Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

There’s a saying that when you’re dead, you don’t know that you’re dead.

It’s the same way when you’re acting stupid.

Right now, I feel both dead and stupid.

Dead, because the idea that my relationship with Ty may be a major mistake makes me feel cold all over. Stupid because my gut tells me that I’m in for a terrible surprise, and my gut is never wrong.

Izzy is babbling to distract me so I don’t overthink. My sister, despite disguising her own problems with superficiality, is actually one of the most compassionate human beings I’ve ever met. She doesn’t want me to think about Ty when I’m sad. She’ll never kick me when I’m down.

“I was like, I can’t believe I’m eating carbs after six! But Blaire, you had to see the catering in that place…”

I watch her talking with her dramatic hand gestures. She has tons of rings and bracelets on both hands and she mimics other voices as she tells a story about Singapore.

I mumble responses at her on auto-pilot as we slide into the huge parking lot of The Heat. The lot is at the side of the peeling yellow-stucco building and is packed with cars. Why, I don’t know. The gym is as depressing as being cornered by your oversharing aunt at an open-bar wedding. Decaying walls, half-torn fences and garbage baking in open dumpsters.

Nothing good is going to come out of a place like this.

Izzy has stopped talking, and she now has my hand in hers. I didn’t even feel her taking it, but I’m grateful for the human touch. If it’s true and Ty really is a male prostitute, whatever reason he may have (I know he isn’t driven by money, but he is one hundred percent addicted to his job), I will need a lot more than a hand to get me through this.

I dread the idea of walking into what fate has in store for me, but I’m also eager to step out of the dark.

I squeeze Izzy’s hand with a grateful nod and slide out of the car, weaving through the parking lot to find the nearest entrance. I decide to try the back, hoping to sneak in, unnoticed until I gather my nerve. I suddenly feel like I’m spying on Ty, which, of course, is totally untrue, because spying is mysterious and sexy, and I’m sweating my pants off here. I’m guessing throwing up my guts earlier today didn’t actually send me on a brisk walk down Hotsville either.

As I get ready to turn the corner to the rear of the gym, I look over my shoulder and see Izzy sitting in the idling car, AC on full blast no doubt, as she messes with her phone. She’s my getaway ride if things go south. I’m completely shaken by the prospect things will go south.

I hurry toward the entrance, constantly glancing sideways to see if Ty is among the fighters practicing in the venue. Then I spot his Jeep. His unmistakable ride. Even though I knew he was here, my heart beats wildly in my chest. My eyes are trained on his vehicle when I take more and more steps toward the door. Then I hear someone pushing the door open and a dark, muscular man steps out, laughing and sucking on a protein shaker.

Jesse.

I crouch down immediately, surprised by my own instincts, and crawl underneath Ty’s Hummer. Thankfully, it is huge. Wait, thankfully? Why am I even hiding? Ty is the one who has some explaining to do, yet I’m the one tucked underneath his car.

Shane is right, I’m way different whenever Ty is around.

“Shit, man, Doherty’s going down!” I hear Jesse’s hearty laugh. Then I hear Ty’s throaty chuckle. He is out here, too. They both sound so close to me, too close to me.

I try to breathe as silently as I can. Shhhhh, Blaire. Oxygen is overrated.

“Let’s see these bad boys in action.” Jesse is jumping up and down beside the Hummer, like he is warming up.

I shrink lower and peer under the car, praying they’d walk away.

“Guy’s as good as dead,” Ty says, laughing.

God, I’ve missed his laugh.

They seem in good spirit, and I find myself easing a little. He didn’t answer my calls because he was practicing. There are no girls here. No funny business. Just work.

“I saw him with his trainer earlier,” Jesse says. “He looks jittery, unfocused. You’ve got this, bro.”

My heart is beating like a motherfucker. It’s not like I can’t just stand up now and yell surprise!

Damn. I can’t get caught. Eavesdropping is a complete breach of faith, and although slashing my best friend’s tires and keying his Mustang doesn’t precisely scream boyfriend material, I know Ty has more style than to hide and listen to my conversations. I have no way to explain this situation. And I already demonstrated a healthy dose of nuttiness in front of Ty without adding stalker to my list of personality faults.

I hear a car squeal into the parking lot. It’s obviously being driven by someone with a ballistic missile shoved up their ass. A stray cat shoots in my direction before the car—Mercedes actually, I now see—screeches to a stop in front of the Hummer.

“What the fuck, man,” I hear Ty say. “He almost flattened that cat.”’

If the driver was driving like a human being, and not like a NASCAR driver on steroids, Ty might have spotted me, but the distraction gives me time to dart from the Hummer to behind the truck in the next parking space.

I crouch down behind the huge tires of the jacked-up Ram truck. For once, reckless driving is not a liability.

NASCAR Wannabe’s car door slams. I peer under the Hummer and see a pair of shiny snakeskin boots. “Gentlemen! Good to see you, Ty. I wanted to talk to you.”

By the guy’s voice, I’m guessing he’s at least in his forties. He’s got a slight Southern drawl. I peek between the truck and the Hummer and see him hitching up his pants, walking toward Ty, his legs spread, like his balls are made of titanium.

I don’t recognize him, yet I find myself disliking him immediately.

"Cut to the chase, Ray. I’m busy." Ty steps into his face.

"A little birdie told me you’re a little hard up for cash with all the money you’ve spent getting yourself ready to fight. I figured you might appreciate a side gig, maybe a little encore for old time’s sake. Dina’s in town, you know."

Ty, who usually reeks of blasé, Ty, who would probably roll his eyes in boredom at the announcement of the zombie apocalypse is letting out an exasperated growl.

Ray shuffles back to Jesse and flicks something. I smell the stink of a cigar.

"Seriously, Ray?” Ty barks, tone annoyed. “I told you I was done. It’s been months. Stop bringing this shit up now,"

“Jesse, how about you give us a minute,” Ray says. “Run along now. Shoo.”

I’m expecting to hear Jesse’s fist hitting bone. I’m stunned when I realize he’s just walked away.

"So Ty, what’d you say?” Ray says. “One last gig, plenty of cash. Dina’s always been your biggest fan."

My blood freezes in my veins. Please, don’t tell me it’s true.

"Ray, man, you’re just not getting it, are you?” Ty sounds frustrated. “I’m done. I was done six months ago. I won’t get back into this, ever. For any money, anytime, anywhere. I hated every second of it. I did it because I had to. I had to because I was getting shit fights and couldn’t afford the freaking gym membership when I first started."

Oh, damn. This went on for a while, then. Ty started fighting for XWL four years ago.

"Last fight was the last time, and that’s final,” Ty spits. “Tell Dina I’m sorry...you know what? Don’t. Don’t apologize. Paying for sex is sick, whether it’s a man or a woman."

I want to hug him so bad right now. I press my palms against the hot asphalt to resist the urge. Ty’s doing the right thing, and there isn’t a trace of doubt in his voice.

And yet, I know that he’s ruined for me. Shane was right. He is not a bad boy...he is just bad. For me.

“I pulled a lot of favors to make you happen,” Ray says. “You can’t just brush me off with a no thank you."

"Watch me." Ty’s takes a few steps toward the gym.

“Don’t walk away from me.” Ray slams a fist on the hood of the Hummer. "Goddammit, what makes you think you’re better than you were six months ago? You’re not. Same guy, same thing. You’ve slept with hundreds of women but you can’t even do this one favor for me?"

"I was young and fucking stupid. I’m older now and would like to think of myself as slightly less of an idiot. I’m done. Sorry, Ray, I’m forever out."

And that’s it. Ty’s feet disappear, and a minute later I hear the back door of the gym slam. I shut my eyes, waiting until Ray’s engine roars. Once he finally drives away, I stand and fish my phone out of my pocket.

Should I call him?

Should I confront him?

Should I spare myself the drama and just slink away to wallow in my pain? Because there’s seriously no way I’ll ever get over this in this lifetime.

I smash my phone against his Hummer and watch as the hardware flies to all directions. Much like my soul, there’s nothing left of the phone.

Now he can’t contact me either.

Shit, I realize that his favorite song—the freaking ringtone I put him under on my phone—was a song called “My Soul is Empty and Full of White Girls.” The writing wasn’t only on the wall, it was on a giant billboard in Times Square.

God, this hurts.

Izzy doesn’t ask me how it went. She takes one look at me and gets the full picture. My face tripled its size in a matter of minutes. I’m not just crying, I’m shooting fluids from every hole in my face. My eyes are streaming tears, my nose is leaking gooey snot, and my mouth is dripping drool. This is the ugliest of the ugly-crying faces known to mankind.

“What a prick,” Izzy declares, not even knowing what he’s done. She reaches for her bag in the backseat and hands me some tissue.

I blow my nose loudly and pat my damp eyes with the same wet tissue. "Take me back to the hotel, please.”

My sister is driving as fast as Ray, weaving through traffic with no thoughts of caution. She is not asking any questions, though, which I’m grateful for. When we pass a giant accident, with two very smashed cars and three ambulances lining on the shoulder of the road, she shoves more tissues at me and says, “And you thought you were having a bad day, huh?”

As weird as it sounds, she is right. I’ve just found out my boyfriend was a man-whore for a few years and that he has only recently stopped after screwing hundreds of girls. Brain reminds me I’m still alive. Still in one piece. It’s Heart that’s in pain.

We get back to the hotel and Izzy throws the rental car keys to the valet. I unfasten my seatbelt as she opens the door for me and offers her hand.

“Come on, sissy. Let’s get minibar-drunk and hate on Ty in detail.”

I let her swoop me out of the car, nuzzling into her hair so no one will see just how messed up my face is. I hear Izzy’s cell pinging with a text, followed by another one.

Then another. Now it rings—and we’re not even halfway to the foyer. Izzy stops to inspect the number flashing on her screen with a frown.

“Should I answer?”

“Don’t answer any unknown numbers until we leave Vegas,” I plead quietly.

“Bitch, I’m a supermodel. I don’t do unknown numbers, in or outside of Vegas.”

I force my lips into a smile and let my twin usher me to the elevators.

“Nana Marty, brace yourself. The Stern sisters are coming to your wedding.” She presses her lips into my ear, her arm hooked around my shoulders. “And we’re going to be oh so drunk.”

***

Dearly beloved, we’re gathered here today to pay our final tribute of respect to my deceased Heart. Heart started off as a casual dude not ready for commitment. It was often bullied by Hormones and pushed aside by Brain. But once Ty took over it, I knew we were both fucked.

A flashback of Ty standing in the empty XWL classroom, telling me he’s not going to hit me, but still going to hurt me, gives me goose bumps.

I drain another plastic cup of whatever-the-heck alcohol Izzy has placed in my hand. Nana Marty is getting married tomorrow evening, and I’m getting shitfaced in my hotel room, crying uncontrollably like I just found out my family died in a grotesque plane crash.

Izzy tries to lift my spirits by playing wedding dress-up. She puts me into a vintage Valentino peacock-green dress, with a sweetheart neckline top and matching, emerald heels, and arranges my hair in a French twist. I should feel like Beyonce, but instead, I feel like St. Paddy’s Day.

“How many messages and missed calls?” I sniff afterward, lying on the king-size bed in my Valentino and clutching my empty Solo cup, teary-eyed. Ty is wondering what the hell is up, and he’s been calling Izzy pretty much nonstop since he realized my phone is dead. Though seeing as I smashed it against his precious car, I’m guessing he already knows I’m here, and that I am clearly ten shades of pissed off with him.

“Eight messages, four missed calls.” She glances at her phone, sitting in front of the vanity table and straightening her perfect hair. “Do you want me to answer it next time and tell him to piss off?”

“No. Let him squirm.”

I hear a firm rap on the door and cover my face with my forearms. Izzy shoves her chair as she gets up to answer.

“Who is it?” Izzy sing-songs.

“It’s Tyler. Get Blaire.”

I put the pillow over my head and hear Izzy’s heels clicking in my direction. He found out. How did he find out where I stay?

“No,” I say flatly underneath the pillow.

“He sounds crazy worried,” Izzy says carefully.

“Well, I’d be even crazier if I decide to listen to his excuses. No, Izz.”

The banging on the door becomes louder and firmer, and it’s distracting me from wallowing in self-pity.

“Blaire, open the fuck up. Let me in.” The urgency in his voice makes the hair on my skin stand up. I’ve never heard him so…panicked?

“He sounds desperate. I should open the door.” Izzy chews on the corner of her lip, going back and forth. She is wearing a canary yellow Vera Wang.

“Don’t open the door. He won’t strangle you. I will,” I warn.

“Fuck, Blaire, fuck!” He punches the door hard.

I hear a door open down the hallway. I hope it’s not my parents. Maybe it’s not them. Maybe it’s someone else. Just because someone is yelling their daughter’s name, doesn’t mean it’s them. Have faith, Blaire.

“Excuse me?” I hear my mother asking Ty, and by the low, throaty coughs, my father is by her side.

Screw you life, we’re done.

Izzy yanks me by the elbow and we both shoot to the door, she is placing her ear against the cool wood to hear how this one plays out. I wince, hoping he isn’t going to make more of a jackass of himself.

“Mr. and Mrs. Stern, right?” Ty’s tone goes down a notch. “Not the kind of introduction I wanted to have with Blaire’s parents. I’m her boyfriend, Ty.” He presents himself assertively. “What I’m about to do here is going to get you worked up, so let me start by promising I’ll try and change your mind about me after this crisis is over. Obviously, I’ll pay for the damage too.”

I can feel his presence on the other side of the door. The heat. The passion. But also the man who fucked me over and kept me in the dark about him humping HUNDREDS OF WOMEN FOR CASH AND CAREER OPPORTUNITIES.

“Blaire, Izzy, open up in five seconds or I’m breaking this shit down. Five.”

Izzy’s eyes bug out at me, and I shake my head no.

“Four.”

Izzy takes a step back, and I roll my eyes at her. As if…right?

“Three.”

Izzy grips me by the midriff and tugs me away from the door.

“Two.”

Her eyes are pleading for me to give him a chance to explain himself. That I should at least open the door. I can’t. The guy did enough damage already. Why are we even having this eye conversation?

“One.”

Silence. I huff and shoot her an “I told you he won’t do anything” sneer, when the sound of shattering wood fills the air. I gape as I see Ty’s foot in the air. His kick has sent the door flying open and cracked its frame.

Holy Moly Guacamole.

Ty storms into the room and picks me up like a caveman, draping me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He pivots back to the door and marches out wordlessly. I notice my parents standing in the hallway, downright stunned. Shouldn’t Dad be fighting him off? Well, he doesn’t.

Izzy follows us while Mom follows Izzy. Then Dad snaps out of his stupor, rushing furiously after all of us. We’re a chain of crazy people running down the hallway of a Vegas hotel, and we stumble upon half-eaten room service trays and the bewildered stares of other guests.

“Is he really her boyfriend?” I hear Mom panting to Izzy as they try to catch up with Ty’s long stride.

“Yes. But she’s not talking to him!”

I can barely see any of them from my angle, as most of the view I get is of Ty’s tight ass and shoulder tattoos. He is not wearing much. Black sports shorts and a sleeveless top. Is it wrong that I love the scent of his sweat, especially now, after everything that happened? I know it is, no need to answer that.

“Should I call the police?” Mom asks.

“No, he’s not going to do anything to her. If anything, she’s the one who is in bitch-slap mode,” Izzy says. “Where are you taking her, Ty? She’s wearing a vintage Valentino. Can’t you kidnap her in one of her signature Target sweatpants or something?”

“Thanks, Izzy.” I send her two thumbs up, because lifting my head after all the alcohol is a bad idea.

“Sorry, sissy.”

Ty stops at the end of the hallway, puts me down in front of the elevator and presses the button.

He palms my cheeks, storm in his black eyes.

“Take me to Shane’s room before I kick open every door in this place,” he demands. I’ve never seen Ty so agitated.

Is that what this douchebag cares about? Retaliation?

I put on an indifferent mask. "How did you figure out I was in Vegas?"

He reaches for his pocket, taking out my iPhone cover—a hipster cat with a trendy hat and Harry Potter glasses. Pointing the cover at me, he arches one brow. Yeah, I kind of gave myself away the minute I threw my phone in the parking lot of The Heat.

"Shane didn’t tell me anything about you," I say. It’s a lie, but I’m done playing fair. He fed me enough lies to last for a decade. “I heard you talking with that Ray guy.”

Ty throws his head back, looking both pained and frustrated. "Stop covering for him, Barbie,"

I squint my eyes in annoyance, turning back toward the hallway and marching my way back to my room. He grabs my wrist, pulling me into his chest.

“Please get mad at me, Blaire. Kick me, punch me, curse at me, break shit. Throw me in the fucking doghouse and let me pay for what I’ve done. But please don’t walk out on me. I can’t change my past, but we can change my future.” He closes his eyes, sighing in despair.

My family is still watching us like it’s a Broadway show.

My ego is wounded. My heart is smashed. This has got to be the worst thing I’ll ever have to do. I shrug and purse me lips. “Sorry, Ty. Shane was right. You and I are just too different to be together.”

Ty’s facial expression shifts back to frustration as the elevator arrives and two seniors smile in our direction from inside.

“Going down?” the woman asks.

“Yep.” Ty pulls me inside with him.

The silver-haired couple exchanges knowing glares. They know who Ty is.

“Wilder! We bought tickets for your fi-—” the man starts.

Ty cuts him off, completely focused on me. “I’m done hearing about this guy filling your head with bullshit about me. He has an agenda, and I’m going to make him admit it. You’re going to see it now.”

“Don’t shoot the messenger, lover boy. We both know that what Ray said was true." I refuse to spell it out with a pair of avid fans listening. The old couple are staring from him to me, wide-eyed. "Anyway, good luck with your plan. I don’t even know what room Shane is staying in.”

Ty’s phone beeps with a text message. He frowns at it briefly. The elevator door pings open.

“Oh, but I do.”

Ty is racing down the hallway and I follow him, wishing I wasn’t in a vintage cocktail dress so I could run faster and that I didn’t kill my phone earlier today so I could warn Shane. Ty will crush him if he gets the chance.

I’m frantic and when I see a maid pushing her cart in our direction, I stop her and beg her to call security.

Tyler kicks another door open and walks straight into one of the rooms. I don’t know who told him Shane’s room number, but whoever it was had good intel. I see Shane sitting on the edge of the bed, fiddling with his phone.

“What the—” He stares at Ty in bewilderment, but regains composure fast. "You have a lot of nerve coming here, Wilder. You slashed my tires. You beat up my roommate. You hurt Blaire bad. No offense, but you’re kind of a mess, dude. People don’t pull shit like that."

Ty grabs Shane by the neck of his I Can Give a Headache to an Aspirin tee shirt, but he doesn’t hit him. I know he wants to prove a point to me, but he is struggling, still fighting his demons, his anger fits. And that’s what I’m afraid of. That he is still the kid who can be lured into a fight the minute things go south.

"You…" Ty shoves a finger into Shane’s chest. "Always wanted her for yourself. Just take the damn hint. She doesn’t want you. You lost. I won. She’s mine."

Shane jerks loose of his hold. "Dude, you only won momentarily. And as usual, that’s only because you cheated. She didn’t know what kind of guy you are, what kind of stuff you do. Blaire’s not yours. She’d never willingly get it on with a male prostitute."

Ty’s eyes flare, his jaw clenching, and he takes a step closer to Shane. I know I shouldn’t be standing here like an idiot, but things haven’t gotten physical yet, thank God, and maybe there’s a chance Ty will shed some light on his reasons for what he’s done.

"You. Know. Nothing." Ty utters every word like a separate sentence. "You told Blaire I use steroids. I never touched them. You took half-truths from your junkie roommate and pieced them into a web of lies." Ty’s low voice sounds like a constant threat.

Shane’s not intimidated. He thrusts out his chin. "You put my roommate in the hospital because he somehow ended up on your and Jesse’s shit list. And that’s the truth. The whole, messy, inconvenient truth."

"Your roommate is the one who screwed up. Josh is not a stable guy. He needs rehab."

"And you need a new set of morals." Shane kicks his suitcase in frustration. "You can make excuses for nearly killing the guy, but what’s your excuse for tapping hundreds of women to get fights and money? Let’s hear that one." Shane folds his arms and narrows his eyes. "I bet it’s good."

Ty’s own eyes are furious now, and I know he’s been pushed too far. I rush between them, resting one hand on each of their chests. Ty’s heartbeat says it all. He’s already in his own imaginary ring. I just hope it’s not too late to drag him out, kicking and screaming, before he hurts my best friend.

"Okay, party’s over. Ty, you have no business talking smack about Shane. He just wanted to warn me, as a friend. I could have heard the same stuff from anybody."

"Yeah, it just happened to be the guy who’s probably wanted in your pants from the moment he met you.

I roll my eyes. “We met in third grade.”

Ty looks momentarily stumped, but Shane isn’t helping.

"Get the hell out of my room, Wilder."

"Not before you admit to Blaire you don’t know shit about what I did or do, past or present."

Shane’s fists clench. "Get. The hell. Out. Of my room."

"Or...?" Ty taunts.

Shane zones in on Ty’s face, his blue eyes narrowing. He is not a violent guy, never has been. But he also never takes shit from anyone. He usually walks away when things get messy, but it’s hard to walk away when a guy like Ty is blocking your way.

They stare each other down. Then Shane throws a sudden punch straight at Ty’s face. Blood drips from his nose.

Ty smiles grimly, turning to me and offering me a wink. "Just for the record, baby, your right hook is so much meaner."

Shane throws a few wild punches, which Ty dodges easily. Shane is obviously pissed off, and maybe a little drunk. I spot some empty beer bottles next to the TV.

I can’t move. I can’t speak. I can barely breath.

When Shane launches himself at Ty, I know that Ty can’t let this go. His fight reflex is stronger than him. Ty strikes back hard. The nauseating sound of his fists connecting with Shane’s face and body jabs my ears.

“Stop it! Let go of him!” I sandwich myself between them, pushing Ty out of the room. “Get away from him.” My voice cracks.

For a moment there, it looks like Ty gets his shit together. He looks down at me, his eyes tired.

Shane takes the opportunity to jet out the door, but Ty thrusts me aside and launches at Shane again. Panic rushes through me as he chases Shane down the hotel corridor. I race to catch them. Ty grabs the back of Shane’s shirt and jerks him to a halt. I’m about to step between them and throw myself in the line of fire for Shane when I see Mom, Dad and Izzy spill from an elevator. A second later, Jesse and Dawson rush out of a second elevator. They’re all sweaty and flushed, and other than Jesse, they all pant like they’ve just completed a triathlon. I suspect they’ve been running around hunting for me and Ty.

The men are tearing Ty apart from Shane before things get even messier for the XWL star. There are a lot of sins you can commit in Vegas, but sending a guy to the hospital is probably not one of them, especially if you’re a professional athlete competing in a big televised fight. A quick look at Shane reveals a busted lip, bruised cheeks and what will soon be a black eye. I’m too pissed off to examine Ty’s face. Whatever injury Shane’s given him, he’ll survive.

Ty points his finger at Shane. “He twisted things to turn her against me.”

Shane takes a seat on the floor and holds his head in his hands, trying to regulate his breathing. Ty is still blocked by Jesse and Dawson.

“Whatever he did,” Jesse says, “you have to drop it now, bro. Get your shit together. You’ve got a fight tomorrow night. You can’t afford to get arrested or hurt." He studies Ty’s bloody nose and his arm, which sports a long, ugly scratch. His lips curl in disbelief. “Jesus, the guy scratched you?”

“No, that was my girlfriend.”

"Does Shane need an ambulance?" someone interrupts. Maybe my mom. I’m not really present in this situation, everything feels like a bad dream, and like most dreams it’s complete chaos. I wish someone would wake me up from this nightmare.

"I’m fine. No hospital," Shane says, but he groans into his hands.

Izzy hurries to his side. Her eyes are welling up, and she sits next to him, lifting his chin between her fingers. She examines the cuts and marks on his skin with furrowed brows, and my heart breaks in two to see just how much it kills her to see him hurt.

"You’ll be okay. You’re strong." Her voice is almost a whisper. "But we need some ice..."

"And a fucking whiskey to go with it," Shane snaps, and there are a few chuckles from my side of the family.

"Do I need to call my lawyer?" Dawson rubs Ty’s back in circles, like a dad. “Will this douche press charges?” He is not even remotely annoyed with his fighter.

That confirms my worst fears about Ty. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened. Ty is what he is. A violent, volatile guy who’ll do anything to get what he wants, even if other people get screwed in the process.

"I’m not pressing charges," Shane blurts from the floor. Izzy is now running her fingers through his tousled blond hair.

"Are you sure that’s wise?" my mom asks. “He’s clearly dangerous.”

It’s like being punched in the face. I feel the tears and the pressure in my nose, like I’m going under water. I hate Tyler for what he did, but I also love him enough to know I’ll never get over the fact that my parents will under no circumstances ever accept him after this.

"I can handle Wilder,” Shane says. “I just want him out of my face."

"Fine by us. Let’s move it." Dawson is only too happy to step out of the situation. I still haven’t figured him out. Is he a sinner for putting up with Ty and Jesse’s antics, or a saint for tolerating both of these boys?

"Blaire?" Ty asks. I shake my head, unable to look at him. I just can’t. Not right now. Not after all he’s done, and everything I found out.

"Please just go," I whisper, fat tears chasing each other down my cheeks. I can hear him taking a deep breath.

“She’s right,” Dawson says. “We need to get you cleaned up for the press conference.” He pulls Ty toward the elevator, but Jesse lingers.

The other fighter leans close to my ear “Ty loves you. What do you need to prove it, a naked singing telegram? Don’t crush him a day before a big fight.”

My chest squeezes tight, but I don’t waver. “I hope he’s crushed. Serves him right for how he bagged this fight in the first place.”

***

I watch the XWL media day on TV from my room. I give myself a mental slap on the wrist for still being interested in Ty’s fight—no, scratch that, in Ty in general— and a mental punch in the face for actually watching the press conference. It appears I have zero self-control, despite the fact that this dude totally kicked my best friend’s butt. I don’t care if Shane was the one to throw the first punch.

On TV, Ty is onstage sitting on a pair of barstools with his opponent, Eoghan Doherty. Behind them there’s a wall of endorsements, and each fighter is circled by their own entourage. Ty holds the mic to his lips. He chews gum, wearing a black designer shirt, fitted cigar pants, high top sneakers and a black baseball cap.

He’s so incredibly sexy I want to lick him head to toe, but then I remember a lot of other girls actually did do just that, and paid good money for it too. The thought makes me want to hurl.

It’s killing me to see Ty still oozing charisma, while I’m falling apart, struggling to remember how to breathe.

Doherty looks extra douchey in a pair of sunglasses and a three-piece suit. There should be a special section in hell for people who wear sunglasses indoors. He smack talks Ty to oblivion and back. He pushes every single button, starting off by referring to Ty as an “inbred redneck.” I get that they need to sell this fight, and that trash talk is a part of the game, but Doherty seems to have sold his soul, willing to do anything nasty as long as it’s good for his career.

Oh, right. Ty did that too.

Ty gives his indifferent smirk, popping gum and blinking slowly in Doherty’s direction. Dawson is sitting next to his star, his arms folded. Occasionally he whispers something in Ty’s ear.

One of the reporters stands up with an anxious smile and directs a question at Ty, “I have a source that just texted me that you were in an altercation in a Vegas hotel earlier today. Something to do with your girlfriend. Care to elaborate?”

Ty bounces his leg and pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. I notice that Shane didn’t even leave a mark on his face.

“No comment.”

Doherty gives a mean laugh. “Don’t worry, Wilder, step into the ring with me tomorrow and your love life will be the least of your worries. I promise to smash your pretty-boy face.”

The audience taunts with “Ohhhhhhhs!”

The crowd is eating this up, and the truth is, Doherty brought his A game to this press conference. He is shredding quiet Ty to pieces publicly. Doherty’s a one-man show, and it’s evident his opponent isn’t up to it.

“Jesus, Blaire, can you change the channel?” Izzy bursts into the room. She’s been helping Mom and Nana Marty with some last-minute shopping for the wedding. I was excused, obviously, seeing as my life is a circus of fatal mistakes and misunderstandings. Everyone just got a front-row glimpse at the show earlier today.

“I think I’ve had enough of Tyler Wilder,” Izzy clarifies, as if there’s any doubt what her complaint is about the TV.

I turn off the set and arch one brow. "You do realize that Shane threw the first punch, right?" And the second, and third, and fourth...

"You do realize that Tyler is a professional XWL fighter, right?" she mocks. She plops down on our king-size bed with a sigh. Her shopping bags frame her supermodel body. "Isn’t there, like, a special oath they need to take, like doctors, so that they can’t hit random, non-XWL people?"

"I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer." I bury my face in the pillow next to her. Everything hurts. My head, my eyes, my body, the thoughts swirling in my head like a tornado.

I can’t believe he was a male prostitute.

I can’t believe he cheated his way to the top.

I can’t believe I slept with him.

I can’t believe I slept with him!

My bad luck can’t possibly up its game anymore, right?

Wrong.

Izzy clears her throat from her side of the bed, a clear sign that something awful is about to come out of her mouth. I lift my head from the pillow and, sure enough, she averts her gaze quickly and her cheeks flush. She is holding her cell phone in one hand. With her other hand, she reaches out to pat my head like I’m a three-year-old.

"What now?" I can’t take more bad news. It’s difficult enough coming to terms with the idea of not seeing Ty again, smelling his gorgeously manly scent, hearing his voice and laugh, or just watching one of his stupid guy-movies when he’s next to me.

Izzy lets out a sharp breath. "I hate to do this to you…"

"Do what? There’s more? Is this “let’s crack Blaire in two” day? I hope it’s not going to be an annual thing.”

She chews on her lower lip. "Well, I was surfing the news on my phone and stumbled across something. Just to give you a heads up—your name and face are plastered all over a gossip website next to Ty’s. And it’s your prom picture. The really bad one.”

Don’t freak out. Do. Not. Freak. Out. Just don’t freak out.

"I’m freaking out," I croak, sitting up on the bed.

Soon, my legs are criss-crossed, my computer in my lap. I don’t understand. A week ago all was great in the land of Blaire Stern. Grades were high. Boyfriend was hot. Vegas was tempting. Brain, Hormones and Heart played nice, and everyone knows three’s a crowd. What happened?

Izzy sits next to me, squeezing one of my shoulders, offering support yet pouting at the same time. She is so used to seeing her pictures on sites like this, I don’t think she gets how awkward I feel right now.

Thank God Ty is not exactly Bradley Cooper. The item on his new girlfriend (ex-girlfriend, but they don’t know that yet) is getting stale pretty quickly. I have to scroll down to see the story. There’s a glorious picture of him smiling in a suit, the sexy twinkle in his eyes visible for all to admire, and an awful picture of me from my high school prom. I ended up wearing the dress Izzy decided to ditch at the last minute, and since I’ve always been a little curvier than my twin, the shiny-gold sequined, stretch fabric hugs all the wrong places. I look like a Twix bar.

His Good Luck Charm? the headline asks. A handful of comments follow, with one asking Would you do Ty’s chick? and another answering I’m guessing that he would. And did.

Now I really, really need to throw up.

But there’s no time to drown in self-pity, because I’m dealing with a clogged e-mail account and a buzzing Facebook profile, dozens of people I know (along with total strangers) wondering how come they didn’t know Ty and I were a thing and sending me friend requests.

I don’t answer any of them, and I’m so, so relieved that I destroyed my phone.

"You think you caught something when you slept with him?" Izzy rolls on her stomach on the bed and takes one more look at my hideous picture. She’s really pissed that they outed me as her twin, seeing as I look like a nightmare in the prom dress.

"Huh?" I ask, and then her question registers. "Ick! I hope not." She’s right. I need to get tested.

The irony hits me hard in the gut. If this guy, who is all about clean-eating and exercise and talking me into quitting weed ended up giving me something, I swear I’m going to lose it.

"I’ll schedule an appointment when I get back home."

Izzy grabs my hand in hers and offers me a pity-smile. "I’ll come with."