After All(31)

Guilt comes for me again, as it often does when I look at everything I have.

I remember where I came from.

I remember everything I'm still looking for.

It's time to pay Jimmy a visit.





Chapter 7





Alyssa





"Are you sure you're okay?" Jackie asks me for the millionth time.

I sigh into the phone, cradling it between my chin and my shoulder while I wash the dishes in the sink. "I'm okay. Really. Go back to having sex with your husband."

Jackie laughs. "You know we were having plenty of sex before we got married. The whole purpose of sex on the honeymoon is to produce a baby and guess what, we've got a bun in the oven."

"And how is that bun making the oven feel?"

"Tired, actually. Plus, the traveling has taken it out of me. And I'm totally showing now, I'm just not huge, so when I walk around in a bikini, people can't tell if I'm pregnant or just extra fat."

"You look extra beautiful and you know it. You better go enjoy that sunshine. And I better not drop this phone in the sink."

"Okay," she says warily. "But text me. I know this whole thing is so fucking bizarre and I really hope no one gives you shit at work tomorrow. If they do, tell them they're fired. On behalf of Will."

"Jackie," I can hear Will playfully chastising her in the background.

"Ha, will do," I tell her. "Talk to you later."

It takes me a moment to dry my hands before I hang up the phone. Normally it's Carla's job to do the dishes but today I needed something to do.

I've cleaned the entire apartment.

Anything to keep my mind off of Emmett.


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I even tried to listen to an audiobook while vacuuming but the dirty talk that the hero was spouting reminded me way too much of Emmett. Fucking hell, he's like a book boyfriend come to life.

And I might be his girlfriend.

Fake one, that is.

Ever since this morning when my entire world was flipped upside down, I've been faced with a dilemma unlike any I've ever faced before. Basically, Emmett asked me to not only be okay with those photos, but to actually do more of them. Staged of course, but still. I'll be purposely thrust into the sleazy limelight.

To my credit, my first reaction was no fucking way. I mean, I figured he had practically stalked me and came over to tell me that he was filing a lawsuit against Perez Hilton or something and was going to find out who took the photograph and beat his fucking ass down. But then he opened his stupid mouth and came up with a proposition only an immoral fool would consider. And while I may be loose with my morals sometimes, this was something that really shook the ground I stood on.

But then I started to think about it. Obviously this whole thing would benefit Emmett and I really couldn't give a shit if I help his image or not. He seems to think there's some conspiracy against him, like it's totally unfair that the media is painting him a certain way when he is, in fact, a certain way. They're just reflecting the truth.

Then he said it would benefit me. Money, plus anything else.

And honestly, I could use the money. My savings account is nonexistent, I'm tired of scrambling from paycheck to paycheck. I'm twenty-eight and I feel like I have miles to go before I'm an adult. I want something to fall back on, a sense of security in a life that increasingly feels insecure. Plus, I have dreams that are probably fruitless and futile but money could at least give me a shot at them.

Of course there's also the curiosity factor. The excitement. I'm not really sure what else Emmett could give me and I wouldn't feel right asking for it but when he told me I would be treated like a queen with him, a little thrill ran through me. Every woman dreams about being swept off their feet but the way things have aligned in my life, I'm not sure that's ever going to happen. I've just had a string of dates and short-term boyfriends who never really looked at me as more than just another person taking up space.

Does that make me epically shallow, the fact that I'm considering all of this just to feel special and doted on? Maybe. But for the first time in years, I'm actually excited about something.

I sigh and look around the apartment. It's spotless. When Carla gets home from her shift, the place will be fit for a queen.

It's not long before six-thirty rolls around. I've spent a good hour getting ready, spending way too much time on the dress, hair and makeup, trying to look just right. I keep telling myself it's because I want to look good for his publicist–who knows why–and that I rarely go on fancy dinner dates. I tell myself everything in order to pretend I'm not looking good for him.