“She never had cancer,” I sniffled. “She wasn’t even a fan. She was a purse collector with a one of a kind Chanel bag I wanted but she wasn’t willing to accept money over the internet. I had to buy it in person within twenty four hours or she would’ve sold it to someone else. I made that other stuff up so I wouldn’t seem selfish.”
“Okay,” Joan shook her head. “No more confessions. Deal?”
“Those coffee shop friends I’m photo’d with every Wednesday? They’re all actresses under contract…I pay them to look like they’re my friends, so it looks like I’m down to earth and hang out with regular people because I can’t get anybody to hang out with me for free!”
Joan walked over and patted me on the back.
“This is all karma!” I bawled. “I’m a fraud! A walking joke! This scandal is going to expose me! It’s going to ruin everything!”
“It’s only temporary Selena,” she spoke softly. “Scandals come and go every other day. You’ll be on top of the world again in no time. I’ll make sure of it.”
I wanted to believe her, but I’d never been involved in a scandal before and it was beginning to take its toll on me.
I’d gone to CVS every day, picking up the latest tabloids, reading them cover to cover, discarding them before she was able to catch me reading them. I’d snuck away to the hotel’s business center in the mornings, reading all the blogs and celebrity news sites, crying as I read what people really thought about me.
I even read about how Phillip was telling his side of the story, saying that he “had a moment of weakness” that was spurred by “a seductive Selena Ross” coming onto him. He said he tried to break things off with me multiple times, but I threatened to go to the press. He said he was happy that the story had broken, happy so that he could finally work on things with his “loving wife” and family.
According to what I’d seen, the scandal was only getting worse, and I felt more alone in Fayetteville than I did in New York.
There were no paparazzi waiting around to ask me about my day or snap pictures of me walking down the street. There were no fans rushing up to me in the middle of the sidewalk for an autograph, no special treatment offered at restaurants or public places.
I longed for some daily press about my whereabouts, and being stuck in the middle of nowhere and not being able to command any attention from the locals was beginning to eat away at my soul.
I needed some attention. Badly.
I contemplated calling TMZ to let them know I was in Fayetteville, but I decided against it at the last minute.
“I have to go get drunk,” I rolled off the couch. “I can’t deal with this right now.”
Chapter 14
Ethan
I took a seat at Farrell’s and motioned for the bartender. “How much for two glasses of scotch on the rocks?”
“I’ll make ‘em free, if you take that crazy karaoke lady home,” he pointed towards the back. “Everyone else is too drunk to do it.”
I looked over my shoulder and spotted a woman dancing on a small platform stage, singing into a microphone. She was facing the karaoke screen so I couldn’t see her face, just the back of her jeans and light pink shirt.
“So why can’t you seeee!” she sounded like a cat that needed to be put out of its misery. “You belong with meee!”
Hell no. I’ll just pay for the drinks…
“I don’t think so,” I took out my wallet. “How much do I—”
“Please man! Please!”
“Thank you everyone!” the karaoke lady screamed. “That was Taylor Swift’s ‘You Belong with Me!’ I’m going to sing it one more time and I want everyone to raise your glass and sing along!”
I shook my head. “No thanks. I don’t think I can deal with that tonight. I’d rather—”
“I’m begging you!”
“Fine…Where does she live?”
He slid me two large glasses of scotch. “She claims she’s staying at some hotel up the street. Just get her out of here as soon as possible. It’s not even karaoke night!”
“Will do,” I downed a glass of scotch and slammed it onto the counter.
This country under cover boss thing was starting to annoy me: Lola was a really good manager but she was extreme. She’d made me promise to stay late all next week so she could quiz me on the history of coffee production and distribution—things that weren’t even in the employee handbook.
I’d gone on two dates earlier in the week and both women bored me to tears: One of them spent dinner lecturing me on the geography of Arkansas, and the other one was just plain weird: She brought her collection of pet goldfish along—in three Ziploc bags, and made me watch YouTube videos of her swimming with her dogs.
“I don’t mean to rush you,” the bartender cut through my thoughts, “but she’s about to start a new song and I can’t deal with another one. You want me to pour the rest of that drink in a paper cup?”
“No, that’s okay. Thanks,” I downed the rest of it and stood up.
I walked towards the stage and tapped the woman on the shoulder. She didn’t turn around.
“This next song is for all my fans!” she tripped over a stool and stood back up. “All my fans that I apparently treat like shit! This one is for you!”
I tapped her shoulder again and she moved to other side of the stage, still not turning to face me.