Comments attributed to a ‘former roommate’ accuse me of using dog walking to pick up rich clients for my secret escort service, and that as soon as I “found one that was rich enough,” I “latched onto him.”
Who in the hell would even say something like that? Ha. I’ve only had one roommate that mean. Korinna. That’s who. The article doesn’t get any more flattering as I go on. They made up a bogus timeline, theorized about how we were ‘really’ introduced, and speculated what I’ll use all my blowjob money for. At least now I know why my mother suddenly wanted to get in touch after a decade of pretending I never existed.
They even got quotes from people back at the trailer park to make me look as awful as possible. I don’t even recognize the names, but clearly, they were feeling historically creative.
“You can’t blame her for wanting to get out of here, between her junkie mama and all the men that came and went from their trailer, it couldn’t have been a great place to live.”
“Well, frankly, I’m not surprised. She always did think she was too good for this place.” “
Aria was a real gold-digger. From the first time I met her, she wanted to get her hooks in a rich man.”
“That sweet front she puts on? That’s faker than my gramma’s teeth.”
What the hell did I ever do toanyof these people? I scan the rest of the article, trying not to look too closely at all the horrible things people said about me. But at the bottom, I find the piece that breaks me.
There’s a picture of Carson and I, cuddled up on one of the oversized loungers by his pool. You can even see Bubbles passed out in the shade nearby. And then I realize, we aren’tjustsunbathing. The image is grainy, and obviously taken from high above. A drone, I’m guessing. But it really doesn’t matter. Whatdoesmatter is that, if you look closely, Carson’s hand is under my bikini top. My hand is on his shorts, and it has wandered pretty far south into foreplay territory.
The last line of the article takes the knife out, plunges it back in, and gives it a twist for good measure. “While we appreciate Mr. Jones’ consistency when it comes to embracing charity cases, surely Hollywood’s favorite golden boy has to consider the motives and family connections of his expensive paramour.”
Tears stream down my face, falling on my phone before I even realize I’m crying. I knew that, eventually, the press was going to find out about Carson and me. I should have known they’d go digging and unearth my childhood, but I couldn’t imagine they’d call me an escort. That they would publishanythinglike this.
But here I am. Humiliated by the life I couldn’t control, and publicly shamed for something that I didn’t even do. Even worse,mytoxic past is tarnishing Carson’s reputation.
I pace the house, trying to decide what to do. Blindly, I wander the hallways, periodically stopping to try to reach Carson again. It just keeps going straight to voicemail. Does he know about the article? The picture?
Tears sting my eyes all over again at the thought of him reading all those things about me. The escort stuff is bullshit, and he knows that, but what about the rest? He wouldn’t believe I’m some kind of conniving gold-digger… right?
I open the door and find myself in a garage the size of an aircraft hangar. Carson’s luxury cars all sit glistening on the spotless, white cement floor. And then there’s my beater; even rustier than I remember. She sure as fuck isn’t the prettiest thing in here, but the familiarity is comforting. I haven’t set eyes on it since my first day here. Anytime we went out, Carson had someone drive us, or he drove one of hismuchnicer cars.
It’s unlocked, so I open the door with a horrifying screech, and climb behind the wheel. It’s not new-car smell, but it’s just as welcome. I lay my forehead on the steering wheel and close my eyes, trying to figure out what I should do. It’s too lonely in that big house all alone.