Chapter 21
REVERIE
Dreadful Sharpe’s scandalous sex tape makes waves across the internet only days after posting salacious picture with new girlfriend.
I skim over the article, my heart sinking as I read.
It talks about how the public is speculating if the sex tape is of Dread, along with my identity—if I’m Charlotte D’Amour or someone who only resembles me.
They’re also questioning if I’m the one in the video, or if he’s been caught cheating just days after announcing his relationship.
It also laments over how Dread’s made no appearances with a girl or acknowledged any romantic relationships prior to his post, to the point people were questioning his sexuality.
If it’s confirmed to be him, there’s no longer a question mark where Dreadful’s sexual preferences are concerned.
I bristle, immediately irked by the underlying tones of homophobia.
“Like it’s anyone’s fucking business,” I snap aloud, giving the article a nasty look.
And why does it matter so much, anyway? Whether he's gay, straight, pan, or even ace, his sexuality has no bearing on his athleticism.
Grumbling more insults at the journalist beneath my breath, I skim over the rest of the article.
It touches on Dread’s statement, denying the video is of him and his girlfriend, how it’s set off a wave of people flooding social media with videos of them listening to the part where I moan his name on repeat, trying to discern what I'm saying.
People have even gone as far as uploading it to audio programs to isolate and slow my voice.
Apparently, there’s a divide between people who think I said ‘Kellan’ and those who think I said ‘Kevin.’
As far as the anonymous poster who shared the video on Reddit, they still haven’t come forward with any further insight. So, tragically, the world may be left forever wondering if our elusive Olympic star’s skill set goes beyond destroying records to destroying doors.
Another filthy look twists my face.
Tragically?
Her life must be pretty fucking tragically boring if the worst she’s suffered is never knowing if a complete stranger is dicking someone down in a leaked sex tape. The bitch is lucky I don’t find a witch to hex her ass and make her life actually tragic.
Scoffing, I throw my phone on the fluffy white comforter and drop my head to my hands, my elbows seated on my crisscrossed knees.
It’s a good thing I’ve squirreled away all my money the past four years, because I’ve dropped over a grand the past six days just hiding away in a hotel thirty minutes away from HCU.
It’s been a week since Dread fucked me against the door and the girls across the hall recorded and posted it. I stayed with Dread that night, but I wouldn’t talk to him. I didn’t even know what the fuck to say, anyway.
How dare you fuck me against the door where people could stand outside and record it?
Admittedly, I don’t think either of us were thinking about those repercussions at the time, and Dread has come under fire far more than I have.
Especially because there are still many people questioning who I am.
The picture he posted allows for some obscurity, with my bangs over my eyes and my head tucked down.
The public hasn’t seen a picture of me since my senior yearbook photo, when I was going through a phase of dyeing my hair brown, straightening it to a crisp, and keeping it all one layer.
I didn’t have my nose piercings yet, either.
It also doesn't hurt that most people think we still loathe one another and wouldn't touch each other even if we were the last two people on Earth. That's how it should be, but the dickhead can't keep his hands to himself, apparently, and I’m just a fucking masochist.
Nevertheless, plenty of people from HCU confirmed it was me, but since there aren’t any recent pictures to verify, there’s still a lot of skepticism.
The last time I went to class was the day I found out about it, and I haven’t been back since.
But I can’t hide forever, and all it’ll take is showing my face on campus one more time for someone to snap a photo and clear up the confusion.
It’s inevitable.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t delay it as long as possible, which is why I ran like fucking hell to this hotel when he left for swim practice the following morning.
Only Sable knows exactly where I am, and because she’s the best friend in the world, I gave her Dread’s number so she could take on the daunting task of dealing with him.
She’s assured him plenty I’m somewhere safe, but for the first several days, it didn’t stop him from texting me every other hour.
So, I blocked him.
On everything.
His phone number, email, all across social media.
My heart was in my asshole with each click of the button, and it hasn't come back up since.
There are never not repercussions where Dreadful Sharpe is concerned.
Two hours and seven minutes. That’s how long it took for me to receive an email. And then, countless more.
From youaresophucked@:
I hope you don’t mind me stealing your thunder for when you get your first tattoo, considering you’re going to have my handprint permanently branded into your ass.
From youaresophucked@:
Enjoy your freedom while you have it, darling.
From youaresophucked@:
Because blocking me? Then making me spend fucking Valentine’s Day without my girlfriend? Now you’ve gone too far. I’m not above surgically implanting a fucking tracking device inside you, Reverie.
And it sure as fuck isn’t the only thing I will shove very fucking deep inside you.
From youaresophucked@:
I assure you, you’re going to need fucking surgery to get me out of you too.
My heart might’ve fluttered at that last email, which is why I refused to respond.
Fuck him and his sexual advances.
What the fuck happened to hating each other? He comes inside me twice, and suddenly, he’s incapable of coming anywhere else?
He thinks we’re, what? Fuck buddies who now spend Valentine’s Day together and get each other cute teddy bears and chocolate-covered strawberries?
Absolutely not.
I still hate him.
And I hate Valentine’s Day.
After everything he’s put me through, everything he’s done to me, that’s not something a handful of orgasms will make go poof.
My phone buzzes with a text, and I almost ignore it until I glimpse Sable’s name.
Followed by ten more texts from her.
Frowning, I snatch it up and open the message thread, only for my heart to officially drop out of my ass.
Sable: Reverie.
Sable: Es una emergencia.
Sable: Your boy had enough and came to work and cornered me.
Sable: All these years, and that was the first time I saw him in person. Why the fuck didn’t you tell me the motherfucker was a redwood tree?
Sable: I mean, honestly, Rev, my fucking neck hurts from looking up at him, and I’m taller than you. You probably need a chiropractor.
Sable: But I can totally see why you fucked him now…
Sable: Objectively, of course.
Sable: His pictures online don’t do him justice.
Sable: Sus ojos? Panty-melting. His body should be immortalized. I’d push him in front of Medusa in a heartbeat.
Sable: Imagine if his dick was hard when he turned to stone? You STILL weren’t walking right when I saw you a few days ago.
Sable: That would be the most abused and most consecrated statue in modern history.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Me: Sable! Get to the point, maybe???
Sable: Lo siento.
Sable: For the well-being of your sanity and your pussy, you might want to reconsider letting his stone phallus poke your cervix tonight.
Oh my God.
Me: What the fuck do you mean by that? What happened??
Sable: He’s on his way My phone was on the table, and the fucker stole it, and he’s so fucking TALL, I couldn’t get it back.
Sable: And he’s quick! I put my arm up to reach for it, and he snatched my wrist, used my thumb to unlock it, and found our messages.
Mother.
Fucker.
Sable: He did it so quick too??? Like I blinked, and he was scrolling through my goddamn phone. No wonder you keep fucking him. I can clearly see your willpower never stood a chance with how quickly those hands do their job.
Sable: Don’t worry, I still ripped him a new asshole, because frankly, I’m offended by how smooth it was.
Me: Oh my fucking God, focus, Sable! How long ago???
Sable: So here’s the thing.
Sable:
Sable: No me odies.
Sable: He deleted your contact from my phone, and I never thought I’d need to memorize that shit.
Sable: We’re really going downhill as a society.
Me: Sable!!
Sable: Like forty-five minutes ago I’m so sorry, I love you, don’t be mad.
Sable: I had to find mi papá and get your number from his phone, and he was dealing with una familia, and then I got pulled into that shit…
Sable: Te quiero. I’m sorry. Avanza y corre.
Hurry up and run?
Did she really just tell me to fucking run when I’m lucky he isn’t already in the parking lot?
Oh my God.
Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod.
I scramble up from the bed and look down at myself. I’m wearing a T-shirt three sizes too big with a pizza sauce stain on it from, like, five years ago, no pants, no bra.
I was planning to do laundry at Sable’s tomorrow morning, as I’m on my last clean pair of underwear.
Fuck it. Better dirty sweatpants than let the heathen come near me without them on at all.
I’m sliding them on just as I hear a few low raps against the door.
Jesus, why did that sound so ominous?
My heart is pounding against my rib cage hard enough to bruise, and tendrils of panic unfurl in my stomach, coiling around my organs, squeezing them tight until my lungs aren’t alone in being deprived of oxygen.
I put my hands on my hips and stare at the door.
I don’t have to answer it.
My phone dings with an email notification.
From youaresophucked@:
Guy at the reception desk is a huge fan. Don’t make me take advantage of that.
Fucker.