It Had to Be You, Georgia Clark [phonics reader TXT] 📗

Clay was naked in that picture.

Someone grabbed her arm. Zia stifled a scream. She was in the apartment, the apartment she shared with Darlene. Darlene was yelling. “Tell me you didn’t sell this picture of Clay, Zia!”

“No, no!” Zia scrabbled in her bag for her phone. Adrenaline jacked her system, making everything sped up and frantic. “No, this is a mistake, I have to call someone, a lawyer, I need a lawyer—”

“Who sent it then?” Darlene asked. “Clay?”

Clay would see this. This violation.

Someone pounded on the front door. A rough male voice. “Hello, Zia? Harry Garbon from the New York Post, how long have you and Clay Russo been an item?”

Zia and Darlene stared at each other, both breathing hard.

Harry Garbon continued. “Any comment on the allegations you’re just using him for money?”

Darlene was at the window. “There’s photographers outside.”

A half dozen men, including the two “tourists” with SLR cameras Zia’d passed, were milling on the street below. Catching sight of Zia peering down at them, they started shooting and calling her name. Zia let out a cry and stumbled back.

Harry Garbon pounded on the door. “All I need is a picture, honey, one picture.”

Darlene beelined for the door and made sure it was locked. “No comment,” she stated. “This is private property: I’m calling the police.” She pulled Zia down the hallway, into her bedroom.

Zia felt like her body was shutting down. “They know. They all—that picture. I didn’t…”

“So who leaked it?”

Zia squeezed her eyes shut. The truth was excruciating. Not just because of what it meant for Clay.

Layla had been acting funny all morning—pissy and defensive and then when Zia was saying goodbye, oddly contrite. Zia dug for her phone, as always, on silent. There were fifty missed calls. Dozens of messages. A front-of-house manager she used to work with years ago: Zia!!! OMG you and Clay!!!! Congrats girl, he is HOT!!! Please come in anytime, Chef would love to—

Zia deleted it. As she did, another popped up, a volunteer she’d befriended in Cambodia. Holy shit!! Ha ha ha I knew you when. Looks like your bf has a massive cock .

Zia thrust her phone at Darlene. “Call my sister.”

“This is gonna be okay, Z, I promise.”

“Just call her!” Why had she taken the photo, why hadn’t she deleted it, why hadn’t she called Layla out on acting weird. Why—

Layla picked up.

Blood roared in Zia’s ears. “Tell me it wasn’t you.”

There was a painful silence. “Zia, I didn’t mean for—”

“No.” Zia bit her hand to keep from screaming. “Why? How could you?”

“It wasn’t meant to… It was an Australian website, they said you wouldn’t even know—”

“Layla!” Zia shouted. “Why the hell did you sell a picture of me and Clay? That you stole off my phone?”

“You’re so wrapped up in him! You barely have any time for us anymore—”

Zia hung up, unable to take it. Her own sister. “I have to call Clay.” She knew Layla knew her passcode—why hadn’t she changed it after she told her about Clay?

“Hey, it’s Clay. Leave a message.”

Zia hung up and threw the phone on Darlene’s bed. “Shit. Shit.”

She could call Dave, maybe he’d be with Clay, at the airport, on the plane already? She had to see Clay, had to explain—

“What Layla did is illegal.” Darlene was reading off her phone. “It’s illegal to sell a picture you didn’t take, especially one like that. She must’ve lied or forged your signature or pretended to be you. Layla could get in a lot of trouble for this.”

“Well, maybe I’ll sue my sister,” Zia snapped sarcastically. “My broke-ass sister with two little kids, maybe I’ll send her ass to jail.” She picked up her phone—Zia, hi, this is Phoebe North, deputy editor of US Weekly—and called Dave.

He answered on the first ring. His voice was atypically brisk. “Don’t make any comment.”

“Dave! Thank God. I didn’t sell it, I swear.”

“Where are you?”

“At home.”

“Stay there. Don’t answer the door.”

“I need to speak to Clay.”

A pause. “That’s probably not a good idea.”

“Shit, Dave, I need to speak to my boyfriend! Is he on the plane, where is he?”

Silence.

“Where are you?” Zia was shouting. “Where is he?”

“We’re at his place—”

“I’m coming.”

She grabbed the largest hoodie she owned and bolted for the front door. The untouched photo, the one without the black star, was probably online too. It’d likely live on the internet forever, always one Google search away: Clay Russo nude. Clay didn’t even bare his butt in movies. The word viral took on a whole new meaning. Infection. Spreading and multiplying beyond control, utterly unstoppable.

Clay would be humiliated, on a global scale. The pain of it squeezed her chest and lungs, making it hard to get a good breath. It felt like terror.

And it was 100 percent her fault.

It was a mistake to leave the apartment without a plan, and on her own. The small group of male photographers swarmed her, yelling questions and accusations: Zia, is it true about you and Clay Russo? What’s he like in bed? She made it to her bike, but between the chaos around her and tears in her eyes, she couldn’t work the lock. Someone yanked the hoodie off her head. She almost screamed.

“Zia!” Darlene called from her window, pointing at an idling car. “I called you a Lyft!”

She fought her way into the back seat. In the rearview mirror, the driver examined her. Trying to figure out if she was a celebrity. No, but I sleep with one, and now everyone knows. She pulled the hoodie low and texted Darlene to change the address to Clay’s apartment.

There, more photographers were waiting, but an experienced doorman held them back. The marble foyer felt huge and quiet as a crypt. A fairly famous young actress who owned a condo in the complex watched her scurry inside. She was someone Zia made friendly small talk with while sunbathing on the building’s roof. Now, a slight look of suspicion narrowed her eyes.

The doorman called up. Zia prayed not