath as I try to let in the one person who matters most when all I want to do is shut people out right now.

“I’m worried about her,” I confess as I look out the window. She’s still curled up on the chaise lounge where she’s been since Haddie left. The food next to her untouched. It’s fucking killing me to not go out there and talk to her, but I’m the reason she’s hurting.

I’m not going to let her pull away. Don’t think she will. But she asked for space, and I’m giving it to her. For now.

“It takes a lot to catch me off guard, Dad,” I say finally as my mind runs faster than I can say the thoughts, “and this . . . fuck . . . this just blindsided us.”

“I don’t want an explanation, son. I’ve lived this life too long to know how people twist and manipulate things to hurt others. I’m just calling to let you know we’re behind you. I’m here if you need to talk and to make sure you take care of her.”

“She told me she trusted me to handle this, and now? Now, I don’t even know what the fuck to say to her.”

“How about you start by using her name.”

My knee-jerk reaction is to yell at him for the comment, but it dies on my lips when I click another link with the mouse and more images of Ry fill the screen: close-ups of her face, her tits, her spread legs, her goddamn everything.

I’m sure my dad can hear the sound of my fist hitting the desk through the connection and yet he says nothing. The drywall calls to me. It’s so much more tempting to hit—satisfying—because the destruction is there, visible, and yet helps fucking nothing.

“Her name? Easier said than done, Dad. I brought her into my public world, pushed her, and now this is what she gets for loving me?”

“I bet she gets a whole lot more than that, Colton, or she wouldn’t be with you.” His words hang on the connection as I struggle whether or not to believe him. Is the more worth enough for her to stick with me through all of this?

His words repeat in my head.

I sure as fuck hope he’s right. Everything’s been too perfect as of late. Is this the other shoe dropping to put me back in my place and remind me how cruel fate can be?

“Remember, son, marriage isn’t about how madly in love you are through the good times, but how committed you are to each other in the bad times.”

And as cheesy as my dad’s advice sounds, I hear it. Hold on to it. And hope to fucking God it’s the truth because the shit has most definitely hit the fan.

“She won’t even speak to me.” I chuckle in frustration and force myself to turn off the computer. If I see one more image I have a feeling the drywall will be too tempting to resist. Unclench your fists, Donavan. Shove down the urge to hit something.

“I probably wouldn’t want to speak to you right now either,” he says. “You grew up in this world. As much as your mom and I tried to shelter you from it, the cameras were always there. You’re used to them, the intrusion. She’s not. She’s always been a private person and now the two worlds have collided in such an intrusive way. You need to give her some space, let her come to terms with feeling violated, and then you need to do something to remind her how very special that moment was to you two so you don’t let the vultures take that away from you.”

Yeah. Because once they take a part of your soul, they only want more. And fuck if I plan on letting them have another piece of it.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“I’m always here if you need me. Let’s hope a huge story will come along and brush this under the rug sooner rather than later.” One can hope. “You can’t control this, son. The only thing you can do is to turn your wounds into wisdom.”

My phone beeps again as I glance back to Rylee and her unmoving figure so very close but who seems so far away. “Yeah. Thanks, Dad. I’ll talk to you soon. Chase is on the other line.”

“Chase.”

“You need to make a statement, Colton.” As much as I love my publicist’s straight-to-the-point manner, right now I don’t really want to hear a fucking thing she says.

“I shouldn’t have picked up,” I say drolly, the only warning to her of the mood I’m in.

“Or the both of you need to make a public appearance and show you aren’t fazed by any of this. The Ivy or Chateau Marmont?” she asks, knowing me well enough to ignore my comment.

“You’re reaching for pie in the goddamn sky if you think I’m going to let Rylee anywhere near a public place right now.”

“I get it, but you need to face the chaos head-on.”

“Out of the fucking question. Now tell me how bad it is on your scale.”

“Well, no publicity is bad publicity,” she says, causing every part of me to bristle with anger.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

“Look, I’m not going to sugarcoat it, but it’s what you’d expect from the fickle, sex-starved masses. You look like some sex god where attaboys will be handed out, and Ry looks exactly the opposite.”

“But we’re married,” I shout, pissed off they’re treating her like a whore.

“That’s how I’m spinning it. Intimate moment between husband and wife. You didn’t know about the cameras. Sell the story that some sick fuck is taking advantage of you two caught in a passionate moment. Make him out to be the bad guy and that you are the victims.”

But I’m not a victim.

Never again.


Baxter’s collar jingles as he follows me through the darkened house. My eyes burn from staring at the computer. Keeping it turned off didn’t last very long. So many images, so many comments, and every single one of them was like a personal attack on me because they were all about Rylee. And it’s only been hours since the video has been released. I fear what the morning will bring.

Turn wounds into wisdom. My dad’s words ring in my ears and yet right now I’m not quite sure how that’s possible. Wisdom won’t punish the fucker who did this. It won’t let me sleep better at night. It won’t suffice as an apology to Rylee.

When I enter the bedroom, my feet falter and my hand with my drink stops halfway to my mouth when I see her. She’s lying on her left side, body pillow tucked under her big belly and between her legs, sound asleep. Every part of my body tenses and relaxes simultaneously at the sight of her: perfection I don’t deserve in any way, shape, or form.

Fucking Rylee.

My breath.

My life.

My kryptonite.

And now I’ve brought whatever the fuck this is down on her.

I sit in the chair across from the bed in our little sitting area that overlooks the beach darkened by the night beyond. It takes all I have not to crawl into bed and pull her against me and reassure her that everything is going to be fine again when she wakes up. Because it isn’t. Far fucking from it.

Silence is much better than bullshit.

So I sit in silence with my legs propped on the coffee table in front of me and pour myself another glass of whiskey. I can drown in it now—let it sing me to sleep—since it’s way too fucking late at night for anyone to need me.

I take a sip and watch Baxter go plop down on his bed. Shit, if he had a doghouse, I’d be in it tonight. And for good reason.

The alcohol burns but doesn’t dull the ache in my gut or take the edge off the unknown and worry. Only Rylee can do that, and she’s still not speaking to me.

I’ve done this husband thing for almost six years now. Thought I was doing a pretty damn good job at it. But then something like this happens and I’m reminded how little I can actually control, especially when it comes to taking care of those around me. There’s no stopping the crazy we are going to wake up to in the morning. In my heart of fucking hearts—the one she brought back to life again—I know this for a fact.