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Chapter 23
Julia
There was the old saying that there’s no such thing as bad press.
Bullshit, I say.
I was settling into my motel room as well as I could. It was a dump compared to the suite at the Bellagio. B ut at least the guy at the front desk didn’t seem the type to ask a bunch of questions, and the lock seemed plenty secure.
I hadn’t stopped shaking, too rattled to get my thoughts in proper order.
Leonna had made herself perfectly clear. I was F-I-R-E-D.
“And you call yourself a journalist,” she had snorted into my ear. “An absolute disgrace. Shacking up with three men? I never would have hired you if I’d known about your questionable work ethic. I’m done with you being a massive pain in my ass, Thatcher. You’re done! Don’t you dare bother coming by the office to clean out your desk. I’ll have everything mailed to you. Or dumped. Either way, you’re gone.”
Good riddance, I thought bitterly to myself.
Dylan tried calling me a few times. Cash and Red, too. I let my phone go unanswered. I knew what they were going to say. I could practically hear their voices in my head. They were going to tell me that this would blow over, that we would figure things out, that they could protect me.
But I couldn’t ask that of them. Not when this might derail their careers, leave them financially in the lurch, and tarnish their reputations for years to come. Guilt twisted in my gut like a cold knife. I’d seen firsthand how badly they wanted this, how they lived and breathed UFC. Now there was a real chance they could lose it all, and all because they were caught being with me?
In my head, the solution was simple: remove myself from the equation. This wasmyway of protectingthem.
I curled up on the bed, tucking my knees against my chest. The sheets smelled dusty, the faint scent of cigarette smoke lingering in the air. The motel room’s carpet was a dark burgundy, the tacky floral wallpaper faded from years of sun exposure. I tried not to think about the questionable leftover container someone left on the bottom shelf of the minifridge, or the cleanliness of the bathroom towels.
Thank God I don’t own a black light, either.
I felt sick. There was a tightness in my chest, and my stomach was aflutter. I was so dizzy I felt like the floor might slip out from under me at any given moment.
My phone buzzed again with a text from Dylan.
Will you at least let us know if you got there? Did you notice anyone following you?
I breathed deeply. I’d been on high alert the whole ride over. I didn’t dare walk, even though the motel was pretty much a straight shot down the Strip. I took the first available cab, sa nk down low in the backseat, and tipped the driver an extra twenty to get me to my destination as fast as possible.
I kept glancing over my shoulder the whole way there, paranoid that someone might be snapping more pictures of me while I was caught unawares. I didn’t notice anyone, only because this was Las Vegas. Everybody had their cameras out, thousands of tourists crowding the sidewalks as they posed in front of famous landmarks. It would have been impossible for me to tell if I was being tailed or not.
My phone buzzed again.
There’s a ton of paparazzi downstairs. They swarmed Red and Cash when they tried to get some food.
I frowned at this, my thumbs flying over the screen.
How did the paps know where to find them?
I don’t know. I’m wondering if a staff member might have leaked our location?
Are you okay?
It was a loaded question, but the answer was a resounding no. I felt brittle right down to my core, so caught off guard by recent events that I was still reeling as a result. I accidentally made the mistake of looking online. It was strange seeing my picture plastered everywhere, slanderous titles and harmful rumors spreading like wildfire.
I committed the ultimate sin by checking the comments section and shouldn’t have been surprised by the level of slut- shaming I received, yet I was. I was called every colorful name under the sun. A slut, a bimbo, a whore. Random people hiding behind anonymous usernames claimed that I needed to learn to keep my legs closed. They said terrible things about how I was chasing after Red and Cash for their money and fame.
The threat of being doxed made my stomach churn. It was genuinely alarming how quickly the internet was able to find out my name, my place of work, the general area where I was from. They found my work email with ease —though now that I was fired, I wouldn’t be checking my inbox— but that was thankfully it.
I’m okay. Made it here safe. Going to lay low.
My phone started to ring. For a moment, I thought Dylan was trying to get a hold of me again. I grimaced when I saw mom’s name pop up on screen. I debated answering at all, pure terror gripping me by the throat. Did she know what was going on? Had she and Dad caught wind of the scandal?
