Roman Holiday

Thursday

Chapter Twenty

A thunderous knock wakes me out of a dead sleep. I spring ramrod straight, my legs tangled in the comforter. An empty bag of Doritos and the wine glass I lost somewhere between the balcony and the couch go rolling onto the carpet. Found it. I bend to pick it up as another loud thud quakes the front door.

I wince, massaging my throbbing temples. Oh, God, did I drink that entire bottle of wine? Where is the wine anyway? Looking around, I find it wedged between the couch and the cushions. You know you've hit rock bottom when you sleep with a bottle of merlot.

No wonder my head's pounding.

A muffled voice half-yells from the other side of the door. It sounds urgent. And sort of familiar. I disentangle my legs and roll off the couch, twisting my hair up into a bun. "Coming!" I half-yell, half-moan.

No one came home last night—Mom and Chuck probably crashed with Darla after their casino cruise. Guess I could've slept in the bedroom, but I have no idea what I might find under those covers—and that's a scary thought. The couch isn't that uncomfortable. Okay, that's a lie. It definitely is.

Another knock, this time so urgent it rattles the deadbolt.

This better be the f*cking president, waking me up at 10:07 in the morning. Or maybe Bon? Finally read all of those love letters I sent him as a kid and realized he's the cougar I always knew he was? Come to feast on some supple Baltimore—Conway, damn it!—flesh?

When I open the door, my hopes die quickly.

A young woman with red dreads turns back to the door, throwing up her arms. "Oh my God! Finally!" She barges inside, all sweet coconut perfume, and four-inch heels. "Have you seen the rags this morning? You're in some deep shit, bb."

Am I still dreaming? I blink again, squinting at the blast of magenta dreadlocks that looks ridiculously eccentric this morning against her dark chocolate skin. "…Maggie?"

"Who else would it be? The Pope?" She rolls her eyes, digging into her purse, and pulls out a tabloid. She waves it into the air, the bazillions of bracelets on her arm jingling like sleigh bells. I wince at the sound. Hangover no likey.

"This is deep. You're in deep. And that was one f*cking long ride! Jesus" —she pushes the trash magazine into my chest, pressing her legs together— "I gotta pee like a racehorse. Read it! Oh, my God, it is bird shit yellow!"

She slams the bathroom door as I finally inspect the magazine. My stomach flips. Gray eyes, framed by a wild mess of pink hair and peering over Roman's shoulder, stares back at me. The memory of the Lona comes back in full force. Dancing cheek-to-cheek. The kiss. John. Caspian's sexuality.

It wasn't a dream. "Oh no."

The headline slapped over my splotched forehead reads, 'ROMAN'S HOLIDAY?'

I tear through the magazine to the page written on the cover. "A full-page spread?" I groan, skimming through the article. "'Seen at an exclusive nightclub in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, with this mystery girl, have Roman's expectations fallen since Holly Hudson?' What the actual f*ck? Fallen?"

"And according to the rag," Maggie shouts from the bathroom, "you are totes hipster!"

"Hipster?" I choke. "Seriously?"

"And the paper calls Roman the 'Resurrected Rock God'—can you believe it?" The toilet flushes and she prances out, wiggling down her skirt. "It also totes slut-shames you, bb."

A knot forms in my throat. Yeah, no kidding. "No one will believe this, right? Right?"

Because she's my best friend, she shakes her head and contradicts herself at the same time. "They'll believe it."

Like they believed Roman killed Holly.

I slam the magazine shut. Not nearly as dramatic as I hoped. It sounds like the whimper that might come from me in a few minutes if I hear any more bad news. "Bb, I know I said I didn't want to be a secret, but I really didn't want to be ousted like this, either."

She snags a banana from the counter and peels it open. "How do you think Cas feels?"

"You didn't," I moan.

"I didn't know okay? And I have a big mouth. And it was sorta in the Bean, so we can't go back there for a while. Read: ever." She takes a bite, almost chews, and swallows. She's in her work clothes—as close as a pinstriped vest and an A-line crimson skirt are—but something tells me that she never went to work this morning, and won't be going. "The second I saw that on The Juice site… bb, this is a total disaster."

"I just don't get how he could've gotten this picture."

"Hello. Camera, click. That's how pap do it."

Because I'm still in my clothes from yesterday, and probably smelling to high heaven, I take John's memory card out of my pocket and hold it out to her. "But I have the pictures."

Her eyes widen as she snatches it out of my hand and turns it around in her hand, inspecting it. Without looking up from the chip, she asks, "Got your laptop on you, bb?"

"It's at home."

"That's fine." She hurries over to the gargantuan purse she dropped by the bathroom door and pulls out her DLSR. She pops out her own memory chip and puts his in. "Okay, let's see what's on this then..." Her frown deepens as she clicks through the pictures, searching through the photos. "This can't be right."

"What do you mean?"

"This." She shakes her camera. "This card. It's not from the Lona, bb." Her mocha eyes connect with mine. "They're pictures from the night Holly died."