Tyed

  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."

  Chapter Fourteen

  Izzy is standing right next to me in the Elvis Funky Chapel. We’re both holding bouquets, but I’m not wearing the vintage Valentino I tried on before yesterday’s disaster. I guess I’ve been metaphorically and physically stripped of my right to wear anything couture.

  I’m back in the dark-red, mermaid-style dress I originally planned. I don’t mind. What I do mind is being the center of freaking attention at the wedding. News has broken that Ty Wilder is (was!) my boyfriend. I try to look on the bright side—at least no one knows about his male-prostitution phase. The public and most of the guests all think he's just a violent jerk.

  Shane, Izzy and I are the only people at this wedding who know the truth, and I'm planning to take this one to the grave with me. I may not have dated the most sought-after bachelors in the country before Ty barged into my life, but dating a former male prostitute is a new low, even for me.

  Okay, maybe I'll just tell Nana Marty. Nana won't judge. She won't tell my parents. Nana can keep a secret. I'm pretty sure she's got a pile of 'em securely tucked deep inside her head.

  I watch my grandmother in her very skimpy and age-inappropriate white dress, standing in front of her prince charming, Simon.

  Simon is pretty darn cool. He is handsome for his age—tall, with thick white hair and steely blue eyes. He is wearing a tux and looks better than my chunky, fifty-something father. My parents stand across from Izzy and me. It’s obvious they are none too thrilled about the wedding. But unlike me, Nana isn't a person who gives a damn about what they think.

  Mom keeps shifting and staring at her shoes, while Dad zones out. In his mind, he’s at the golf course, talking politics with his friends and comparing golf clubs. The chapel looks like a deserted branch of Olive Garden, but the ceremony is lovely.

  And me? I’m a hot mess. I’m trying to keep it together, but every thought I have is of Ty.

  “Blaire, are you crying? Again?” Izzy whisper-yells at me as the Marilyn Monroe look-alike performs the service.

  I feel so bad. Nana did all this so I could be in Vegas, and her plans backfired completely. I'll be dealing with the shock waves of the explosion for a long-ass time.

  I shake my head. “Nope. Not crying. Just happy for Nana.”

  “You may kiss the bride.” Marilyn beams at Simon. He looks at Nana Marty with eyes filled with happiness, but thankfully, keeps it clean and only gives Nana a peck on the
lips. Mom and Dad smile tightly while Izzy and I jump on our fragile grandmother.

  Izzy twerks around her, the flowers in her hand raining petals on the floor, while I cling to her shoulders like she’s my only chance of being saved from a starving shark. An injured Shane is standing with his parents in an aisle, surrounded by a few more guests, golf-clapping. He is looking at Izzy. Not at me, not at the bride, just Izzy. She is his sun and his moon. The want in his eyes is unmistakable, even with the new, purple frames Ty has given him.

  Nana pats me on the cheek and holds my chin firmly in one hand. “Oh, my darling Blaire,” she murmurs into my nose. “Your mother told me what Tyler has been up to. Had I known you were going to bring enough drama for an HBO mini-series, I would have brought more vodka. I want all the gossip. Meet me in the lobby bar in an hour. Simon can pop my imaginary cherry tomorrow.”

  Hell, I’m going to need therapy after Vegas.

  Back at the hotel, I tell Izzy I’m meeting Nana downstairs for drinks and ask her if she wants to tag along.

  “Too tired.” She slips out of her gown and walks around the room in her undies. That nasty Elizabeth's Passion thong she's wearing is glaring at me like a sweaty pervert in a raincoat, but other than that, there’s no denying her body is damn near perfect. “I think I’m going to call it a night.”

  Izzy never turns down an excuse to drink, let alone in public, where she can be seen and fawned over by her fans.

  “You sure?” I frown at my sister, perplexed.

  She nods. “Seriously, go drown your sorrows, sissy. You totally earned it.”

  Nana and I opt to sit at the far corner of the bar. She is still wearing her wedding gown and the brightest, stupidest grin, and I’m tucked into a gray, loose-fitting garb I sometimes use as my period pajamas. No bra.

  Like Izzy said, I deserve it after everything I’ve been through.

  I knock down drink after drink in between chewing my swizzle stick. It's already approaching 10 o’clock, and I know Ty's fight should be starting right about now.

  I don't want to think about it.

  I can't stop thinking about it.

  “This is so jacked up.” I finally rest my head on the bar. The room spins around me and I feel nauseous.

  “He's been pimping himself for...what? Four years now? Ever since he started doing this professionally. That could be a thousand women. How irresponsible can he be?”

  “It's deplorable,” Nana Marty agrees, wrinkling her nose, "but he didn't know you back then, and by the time he met you, he’d already changed his ways."

  I scan her face in horror.

  Maybe it's because I've punished myself and searched for pictures of him on the Internet again, this time with women. I can't see a picture of him with a woman without wondering…has she paid to sleep with him? Has she writhed underneath him like I did? How many times? What positions? When and where? How much money? Who did Ty get to fight afterwards?

  Ugh.

  “Let’s play the devil’s advocate here, shall we?” Nana raps the bar loudly to snap me back to reality. Billows of cigarette smoke travel between us, and I cough in annoyance. I may have smoked the occasional blunt, but I absolutely hate cigarettes. How it’s possible to smoke inside hotels here is beyond me, but I’m starting to realize that in Vegas, you could puff directly into a baby’s face if you’re willing to put some cash next to a blackjack dealer.

  “He wanted to build his career. I agree that he was very young and unbelievably foolish to do what he's done. It's appalling, really, but is it your place to forgive him? He hasn't done anything to you, sweetheart. He just has baggage that is incredibly difficult to stomach."

  Is Nana high?

  “He. Was. A. Male. Prostitute,” I pronounce slowly, hoping it’ll drill into her brain. "And he messed up my best friend's car. And he kept this information from me, even though he knew it was one hell of a deal-breaker."

  She watches me swirling the ice in my empty glass and hands me her drink. I guzzle it.

  “I know how you feel, honey.”

  No you don't, I think. You have no idea.

  "I'm just saying you may feel differently in a few months. You can close the door on your relationship with Tyler for now. Just don't lock it."

  I rest my forehead on the bar counter and close my eyes. This is a nightmare. Ty loves sex. Even if I do change my mind about him (which I won't), there's no way he'll wait for me. Hell, he's probably already planning to either lick his wounds or celebrate his win with another, brand new girl tonight.

  I should totally lock the door behind my relationship with Ty. I already slammed it hard enough for everyone around me to hear.

  ***

  I crawl back to my room and push the door open. The first thing I notice is that Izzy isn’t here. Our huge bed is empty, sheets and bedtime mints still neatly in place. We’ve been moved to a different suite since yesterday, seeing as our previous room had its door kicked in by a violent, man-whore maniac. For a moment, I wonder whether I’ve actually entered the right room. But I did.

  And it’s still empty.

  I stagger to the dresser and pick up a box with a card addressed Barbie. The box is white, sophisticated and inviting. I don’t need to guess who it’s from. I open the small box and find a fancy new cell phone inside. I turn on the phone and watch as the screen lights up. One new text message, the cell alerts. Checking it, I see Ty has already saved his contact number under the name “My Remorseful Boyfriend.” His text says Don't do this to us.

  It was sent way past midnight, a few hours after he was done fighting, and it clearly suggests there was no after-party on his agenda.

  Not that I care. We're done.

  I stay up most of the night, re-reading Ty’s message over and over again. This is bad. I should not be left alone, with my feelings so confusing right now. Where the hell is Izzy? I mull over Ty's conversation with Ray.

  Hundreds of women.

  Hundreds of them.

  Big, small, tall, short, brunettes, blondes, dumb, smart, good in bed, bad in bed, tongues, teeth, lips, fingers, positions we tried, positions we didn't. The list goes on.

  I squeeze the new phone so hard I wince. I thought he saw me, but he didn't see shit.

  I’m sitting in a chair next to the window, legs crossed, ignoring the view and facing the door, when I hear it creaking open. Izzy tiptoes barefoot into the room, holding her heels in her hand, not turning on the lights.

  “Hope you enjoyed it,” I rasp from the gloom.

  Izzy jumps and lets out a small shriek. “You scared the hell outta me.”

  “Ditto. Where have you been?” I stand up and walk toward my sister, skimming her. Yeah. She definitely looks guilty. Flushed as hell.

  “I went for a walk.”

  “Down Liarsville? How’s the weather there?”

  “Blaire.”

  “Izzy?”

  She drops the heels on the floor and plops on the bed, rubbing her feet. “I’ll tell you once you take a chill pill for real.”

  “Do I look like I need more lies and secrets in my life?”

  “Fine. I went to see Shane in his room.” She grabs a bottle of water from the minibar. Shaking her head. She takes a gulp and stares past me out the window.

  The strip is still alive. Everyone else in this town seems to be enjoying it. She turns on the TV.

  I snatch the remote, turning it off. "I don't want to know if he won or lost," I explain.

  Izzy nods. "Shane broke up with Gemma before he came to Vegas." She smiles thinly. Not surprising, after what she told me about their little escapade abroad. These two will either kill each other or get married in the next few months, I'm sure.

  "I'm sort of glad to hear it,” I say, “even though Gemma doesn't deserve it. She seemed cool. He met her at an I Prevail gig."

  "Who's side are you on?" She throws a pillow at me, but I duck in time.

  My new phone bleeps again, making Izzy send a puzzled glance my way. It?
??s 4 a.m. I peek at the new text.

  My Remorseful Boyfriend says, You’re wasting your time, Barbie. I’m not giving you up.

  Shouldn’t Ty be asleep? I'm sure he must be exhausted after the fight.

  “Where the hell did this come from?” Izzy is ogling my new phone like it’s a nuclear device.

  “You weren’t here when it arrived?” I pinch my eyebrows. “So who got it into our room?”

  We both stare at the phone with dazed eyes.

  "Hotel staff. Like, d'uh," Izzy blinks twice, trying to decipher why I'm so slow.

  "He started sending me gifts," I mutter to myself.

  "That's so nice of him," Izzy concludes. "But unnecessary. Not being a man-whore would have been more sufficient."

  Chapter Fifteen

  I drown myself with extra shifts at Ned's now that I'm not busy with school anymore. I'm functioning, which is great. I pour a beer with a perfect head for a middle-aged guy who always tips generously.

  I lift my eyes to the flat screen TV that's mounted on the wall and catch a glimpse of a rerun of Ty's bout on ESPN. I don't want to look, but my eyes dart to the screen, betraying me completely.

  There are only a handful of people sitting here, drinking beer. I wipe pint glasses with a dishcloth while watching the weigh-ins on screen. This is what Ty was starving himself for, for weeks.

  The Invincible Eoghan Doherty is the first to step on the scale for the main event of the night, and after him, Tyler “The Zombie” Wilder follows. There are a bunch of ring girls in bikinis applauding behind them, and my heart tweaks in agony when I think about the close proximity of these babes to Ty.

  The commentator is enthusing about Ty’s newest addition to his tattoo collection. “Looks like Wilder got some new ink ahead of the fight. He’s tattooed Bmine on his chest, above his heart. I wonder who the new girl is who he’s asking to ‘Be mine’?”

  Jesus Christ, I think I'm hyperventilating again.

  Ty and Eoghan launch at each other after going on the scale. Doherty has his fist balled up to Ty’s face. They’re yelling and pointing at each other, but you can’t hear shit through the heavy metal music.