Aced by K. Bromberg Page A

I’m not an idiot. I know something is very wrong here.
    His eyes hold mine while the silence that feels like hours stretches between us, unnerving me more and more with each and every second that passes. He starts to speak a few times and stops; the words he wants to use not coming to him.
    “Just tell me,” I implore.
    He closes his eyes momentarily before running a hand through his hair and taking a long swallow of his drink. I wrack my brain to remember the last time I saw him this stressed. It’s been so long that I feel completely out of practice in what to say or how to soothe him.
    “They played me. Knew I was going to say ‘fuck them’ and not pay. They never wanted the money, Ry,” he says. Even though I’m not completely following him, I’m also mentally begging him to get to the point because I need to know why he’s this upset. “Nope. They wanted to prove what an arrogant son of a bitch I am. Prove that even when I do what I think is best for my family, I still can’t fucking protect you.”
    “What’s on the tape, Colton?”
    “Close-ups. Your face. Your body. Us together. The correct date,” he says so quietly, it takes me a second to realize what he is actually saying.
    “No!” I shout. He reaches out for me but I step back. The pressure in my chest mounts and the buzzing in my head grows louder.
    “Ry . . .” My name is a plea on his lips and even though I hear it, I can’t respond. My discordant thoughts are colliding together like a kaleidoscope—fractured images of unfinished thoughts that overwhelm me and confuse me all at once. “How was I supposed to know?”
    The emotion in his voice pulls on every single one inside me, and yet I’m not sure which one to hold on to for a reaction. I want to rage and scream while at the same time I want to run and hide and pretend I didn’t hear a thing.
    I brace my hands on the patio railing; my eyes focus on the tranquility of the beach below, but all I feel inside is a dissonant storm of turmoil. “There’s no mistaking it’s me?” I ask, hoping against hope he’s going to tell me what I need to hear.
    “There are close-ups of us getting off the elevator and walking toward the car. Of you during,” he says, voice empty, because how else can he possibly sound, “of us leaving after.”
    I press the heel of my hand on my breastbone, the pressure mounting steadily as I try to fathom how the situation he swore to me was under control is more like a tornado about to touch down.
    And then it hits me. I’ve been so dumbfounded listening to him and trying to get what is wrong out of him that it didn’t compute to me the real reason paparazzi are outside. It’s not just because it was a sex tape where they thought the Prince of Racing was cheating on his do-good wife. No. Not in the least. They are out there circling like sharks with chum in the water because they’ve seen the tape where the Prince is actually fucking said wife on the hood of a car.
    Oh. My. God.
    I have a sex tape. That’s been made public.
    Oh. Shit.
    Even through his whiskey-fogged mind, Colton must sense it’s all clicked for me because when I turn around to face him, a deep exhale falls from his mouth. He watches me warily, possibly wondering if I’m going to rage and scream or go into my no-nonsense, let’s-fix-this business mode.
    “How bad?” It’s all I can say, the only question I can think to voice.
    “I already have Chase on it.”
    “That’s not what I asked.” His response gives me all I need to know though. If his publicity rep is already responding, that means it’s public. Like majorly public. Like it’s beyond controlling, public. “How bad, Colton?” His chuckle returns in response. I start to pace one way then stop and forget what I was doing. I can’t focus. “How is this even . . .?” I can hope, although the dread I feel already tells me what the answer is. The anger festers but is held at bay by disbelief. “Like viral