Roommates Box Set #4-6

27. Sierra

27

SIERRA

I looked out the hotel room window at the Miami skyline. The press tour had taken me to so many cities in such a short time that most days, I didn’t know which city I was in, but the view of the ocean was a pretty big clue.

A pang of homesickness hit me. I was used to an ocean showcasing the sunset, not the sunrise.

But Los Angeles wasn’t the only place I kept thinking about.

It had been nearly three weeks since I left the cabin in Colorado. Since I left them .

It hadn’t been an easy place to get away from, by any means. While Winston drove me on the hair-raising ATV drive, he’d grilled me over every detail of my stay with ‘those nice young lads,’ and definitely didn’t pick up on how upset I was. Then I spent over an hour at his own cabin while he tried to feed me elk sandwiches and other such delicacies.

His buddy, who took me on the next leg of the trip, was an even worse ATV driver than he was. Plus, the route was bumpier and even dangerous at times. But then finally, we arrived at the clearing a few minutes before the helicopter landed. That was when I knew I truly was getting out of there.

Somehow, probably due to some collaboration between my agent and Ronnie, Kylie had met me at the airport. Then she held me while I cried.

I still did that a lot.

I sat down on the bed and dialed room service. I ordered a salad and a roll, even though that wasn’t what I really wanted. “And could I also please have a large vodka soda?”

“I’m sorry, Miss, we don’t deliver alcohol to the rooms on Saturday night. We’ve had too many issues with parties and gatherings getting out of hand.”

“It’s just me up here.”

“Sorry, that’s our policy, but you’re welcome to come down to the bar and enjoy something to drink.”

Yeah, like that was going to happen. The public always descended on hotels when they knew celebrities were around. Aiden got hounded by fans and paparazzi more than me, but there’s no way I could walk through the lobby downstairs without being bothered.

Not wanting to be rude, I ended the conversation quickly before it occurred to me to cancel the salad. Maybe I should’ve ordered it with red wine vinaigrette dressing, though I wasn't sure it contained any actual wine.

I paced around the room. There was no minibar—probably for the same reason. Probably I could’ve called the concierge and told him I was part of the press tour in order to get some booze, but I really didn’t want to play that card. Both because I didn’t want to be on this tour in the first place, and because the studio obviously didn’t want me here, either.

In the beginning, they’d had me attend a few publicity events. Then Aiden and I had been guests on a late-night talk show in NYC. The show had been given a list of questions to ask us about the movie. They’d also been under strict orders not to mention the sex tape.

They’d done it anyway. Aiden had valiantly jumped in and tried to change the subject, but in the end, I’d had to use all my training as an actress to breezily say that the tape was no big deal and that it didn’t bother me because it wasn’t me in it, anyway. Then the host had the nerve to point out that the studio hadn’t confirmed that. His gist was that since the studio hadn’t said it, clearly I was lying. That meant I could count his audience as yet another group of people who thought it was really me in that tape.

Afterwards, Aiden had tried to cheer me up on the ride back to the hotel, and when that failed, he got Ronnie to call me right after I got back to my room.

Ever since then, the studio had canceled most of my appearances, though they wouldn’t let me leave the tour and go home. That was probably for the best, though. At home, I’d just sit around being miserable. On tour, I got to sit around being miserable with different views out the window.

The days had gone by in a blur, at least until we got to Miami. Tomorrow was the brunch for the movie executives and showbiz locals. Since it wasn’t a public appearance, the studio hadn’t taken me off the list of invitees, although I almost had myself a few times.

How could I face Miranda Morales Sanchez now that the only thing I was known for was a sex tape? She was an esteemed director. I was a national joke, and worse, someone people viewed as a slut. Kind of ironic that I’d actually still been a virgin when those awful people were using deepfake technology to make it look like I was part of a gang bang. Or maybe it had happened the same day I lost my virginity to the guys? If so, the universe had a really sick sense of humor.

I wasn’t sure I was brave enough to be in the same room as Miranda, let alone show her my screenplay. The ironic thing was that my script was in better shape than ever. Since I’d had so little to do on this tour, I’d spent a lot of time working on it.

Writing while completely demoralized probably wasn’t the best idea, but hey, I wasn’t trying to write a happy-ever-after romance like Ronnie’s author friend. Besides, when I really got focused on the script, that was the only time that I could forget all the bad things that were happening.

Like the fact that I might never see Tristan, Carter, and Drew again.

I’d been so incredibly hurt when I caught them watching the sex tape. To me, that pain was on par with finding out about the leak in the first place. The sex tape’s spread was devastating, and then the men I’d grown to trust had decided to witness my humiliation for themselves.

Carter had said that they did it to try to help me. Maybe that was their intent, but I couldn’t get past the fact that all three of them had watched it. Even Drew. It brought back a lifetime of trust issues, but it was also proof that I’d been right. There were very few people in the world you could—or should—truly rely on. But then I’d met the three of them and lowered my guard.

The really stupid thing is that even though I still felt horribly betrayed, I missed them every single day. Every hour, even. I hated what they’d done, but I still missed them. The pain from that was almost as bad as my anguish over the sex tape.

I paced the room, trying to decide about the brunch tomorrow. One option was to go but not approach Miranda. I doubted she’d lose sleep over not getting the chance to meet a nationally known sex fiend. But what if she heard I was there and assumed that I was too much of a coward to talk with her?

Which may or may not be the case—I hadn’t decided yet.

My agent suggested just emailing her my screenplay, but again, it smacked of cowardice. Miranda was one of the bravest directors I knew. She’d carved out a place for herself in this industry when many people didn’t want her to. Why would she even consider working with someone who slunk away with her tail between her legs?

I almost decided to soak in the large bathtub while I tried to figure out what to do, but then I remembered that room service was coming.

Instead, I sat at the desk, my laptop unopened in front of me. Since my last computer had been crushed back at my cabin, I’d ordered a new one as soon as I got home. When it was delivered, it had taken me a day or two to realize why it looked so familiar. Turned out I’d unconsciously bought the same kind that Tristan had.

Tristan.

He’d been the one who was most supportive of my writing. Drew was supportive of me as a person, but he hadn’t been as curious about my screenplay as Tristan was. Tristan and I had spent many hours talking things through and bouncing ideas off each other. He was the first person I’d ever told what my screenplay was about. Not just the first person at the cabin, but the first person ever. At that point, I hadn’t even told Ronnie, Alyssa, or Kylie anything beyond vague details.

He'd believed in my writing even when I hadn’t myself.

Though he’d hurt me, that didn’t change the fact that he’d believed in me.

So maybe I would go to the brunch tomorrow and seek out Miranda. After all, it just consisted of movie insiders, not the general public who’d been so horrible about the leaked sex scene.

It was decided then. I’d go to the brunch.

There was a knock on the door, and I padded over to answer it. A young man in a waitstaff uniform had a wheeled cart covered by a tablecloth. That seemed unnecessary for just a salad, but it was a fancy hotel. He wanted to bring the cart in, but I didn’t step out of the way for him to do that. There was no good reason to let a stranger into my room, especially since I could just carry the salad in myself.

When I explained that to him, he gave me a deep nod that was almost a bow. But when he straightened up, I caught a flash of something in his eyes that I couldn’t quite identify. It bothered me, but in the next second, his expression was neutral and professional.

I opened the leather folder he presented me and signed the bill, giving him a generous tip.

“Thank you, miss.” He smiled. “You’re Sierra Sloane, right?”

“Yes,” I said, since he obviously already knew I was. Though my room was booked under the studio’s name—that was standard practice for all the actors—he could’ve easily gotten that information from hotel gossip.

He gave me a big smile. “Could I get your autograph?”

“Sure.” His enthusiasm touched me, and I was sorry I’d misread his expression earlier.

He lifted the cloth and reached for something on the lower shelf of the cart. When he straightened up, I saw the white glossy backing of a photograph. It was about the size of a piece of typing paper, and I wondered if he’d gotten hold of a publicity photo of me from somewhere. He also had a pen and held both out to me.

Smiling, I took them and was in the process of moving the pen to the photo when I registered what it was.

It was a photo of a naked woman on all fours. One man was shoving his cock down her throat, and another was riding her doggie style from behind. Though the woman’s face was distorted by how widely she had her lips spread, she looked like me. If I hadn’t known better, I’d say she was me.

Horrified, I shoved the paper and pen onto the cart and backed away. Before I could get the door closed, I caught sight of the waiter. The look on his face was triumphant. He knew he’d shocked me. He knew he’d upset me. He knew that he’d taken something away from me.

A jumble of emotions and fears crowded my head, and it took me a moment to identify the worst part of it all. That man had seemed proud of himself—as if in his mind, I was a slut and therefore, I deserved it.

I slammed the door and engaged the locks with numb fingers. Moving as if in a daze, I staggered back into the room, aiming for the bed, but I didn’t make it that far. Instead, I collapsed just short of it and hugged my knees to my chest. It didn’t stop my shaking. That didn’t stop for a long time.

A little after midnight, I sent a quick email to my agent asking her to contact Miranda and send her my apologies that I was unable to attend the brunch.