All About the D

Popular Senatorial Candidate’s Brother Is Viral Dick Blog Star.

All the media that featured me before? Now their websites feature my face next to the link of my blog. Fortunately, my family has been texting me links to these all day. In case I miss one. Between that and clients who called to cancel upcoming projects, I finally just shut my phone off.

My mother breaks the silence with a cool, crisp shot. “We need to discuss how this story will affect your brother’s campaign and what you are going to do about this problem.”

One of the six suits pipes up. “We have prepared a denial letter and a press release. We’ve also begun drafting a complaint for libel.”

My brows knit together. “Libel?”

“Defamatory statements. Statements of a false and injurious nature to your reputation.”

Probably not gonna help. Once you’re in the public eye as a celebrity or politician, you’re almost shit out of luck for libel suits. The only defense against libel is the truth. For example, if I weren’t behind All About the D. See what I mean? Shit out of luck.

I’m guessing my family’s attorneys know this, but it’s the only way to save face.

Spencer shakes his head, his expression pained. “How could you do this, Josh?”

“You know better,” adds my mother, her words dripping with scorn. “We raised you better than this.”

“What do you have to say for yourself?” asks Henry.

I want to tell them all to fuck off. I want to tell them that this is none of their business.

Unfortunately, with Spence’s campaign, it is their business.

An hour later, the lawyers have prepared a carefully-worded press release that denies what happened without actually saying anything at all. It’s all factually true, but if you don’t read it too carefully, you’d never know it doesn’t deny that I did it. But it does threaten lawsuits to anyone who publishes my identity in connection with the blog. If I thought I felt low walking in here, it’s nothing like how I feel now. I’ve had to listen to six lawyers use words like “phallus” and “male frontal nudity,” knowing that they’re talking about my cock in front of my mother and grandmother. Real fucking fun.

You’d think I’d committed a heinous crime. Robbed a bank. Murdered someone.

Maybe I shouldn’t have created the blog. Maybe I should’ve told Drew off and not taken his bait.

But then I’d have never met Evie.

Once the language is agreed on, the press release is issued. I make sure that it denies Evie’s involvement.

While my parents offer to let me stay, it’s too stifling here. All I want is to go home, turn off all communication with the outside world, and go to bed.

When I arrive at my condo, however, I’m not home five minutes before my buzzer sounds.

“Fucking let me in, asshole.” Drew’s voice booms through the intercom. “I know you’re there.”

I ignore it.

But he keeps buzzing, eventually tapping out a rhythm so loud I’m ready to punch him in the throat. Persistent son of a bitch.

Finally, I roll off the couch, slouch over to the button, and press it. Almost instantaneously, he appears, hair in his face, out of breath, his clothes swallowing him whole. He really has lost weight.

“What the fuck happened?” he asks. “Who ratted you out?”

“Does it matter? It happened. And now I’ve lost Evie, she’s probably getting fired, I’m gonna be out of business, and my family is disowning me.”

“Sounds like you need this.” Drew pulls a bottle out of a paper bag. “Tell me your sorrows, loser.”





34





Evie





My head vibrates like a thousand miners have tunneled into my brain with pickaxes, and when I try to open my eyes, they’re glued shut. Guess that’s what happens when you guzzle that much wine by yourself.

Blinking requires energy I don’t have, but finally my eyes open despite the stabbing sensation in my temples.

I’m wondering why the hell I drank so much last night when it all slams into me. Gary’s article. That horrid scene in the coffee shop. Crying hysterically on the sidewalk when it all became too much. Josh telling me we needed to stay away from each other.

Tears fill my crusty eyes.

His words hurt more than anything else I endured yesterday. Of course he wants space. And not the kind of space you asked for Sunday night when you meant a day or two.

I couldn’t cry in front of him anymore, so I bolted from his car before he said anything else that crushed me. While I wish that was the end of my humiliation, then I had to endure a few more hours in the office where everyone spoke in hushed whispers around me like I was attending my own funeral.

With a grunt, I pull myself to the edge of my bed. The room spins one way and then the other before righting itself. Chauncey’s sad face nuzzles my palm. I swear this dog knows I feel like shit.

“Hey,” I croak. “You’ll still be my friend, right?”

He wags his tail, and it thumps against me, making me feel more nauseous, but I take a few deep breaths until I’m sure the contents of my stomach will stay down.

I should take Chauncey for a walk, but that would force me out of my house, which is not happening anytime this decade. After I manage to use the bathroom without toppling over, I let him out into the backyard.

With shaky hands, I tighten my robe around me and shiver on the porch. The sky is dark and the scent of rain fills the air.

What the fuck am I going to do? If I lose this job—Jesus, if I get disbarred—what will I do? Who will hire me? For what?

My stomach revolts, and I kneel over a planter and vomit.

Fuck. Oh, God.

I’m on the floor, barely holding myself up over the ivy plant I just bought with Josh a few weeks ago.

Wiping tears off my face, I stumble around the kitchen and shakily drink a few sips of water before I finally get the courage to take a peek at my phone.

Fifty-seven missed calls. Twelve messages. Voicemail full. Zero calls or texts from Josh.

Feeling like an epic loser, I rest my forehead on my kitchen table and listen to the wind blow through the trees in my yard.

I hate Josh.

I love Josh.

I wish I’d never met Josh.

Fine, that’s not true, but knowing how disposable I am to him hurts like a bitch.

A knock on my front door makes me flinch.

For half a second, I wonder if it’s him, and hope—bright and vivid and so very sweet—overpowers me long enough to drag myself to the front door. But when I peek through the curtain, I see Kendall.

Closing my eyes, I lean my face against the door. Of course it’s not Josh. He doesn’t want to be seen with me anymore.

That buoyant sensation I felt ten seconds ago bursts with the harsh sting of reality.

I unlatch the chain and let her in.

“Why haven’t you answered my calls in the last”—she stares at her iPhone—“fourteen hours?”

I shrug because anything more would require energy I don’t have. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you worry.”

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