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Twenty-One
Jenna remained in the private suite for at least ten minutes before she could stand without wobbling. She washed up, freshened her makeup, adjusted her hair. She’d put her whole heart on the table for him. It made her giddy and scared.
She was as decent as she could make herself by the time she ventured out of that room, but her hot pink flush just wouldn’t fade.
It would be all too easy to guess what she and Drew had been up to. All they had to do was look at her eyes, her cheeks, her hair. She was so sick of having her private life be everybody’s entertainment.
“Jenna! I thought I might find you here.”
She spun around with a squeak of alarm as a hand clamped her wrist. “Harold? What on earth—you scared me!”
“Just wanted a word.” His eyes raked her up and down.
“Yeah, you and everyone else. Not now.” She tugged at her wrist.
He didn’t let go. “I just need a minute of your time. Could we slip into the suite to have a private—”
“Absolutely not,” she said forcefully.
Harold shrugged. “Fine, but I have something to tell you and it’s in your best interests to hear it behind closed doors. Trust me on this.”
Trust him? Ha. “Right here is just fine,” she said. “Make it quick.”
Harold’s eyes lingered on her flushed face, the smudges of makeup below her eyes, her cleavage. “I saw Drew strutting down the stairs like the cock of the walk,” he said. “I can imagine what the two of you were up to in there. Fun, huh?”
“Get lost, Harold.” She yanked again.
Harold held on, his fingers digging into her skin. “I’m trying to do you a favor.”
“I’m doing just fine without any favors from you.”
“Believe me, you’ll be grateful.” He held up his phone. “Have you seen this?”
Her eyes went to the screen, in spite of herself—and stiffened at what she saw.
The screen showed a photo of Drew, stretched out naked in a huge bed, apparently sleeping, and surrounded by naked women. And there was more—much more. Many women. The pictures flashed by, one after the other.
In all of them, Drew appeared to be unconscious.
Harold just watched her face avidly as she stared down at his screen. “Where did you get these photos?” she asked. “Who gave them to you?”
“Just what did Drew tell you about Sobel’s party?” Harold asked.
“None of your business, Harold,” she said.
“I know what he told my uncle,” Harold said. “They knocked him down onto that couch and took compromising photos of him. Right? And that was all. He didn’t tell you that he slunk out of that place the next morning after rolling around all night with a bunch of call girls. There’s timed security footage of him walking out of that place at ten thirty-five. Word is, there are videos of the fun and games that happened during the night, too. Imagine how you’ll feel when those videos drop.”
She tried not to imagine it. There was a painful rock in her throat. “We are not having this conversation,” she said. “Get the hell away from me.”
“He’s a liar, Jenna. Don’t fall for it. You’re smarter than that.”
Jenna seized Harold’s fingers, still clamped around her wrist, and pried them loose. She stepped back, rubbing her sore arm. There was a cold, sick weight in her belly. “I don’t believe you,” she said.
Harold’s expression didn’t change. “Those pictures don’t care what you believe. Neither will anyone else who sees them. And they will see. They’re viral already.”
“All I saw was an unconscious man with some woman draped over him in bed,” she said. “He told me he was ambushed. This doesn’t disprove that.”
Harold shook his head. “You are so far gone,” he said, in a pitying tone. “What’s it going to take to disillusion you?”
