The zit-faced jackass glared at me with his beady little eyes over his wire-rimmed glasses. “Are you threatening me? Because if you are, my lawyers will be all over that?”
“Oh, no. It’s not a threat,” I growled, glaring at him with my finger pointed in his face. “It’s a fucking promise. In case you didn’t notice, asshole, I’m over the age of thirty, as is she. If you dare to use the word ‘inappropriate’ in your vocabulary again to try to explain our relationship, you’ll be choking on your own nuts. Capisce?”
Wide-eyed, the guy stared at me. He knew I meant business. Glancing at the camera on the ground, he stammered, “You’re, uhh… you’re gonna hafta pay for that.”
I chuckled at the broken pieces. “Chump change,” I huffed, stalking off in the other direction. Calling over my shoulder, I patronized him even further, “Have your guys call my guys.”
I normally didn’t throw my fame and fortune in people’s faces like that, but damn, that guy pissed me off.
Paige’s voice shrilled through the phone. “Wait. So, you’re telling me he was one of your seventeen year old clients?” She had promised to call me the day after our girl’s night out to get the scoop on Chris, but unfortunately her crazy life with a doctor husband, preteen diva, kindergarten princess, and toddler tornado twin boys had zapped all of her free time. She didn’t remember to call until the tabloids had already plastered the news.
“He’s thirty-two now,” I said defensively. “What difference does it make how old he was when I met him?”
She sounded concerned. “He was a kid, Salem. You were his counselor. Something about it just doesn’t sound right.”
“We are adults, Paige,” I threw back at her, trying not to take her opinion personally. “We haven’t been counselor-client for almost fifteen years. I just don’t get why people are freaking out over this.” I paced the floor, staring at the newsfeed on my computer screen. Posts and articles about me, Chris, and my relationship with him flooded the internet. Somehow they’d even managed to find pictures of him as a teen. Those photos juxtaposed with recent pictures of myself. No wonder people were so up in arms about it.
“Paige, you saw him. He’s not a child. Hell, he was almost eighteen when I met him. There was absolutely nothing inappropriate between us back then.” I felt my face getting hot. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I have to defend myself to my best friend!”
Curiously, like a glutton for punishment, I turned on the TV. I watched the local news do a mighty fine job of tarnishing my good name, making me sound like I was some kind of sick pervert. In boring little towns like we lived in, they took minor stories and ran with them. I’d seen more than one name flushed down the tubes over something blown way out of proportion. Angrily, I slammed the remote on the coffee table.
Paige spoke softly, trying another tactic. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to defend yourself. You’re right. You are both adults here. The media has just played this story up so much that it’s hard not to get sucked in. Don’t be mad. I’m sorry.”
The media was just trying to make me out to the bad guy. Oh god, what if the pregnancy care center gets wind of this? A sob escaped my throat before I could reel it back in. “I’m not mad. I’m just frustrated. This isn’t fair. I’m not who they say I am.”
“Don’t worry about them. Just keep being you. This will all blow over soon.”
Right. I continued to pace the living room, pressing a shaky hand to my forehead. “And in the meantime, they’re making me out to be some sick, child molester.”
Paige sighed. “Everyone who knows you, knows better.”
I stared at the black screen of my television, imagining the awful things being said about me to the thousands of gullible people out there who were eating all this crap up. Hating me or loving me. Or maybe even jealous of me. I despised it. All of it. I didn’t want to be in the spotlight. Ever. Would things with Chris ever be normal? Suddenly, I remembered the night he came to my house and told me how normal I looked. I was beginning to understand his need for normalcy.
“I guess,” I huffed, exasperated.
“Coffee date later?” Paige asked, hopeful.
“Sure,” I responded, less than enthusiastic.
“Okay, I’ll talk to you later.”
“Later.” Before I had a chance to hang up, someone was pounding on my front door. I quickly clicked “End” and rushed to the door.
“Open up, Salem!” Graham’s voice was harsh through the solid, wooden door.