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My boyfriend (I’ll never get tired of calling him that) and I went bowling with Allie and Sarge. Sarge said I talked too much. He makes me nervous, and when I’m nervous I talk about stupid things. T kissed me and said, “Lizzie, I love to listen to your voice. Never stop talking to me.” Later, we fell asleep at the park in the sleeping bag he’s started keeping in his trunk. The next morning, his dad yelled at him for missing curfew, and T was pissed. I’d give anything for my dad to be around long enough to know and care that I didn’t come home until 4 am.
~ from the diary of Elizabeth Sara Thorne (age16)
A half-dozen ripped and shirtless guys strut across the stage under pulsing lights timed to the beat ofI’m Too Sexy,taking the cover model contest into the final round.
Squashed in the front row next to Donna—along with nine other author-slash-guest-judges—I duck my head to avoid a strobe-light seizure. Hurrying to finish, I cast a vote for the oil-slicked pirate in the shredded pants and lean toward my boyfriend.
My boyfriend. I haven’t quite wrapped my heart around that yet. I’ve never been a fan of insta-love, but now I’m a true believer in some very strong insta-like.
Dressed in Jax—yellow contacts, a maroon V-neck sweater, and black pants—Gabe leans into me and covers my hand with his, his lips curving into an easy smile. For a straight guy, he seems totally cool with the thousand pounds of man flesh gyrating in front of us.
I’m not. The song, the skin, the ladies hooting, hollering, whistling—and every otheringshort of dollar-billing the models’ waistbands—brands me in a body-wide blush.
“Ladies!” The platinum-haired author acting as emcee shouts into the microphone. Her New York accent compliments her blank-and-white pantsuit. The music dims, and the strobes click off. “Enjoy your finalists while sexy Alpha Jax fromThe Packmakes his way to the stage to reveal our winner.”
The spotlight flashes to Gabe. To us. I slide lower in my seat. He embraces his cue. Gone is the private smile that belonged to me. In its place, he wears his full-dimple public grin that has the emcee fanning herself.
I may never get used to his ability to instantly switch on and off. Or how many cougars there are in the world. Gross when Gabe’s barely eighteen.
“Meet you back here,” he whispers, then pushes off his seat. As cocky as any of the models, he takes the stage steps two at a time and joins the six finalists.
Shouts of “Team Jax!” come from the back. Several people scream, “Take off your shirt!
“What?” Gabe leans into the emcee’s microphone, eyes wide in mock surprise. “You want me to take off my shirt?”
Raunchy whistles and claps fill the room.
Gabe gives a larger-than-life shrug, then reaches behind him, snags the fabric of his V-neck and strips off his sweater.
The whistles and claps amp so loud I plug my ears.
“Jax has my vote, even if he isn’t a contestant.” The emcee fans herself again. “Wait. Youarelegal, right?”
Laughing, he nods.
“Whew.” She hams up her relief, and in a sweet move, Gabe pecks her on the cheek and makes her blush. Then he marches to the edge of the stage, winks at me, and tosses me his sweater.
The spotlight trailing him lands on Donna’s disapproval and shrinks me into my seat.
Gabe announces Fireman Gunner the winner and hands him a plastic crown, the overhead lights blink on, and Gabe heads down with the other models to take pictures with the women filling up the area in front of the stage.
I turn my phone off silent. I’m about to check Mom’s social media when I see Gabe’s name in my newsfeed. The link takes me to a Hollywood gossip site and a photo captionedGabriel’s Girls Gone Wildthat rolls my stomach.
It’s a spliced image of two pictures. The left side is my morning-after mugshot—the close-up of me leaving the public restroom after the luncheon. The right side is a blurry profile of Coley leaving Gabe’s hotel room wearing his clothes. Nothing ID’s her as his sister. Gabe hovers in the background of both shots, wearing unreadable expressions. I enlarge my half until it takes up the whole screen.
“Why would you post that?” Donna taps the sleazy picture, leaning in until I can’t smell anything but her hours-old, after-dinner coffee. “It’s like nothing’s off-limits anymore. Have a little self-respect. Getting used by some boy just because he’s famous isn’t anything to be proud of.”
“I didn’t post this. Why would I do that?”
But she’s already slipping off her chair. “Like Vi says, that’s one way to sell books.”
This time my stomach doesn’t just roll, it’s on a roll. Wave after wave rocks me in an ocean of nausea. Hugging Gabe’s sweater, I push through the crowd and out into the courtyard, sprinting past mini-lanterns strung overhead and solar landscaping lights that line a mostly deserted brick patio. I don’t stop until I find a corner sectioned off by low bushes and small potted trees. Then because I’m stupid, I light up my phone screen again.
There’s a teaser under the pic.Jax Is Axed!Gabriel Wade Pack Spoilers.
Clicking the link takes me to a video from today’sDallas Daily Dishand an interview between Gabe and Gretchen. I play the clip. Struggling to hear over the traffic on the bypass behind the hotel, I press the phone against my ear.
