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“What the hell?” I key in my code and scroll through my text alerts. It seems like every single human being on my contact list has decided they want to get in touch with me this morning. It makes no sense. Until it does.
A new message pops up from Pattie, so I open hers before I even consider looking at the ones from my brother.
I need details.
Where the hell are you?
Please tell me there are lots of orgasms involved and that’s why you’re not responding.
Holy shit, social media is on fire
Don’t read the comments if you look
Actually, don’t look at social media
Call me the second you see these messages
A new message pops up as I’m scrolling through.
I can see that you’ve read these. I’m calling you.
“What the hell is going on?” I ask as soon as I have the phone to my ear.
“Is Bishop still there?”
“Uh, well, yeah. He’s in the bathroom right now.”
“Did you just wake up?”
“Yeah. Like literally a minute ago.”
“Shit. Okay. I think you need to prepare yourself, because you’ve gone viral.”
“Viral how?”
“There’s a video.”
“What kind of video?” I get this horrible sinking feeling in my stomach, the kind I used to get when RJ started playing professional hockey and he was constantly on some social media site doing unspeakable things with women. No one ever needs to see their older brother, who up until that point I’d idolized, making out with two women at the same time in a hot tub.
“The kind where it looks like you’re trying to climb inside each other’s mouths.”
“Please tell me you’re kidding.” My stomach is no longer sinking; it’s flip-flopping around.
“I can’t do that unless you want me to lie to you.” I can practically hear Pattie’s cringe.
“Shit.” Reality sets in, along with panic. “Shit, shit, shit. Is it really bad?”
“Like, is it a bad video?”
“Is a video of people making out in public ever good?” I roll off the bed and pace the room.
This would explain the massive number of messages I have this morning. There were a lot from my brother, so I’m taking that as an omen of the not-good variety. “What site is it on? Can we get it taken down? People can do that, right?”
I’d like to believe viral in the hockey world is a lot different from viral in the general sense of the word, but I’m not sure that would be accurate. Not with this being Seattle’s first year with a hockey team.
“The video has been shared fifty-seven thousand times and has more than four hundred thousand likes.”
“Oh my God.” I think I might actually be sick.
“If it makes you feel better, it’s a really hot video.”
I consider that for several stupid, long seconds. It shouldn’t make me feel better at all, but in the grand scheme of things I guess it’s better than looking like a wasted hag. “I wish that helped.” My phone buzzes with yet another message from my brother. Obviously he’s seen the video—it’s the only explanation for the incessant texts.
“What do I search so I can see this video?”
“I’ll put a link in your messages, but whatever you do, don’t read the comments.”
I don’t ask if it’s that bad again, because clearly it is.
I’m about to put her on speakerphone and check the link she’s sent me when the bathroom door swings open. “Wanna sixty-nine before breakfast?” Bishop stands there in all his gorgeous naked glory, his predatory expression and slight smirk dripping slowly from his face as he takes in what is likely my highly panicked expression.
“What’s going on?” He takes several steps toward me. He’s half-hard, so his peen bobs distractingly.
“I gotta let you go,” I tell Pattie.
“Call me later.”
“’Kay.” I end the call and glance at my phone.
“Stevie? Why do you look like you’re about to freak out?”
“There’s a video,” I croak, scrolling to Pattie’s most recent message, including the link to the video. It was uploaded by user J$0124 twelve hours ago and has endless tags and hashtags attached to it. Since Joey’s birthday is January 24, I’m going to go ahead and say he’s the reason for this unnecessary bullshit.
“What kind of video?”
“Of us kissing, apparently.” I hit the play button.
The video starts as I pull Bishop’s mouth to mine. His hand hovers close to my cheek for several long seconds before it settles against my skin. It’s a tentative, almost romantic kiss at first, until we really get going. Then it’s not so sweetly innocent. I’m the one gripping his hair; I angle his head to the side; I push my hips into his.
We are totally dry humping on the dance floor. In front of my colleagues, bosses, and clients. This is really, really bad.
Another message comes in from my brother.
“I can handle this,” Bishop says.
“How exactly are you going to handle this?” I wave the phone around in the air, my panic overriding any remaining thread of logic. I accidentally hit play again, and the sound of us groaning into each other’s mouths fills the room. It’s so much different when I’m seeing it secondhand through my phone. And infinitely more mortifying. “RJ is going to lose his mind.”
