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My breath comes in short bursts. I feel like I’m about to have a heart attack. I never fucked Yolanda. Never had a blowjob from her. How does this video exist? Where was it filmed?
Am I losing my mind?
I click on the next one. Looks like the master bedroom in Vancouver. This time the camera zooms in on Yolanda’s bare pussy. Clone me is licking her. Suckling her. Spreading her pussy lips with his fingers. Eating her out like she’s dessert. Clone me speaks. “I feckin’lovegoing down on you, Yolanda. Your pussy is the sweetest I’ve ever tasted.”
Every hair on my body stands on end. It’s my voice. It sounds a little strange butit’s my fucking voice.
Anguished beyond belief, I cry out, “No, this isn’thappening. That isn’tme.”
Because it isn’t. But it is. Isn’t it?
My mind’s a sickening, brain-twisting whirl. I can’t stop. I watch the third video. Clone me is fucking Yolanda against a nondescript wall I don’t recognize. He turns to the camera, bouncing her on his cock. “Fuck me, Yolanda. Give me that sweet pussy.”
This guy looks like me. Sounds like me. Has my same tattoos in the exact same locations. Same nose. Same hair. Same hands. Samefingernails.
But it’s not me. None of this ever happened.
Somewhere in the chaos of my mind, I hear her emerge from the bathroom. Ronni storms over to me and snatches the phone out of my hand. “You need to get out of this house. I can’t be around you. What you’ve done is…beyond words. I mean,fuckingthe nanny. I don’t even know who youareright now.”
“That wasn’t me,” I say, weakly. Because, well. I don’t know. I have no idea what is going on. I just know that I feel like my body is being pulled apart by ten thousand red ants. White-hot pokers puncturing my flesh.
Ronni points at our closet. “Pack your things and get thefuckout.”
I wonder how my morning went from making love to the woman I love more than life itself to being cast out of my own house. But, here we are.
“It’s not me,” I whisper, but I’m defeated. My mind’s spinning into a vortex.
Who knows what I throw into my duffle bag. I don’t care a whit. If these videos are real, I have no memory of it happening. I guess it’s possible. Jace was roofied years ago and he was tricked into thinking he fathered Helena. Ty fucked a thousand girls over the years and often didn’t remember anything the next day. Hell, our publicist filmed herself giving him a blowjob and he had no recollection. It happened when they were broken up, but Zoey was so distraught when she found out she ran into traffic and was nearly run over by a taxi. Ty nearly lost her.
That’s when it hits me. Ronni is never going forgive me for this. If I thought my life was up in the air before, now I know the truth. It’s blown to smithereens. I’ve losteverything. Themostimportant thing.
My family.
Hell, if I fucked Yolanda all those times, I wouldn’t forgive myself for this. I’d expect Ronni’s reaction.
If I did it.
Except, I didn’t do it.I didn’t feckin’ do it.I wasn’t drugged. I wasn’t drunk. I can recall every single encounter with Yolanda. Except for that scene in Malibu, I’d never even come close to touching that woman.
So, no. The guy fucking our former nanny wasn’t me.
It. Wasn’t. Feckin’. Me.
Except?
That guy in the video wasme.
What the feck is happening?
In my peripheral vision,I see Connor standing in the closet doorway with his duffle bag slung over his shoulder. He’s openly weeping, swiping his eyes, not bothering to hide his tears. The part of me who’s loved this man with my entire heart and soul wants to comfort this man who so rarely cries.
The part of me who’s been betrayed by the bastard who was fucking our nanny wants to stab him between the eyes. No, in hisballs.
I can’t look at him directly because I will very likely burst into a ball of flames if I do.
“That isn’t me.” His low, mournful voice catches. “It isn’t me. It isn’t me. It isn’t me,” he chant-whispers, each time punctuated with a wracking sob.
Something makes me glance down at my tattoo.
