“So who leaked it?”
Zia squeezed her eyes shut. The truth was excruciating. Not just because of what it meant for Clay.
Layla had been acting funny all morning—pissy and defensive and then when Zia was saying goodbye, oddly contrite. Zia dug for her phone, as always, on silent. There were fifty missed calls. Dozens of messages. A front-of-house manager she used to work with years ago: Zia!!! OMG you and Clay!!!! Congrats girl, he is HOT!!! Please come in anytime, Chef would love to—
Zia deleted it. As she did, another popped up, a volunteer she’d befriended in Cambodia. Holy shit!! Ha ha ha I knew you when. Looks like your bf has a massive cock .
Zia thrust her phone at Darlene. “Call my sister.”
“This is gonna be okay, Z, I promise.”
“Just call her!” Why had she taken the photo, why hadn’t she deleted it, why hadn’t she called Layla out on acting weird. Why—
Layla picked up.
Blood roared in Zia’s ears. “Tell me it wasn’t you.”
There was a painful silence. “Zia, I didn’t mean for—”
“No.” Zia bit her hand to keep from screaming. “Why? How could you?”
“It wasn’t meant to… It was an Australian website, they said you wouldn’t even know—”
“Layla!” Zia shouted. “Why the hell did you sell a picture of me and Clay? That you stole off my phone?”
“You’re so wrapped up in him! You barely have any time for us anymore—”
Zia hung up, unable to take it. Her own sister. “I have to call Clay.” She knew Layla knew her passcode—why hadn’t she changed it after she told her about Clay?
“Hey, it’s Clay. Leave a message.”
Zia hung up and threw the phone on Darlene’s bed. “Shit. Shit.”
She could call Dave, maybe he’d be with Clay, at the airport, on the plane already? She had to see Clay, had to explain—
“What Layla did is illegal.” Darlene was reading off her phone. “It’s illegal to sell a picture you didn’t take, especially one like that. She must’ve lied or forged your signature or pretended to be you. Layla could get in a lot of trouble for this.”
“Well, maybe I’ll sue my sister,” Zia snapped sarcastically. “My broke-ass sister with two little kids, maybe I’ll send her ass to jail.” She picked up her phone—Zia, hi, this is Phoebe North, deputy editor of US Weekly—and called Dave.
He answered on the first ring. His voice was atypically brisk. “Don’t make any comment.”
“Dave! Thank God. I didn’t sell it, I swear.”
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
“Stay there. Don’t answer the door.”
“I need to speak to Clay.”
A pause. “That’s probably not a good idea.”
“Shit, Dave, I need to speak to my boyfriend! Is he on the plane, where is he?”
Silence.
“Where are you?” Zia was shouting. “Where is he?”
“We’re at his place—”
“I’m coming.”
She grabbed the largest hoodie she owned and bolted for the front door. The untouched photo, the one without the black star, was probably online too. It’d likely live on the internet forever, always one Google search away: Clay Russo nude. Clay didn’t even bare his butt in movies. The word viral took on a whole new meaning. Infection. Spreading and multiplying beyond control, utterly unstoppable.
Clay would be humiliated, on a global scale. The pain of it squeezed her chest and lungs, making it hard to get a good breath. It felt like terror.
And it was 100 percent her fault.
It was a mistake to leave the apartment without a plan, and on her own. The small group of male photographers swarmed her, yelling questions and accusations: Zia, is it true about you and Clay Russo? What’s he like in bed? She made it to her bike, but between the chaos around her and tears in her eyes, she couldn’t work the lock. Someone yanked the hoodie off her head. She almost screamed.
“Zia!” Darlene called from her window, pointing at an idling car. “I called you a Lyft!”
She fought her way into the back seat. In the rearview mirror, the driver examined her. Trying to figure out if she was a celebrity. No, but I sleep with one, and now everyone knows. She pulled the hoodie low and texted Darlene to change the address to Clay’s apartment.
There, more photographers were waiting, but an experienced doorman held them back. The marble foyer felt huge and quiet as a crypt. A fairly famous young actress who owned a condo in the complex watched her scurry inside. She was someone Zia made friendly small talk with while sunbathing on the building’s roof. Now, a slight look of suspicion narrowed her eyes.
The doorman called up. Zia prayed not to be turned away. Thankfully, she wasn’t.
The elevator doors opened into Clay’s apartment to reveal a brusque-looking woman Zia recognized as Lana, Clay’s publicist, flanked by two younger women, a guy in a suit, and Dave, all huddled around the kitchen island, which was covered with open laptops. A tinny voice was speaking from a phone. “… absolutely a violation of statute and total invasion, even for Clay’s reduced expectation. We’re still figuring out if it constitutes revenge porn, but it may not even matter if—”
“Hang on, Kien.” Dave cut the voice off.
Five sets of eyes landed on Zia. Five people whose entire jobs were now managing her epic, unforgivable screwup. She felt exactly ten years old.
For a long moment, no one said anything. Then Lana pointed at her. “I need to talk to you.”
Clay walked in from the bedroom, dressed in black jeans and a black sweater. As soon as he saw Zia, he pulled up short. “What’s she doing here?”
Coldness slammed Zia in the chest. She. She’d been reduced to she.
Dave hesitated. “I let her in.”
“Can we talk?” Zia begged Clay. “Please?”
Everyone looked at Clay. He ran a hand through his hair, his mouth tight. “Yeah, sure,” he said eventually, in a way that sounded like, May as well get this over with.
* * *
Clay shut the doors to the windowless media room. A C-shaped leather sectional faced a TV screen the size of a dining room table. His man cave. His space. Zia shivered. Even in the hoodie, she was freezing.
Clay faced her with an expression she hadn’t seen before. Disbelief. Derision. He spread his arms wide, showman-like. “What the hell, Zia?”
Instinctively she moved toward him, needing contact. “Clay, I’m—”
He raised both hands and took a step back. Don’t. Touch me.
She stood in the middle of the room, wringing the bottom of the hoodie. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “M-my sister—”
“Your sister, posing as you, sold the photograph for fifty thousand dollars, yes, we know.” His voice was curt. This Clay wasn’t kind and gentle. He was powerful, and he was pissed. “Why did you take a photo of me naked?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… I didn’t think—”
“Are there others?”
“What?”
“Other pictures?” he clarified impatiently. “How many others are there, and does she have them?”