“Oh, please, Golden. You’re just mad at me because things aren’t working out in your life how you planned. Don’t try to play it like I did something awful. I’ve done terrible things, but I haven’t done them to you, okay?”
She put her face in her hands and made a choked sound.
Oh, flaming bag of poo, she was crying, wasn’t she? I pulled the bathroom door open and peered around for Shayla. She was the one who brought Golden home, so that made her responsible for the girl. I adjusted my towel again and tried to think my way out of this problem.
I’m not the kind of girl who instinctively comforts a crying girl. I recently helped out a pregnant girl who was sitting next to me on an airplane, but that was different from this. That girl had a legitimate reason for being upset.
I called down the hallway, “Shayla, we have a situation!”
No response.
I looked back at Golden, who still had her face in her hands.
What would cheer me up if I were in her position?
“Golden. Hey, listen. I’m an asshole, okay? You’re really nice, and you’re super pretty. I’m sorry about everything, and I’m definitely not into Adrian. He’s actually gross. He’s too tall and he has weirdly long legs like a giraffe.”
She blew her nose on some toilet paper and looked up at me with her giant, baby blue eyes, her adorable face framed by her curls. Her golden hair had been streaked with colors ranging from pumpkin to platinum, and even with messy bedhead, she was cute. I had to wonder: why wouldn’t Adrian make a move on her?
“He does have skinny legs,” she said, nodding in agreement.
“The next time I talk to him, I’ll punch him right in the nuts and ask him why he isn’t taking you out on romantic dates.”
She winced. “Maybe don’t punch him.”
My cheering-up was working. Golden was almost smiling at my jokes. Now I just needed one more great idea.
“Let’s go eat some motherfucking bacon and pancakes,” I said.
She nodded. “Okay.”
I heard a shuffling down the hall, and my roommate (and cousin, and best friend) Shayla appeared at her doorway, rubbing her eyes. Her black, wavy hair was fluffy on one side and flat on the other. Her golden brown eyes were barely open.
“Did someone say motherfucking bacon?” she asked.
“Yes. Five-minute showers and then we saddle up. I promise not to talk about LA.”
Shayla shuffled her way into the bathroom, a guilty look on her face. “You can talk about LA if you want. I’m sorry we went too far last night. You know we only razz you because we love you.”
“And because you’re jealous bitches.”
She smirked, one eyebrow quirking up with amusement. “Yes. And because we’re jealous bitches. But we’re YOUR jealous bitches, and you’re stuck with us.”
I shrugged. “I’d much rather have you guys than some other jealous bitches.”
“Damn straight.” She gave me a fist bump, then she dove at the tub and called dibs for the first shower.
I went back to my bedroom, got under the covers, and pulled my laptop off the night stand. Instead of checking email and Facebook, I pulled up google and typed in Dalton Deangelo.
The weird thing is, my fingers just did that on their own. I swear I hadn’t even been thinking about the guy—not consciously, at least.
I cried out in surprise and horror when the google autocomplete function suggested I was searching for “Dalton Deangelo porn.”
With sick curiosity, I clicked the search button.
I knew I shouldn’t go looking for the stuff, but knowing it was wrong only made me more interested. It’s like… deciding you’re going on a diet, and then suddenly all you can think about is eating an entire birthday cake to yourself, and not even a tasty one, but the cheap grocery store cake that makes you hate yourself as you shovel pale, under-flavored lard into your mouth by the fistful.*
*Or so I’ve heard.
As the search results came in, my jaw literally dropped.
CHAPTER 3
I stared at the search results for “Dalton Deangelo porn.”
First, the name.
In his adult film, he was billed as Chandler Boink.
When you heard that, you probably laughed, right? I did, too.
And then my google hijinx took a turn for the regrettable. I clicked on an article that had school photos of a young Dalton. My heart broke.
Before his adult film role, and long before he became a famous TV-series actor, he was just a big-eyed kid with dark hair sticking up from his cowlick.
He was born David Blake, and if the article on the gossip website was to be believed, he was four years older than me—twenty-six.
The liar had said he was twenty-four. Or had he? He’d said he was “officially” twenty-four, and then been evasive.