You’ve Got Hate Mail (Accidentally Infamous #1)

Chapter 1

RUNAWAY PRIDE

Cricket Garland, aka the internet’s current most infamous viral sensation

It’s just a shower, I told myself.

I need to shower, I told myself.

I’m in a safe space. I’m alone.

My phone is in the other room and completely powered off.

I can be naked in a bathroom without anything bad happening.

Again.

These are all the things I told myself this morning when I decided it was time to get out of bed in my temporary living quarters and attempt to do one thing to show that I’m not forever broken after—well.

After something I regret more than—actually, I’ve never regretted anything quite like this.

And now, after procrastinating by making the bed, stashing all of my luggage in the closet, having coffee, washing and drying and putting away my cup, I’m standing in a bathtub, shampoo rubbed into my hair, staring at the showerhead.

The showerhead that was spraying my body just moments ago but is now instead dribbling water the way showerheads do when you shut the water off.

Except I didn’t shut the water off.

It stopped all on its own.

Went from a nice, if uneven, spray that old showerheads tend to have, to the dribble that’s now slowing down to nothing more than a few drops.

Do not cry, I order myself. You are strong, you are capable, you can deal with this.

I snort softly but my pulse ratchets up and my eyes start to burn as I turn the shower handle off, then back on again, over and over with the same results.

“You can handle this,” I tell myself confidently.

Okay, okay, it was a whimper, not a confident statement, but who wouldn’t be afraid of being naked after live-streaming a wardrobe malfunction that resulted in the entire universe seeing my vagina?

A week ago, I was employed, on track to renew my lease with my roommate next month, and hitting the dating apps.

Filming lifestyle segments for a small-time digital media company wasn’t exactly cutting-edge journalism, but it paid most of the bills and gave me on-camera experience.

My roommate and I weren’t besties, but we respected each other’s space more than half the time.

My parents were—and still are—perpetually disappointed in me, but I never had to ask them for help.

And I even had a real, mostly man-made orgasm thanks to the dating apps.

Even if it was a few months ago.

Today, I would prefer the world—and everyone in it—didn’t know I exist.

Own the moment, Cricket.

Take control of the moment.

I squeeze my eyes shut, then pretend I’m behind the camera, fully dressed, underwear and all, telling someone else what to do.

“Get a towel, wrap it around your head, grab the robe, and see if the toilet will flush.”

Yes.

Yes, I can do this. I can problem-solve.

Do it, Cricket.

Do it.

“Okay, okay,” I whisper back to myself. “Count of three.”

One…

Two…

Three…

I poke my hand out from behind the shower curtain and pat the wall until my fingers connect with the towel hanging on a hook.

And now I’m flashing back—dammit.

No.

No more flashing.

I’m remembering my brilliant idea of filming a segment about the general horrible placement of bathroom towel racks and hooks for my lifestyle series on Cheeky-Cheeky, the media company I work for.

Worked for.

“That’s over, Cricket. It’s over.”

Yeah, I don’t believe myself.

It will never be over.

Not in the digital era.

But I have to pick myself back up sometime, so I yank the towel into the tub with me and make quick work of wrapping my soapy hair inside of it before shampoo bubbles drip in my eyes.

It’s a good towel.

Nice and thick.

Comforting, even if it’s heavy enough that my neck is protesting. Three days of driving and sleeping in my car on my way from Chicago to Sonoma clearly took its toll on my body.

“Next step, the robe,” I murmur.

I reach out of the shower again, patting beyond the wall to the door, where a stupidly luxurious silk robe that I found in the closet here is waiting for me on the hook on the back of the door.

I reach.

Reach farther.

Just a little more…

I blow out a heavy breath. “This is stupid, Cricket,” I whisper to myself, barely audible over the sound of the fan. “You’re alone.”

Except for the women in the house a stone’s throw from this little cottage that they’re letting you stay in while you hide.

“You have to get comfortable with being naked again sometime.”

No, I don’t.

“Just get out of the tub and get the robe.”

My voice mimics my mother’s on that last sentence, and for reasons that I should probably discuss with a therapist, it works.

My mind’s made up.

I’m grabbing the robe.

And you know what?

If I’m doing it, I’m doing it.

I’m strong, I’m capable, and I can do this.

I already got my shampooed hair wrapped up without getting soap in my eyes, didn’t I?

Yes.

Yes, I did.

Just like the old Cricket of a week ago who never got soap in her eyes too.

I might’ve gotten into the shower fully dressed and tossed my clothes over the curtain rod when I started this shower, but now, I’m grabbing the edge of the shower curtain and yanking it open.

The bathroom blinds are closed, and the decorative curtain with its grapevine pattern is closed over it.

The bathroom door is closed.

There are no cameras in here.

No phones.

I’m alone.

I’m alone.

I’m alone and naked and fully exposed in a whole room, and I am fine.

I start to smile.

But as I’m reaching for the back of the door, it swings open.

Zombie ghost, my brain screams, except that’s not a zombie or a ghost walking into the bathroom.

That’s a tall, thick, bearded man.

A human being.

A real person.

He flips the switch on the fan as he’s turning toward me, our eyes meet, and then—well, I do what any woman would do in this situation.

I scream as I swing my fist into his face.

“Ow, dammit.” He gasps, bending double and flinging himself against the wall with the window opposite the bathtub. “Who—”

Whatever he finishes that sentence with, I can’t hear, because I’m screaming again.

He screams too.

It’s high-pitched and girly.

No.

Not him.

It’s—

Are you serious right now?

It’s a little girl.

“Out!” I shriek. “Get out!”

Curtain.

Shower curtain.

Hide.

Hide hide hide.

My damn fingers refuse to work as I reach for the one thing I have for protection between my naked body and this man and child.

But I fumble, miss, and I slip in the damn bathtub.

I’m back recording for Cheeky-Cheeky, having opted not to wear underwear beneath the towel while I talked to the camera about the flaw in bathroom designs of towel racks always being too far from the shower or tub.

No panty lines if there’s no underwear.

Plus, I was way overdue on laundry and didn’t have any clean pairs.

And my audience expects authenticity from me, so I ran the shower and got the glass door good and foggy before stepping into it and starting filming.

And my social media followers—all six hundred of them—love a livestream of behind-the-scenes.

And that’s how I ended up broadcasting myself live from my phone as I slipped on a puddle of water on the tile floor in my bare feet while making my entrance onto the studio camera, going ass over teakettle and losing my towel—just like I’m flailing here in the bathtub—flashing mostly my vagina to the livestream.

They’re calling me the Cheeky Beaver.

And now I’m recreating the entire thing while a massive mountain of a man and an innocent little girl are exposed to my naked body.

My head tilts under the pressure of the towel, taking me backward.

My legs fly up.

The base of my skull knocks against the edge of the tub.

My vagina flashes in full view to anyone and everything.

Again.

“Owwwwwww out!” I shriek.

I yank for the shower curtain again. There’s a creak, then a snap, and dust swirls down on me as the whole contraption pulls off the wall, screws and all, and hits the toilet with a metallic clang.

And then I groan as I feel a wrench in my back too.

So this is my life now.

I’ve fallen from what little grace the universe has always shown me, and I am now, officially, a disaster.