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My hands hit first, buffering me from the collapse, and the rest of me followed. The impact hurt, but my ego hurt worse. A blush of embarrassment flooded my skin. One of the cameras came right up in my face.
Layana rushed over to me. “Are you all right?”
She shooed the camera guy, but he didn’t leave, instead panning over the two of us as Layana helped me to my feet.
All flurry of cameras encircled Waylen as he hissed and was escorted off set by
Had the drumstick really hit him that hard? Was it his eye? I hoped I hadn’t damaged his eye.
Womp wompsounds carried over the room.
Gilbert stepped in front of one of the cameras, a crazed grin on his face. “Has vindictive Morgan Montrose permanently disfigured American treasure Waylen Archer? You never know what to expect onWhat the What?! We’ll be back after a commercial break.”
The cameras clicked off.
“Permanently disfigured?”
“It didn’t even hit his eye,” Chester said. “Just his cheek.”
I hoped that was true.
“Even if I’m wrong, he’ll look stellar in an eyepatch,” Chester said.
“‘American treasure’ is a stretch, too,” Glitter gave me a sad smile and touched my arm.
“Reality TV fans will eat this drama up,” Layana said, her eyes blue fire, her jaw clenched. “Are you all right, Morgan?”
I nodded, because physically, I was fine. Emotionally, I was reeling.
THIRTY-SEVEN
OSCAR
The past twenty-four hours weren’t a whirlwind. That was far too gentle of a word. They were a tornado that had ripped me to shreds, thrown a skyscraper down on top of me, and then beaten me with it relentlessly.
Bang—here’s a circus of media, looking for their pound of flesh.
Smack—here are your brothers, strangers even before the amnesia.
Crunch—here are your memories, plowing through your brain like a wrecking ball.
I regretted making the phone call that started all of this, with every shred of my being. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to slip out the open window and pretend none of it happened. I could be sitting in the hotel bed watching Morgan on the television right now. I could still be the Oscar with no last name. I could still be happy.
Instead, I was a Carrington, trapped in my father’s parlor. A mess of people flitted about, talking at me, flashing lights in my face—first doctors, then lawyers and assistants and photographers.
The questions, the attention, were endless.
“Oscar, are you listening?” Jasper leaned forward in the chair positioned across from mine. “You don’t have to do the news conference yet, if you’re not ready.”
I ground my teeth. “I don’t have to do it at all.”
He gave me a pitying look. “Do you want to lie down for a bit?”
“I want to go home.”
“After the press conference is over, I’m sure we can arrange a driver to take you to your condo to gather some clothes.”
My condo? I didn’t remember having a condo. When I said “home,” I’d meant back to the hotel, back to Morgan. The thought of not being there when she returned from her celebration at the bar last night was like a knife in my gut, twisting deeper with every hour that passed.
