A Midsummer's Nightmare(34)

But he wasn’t selfish enough or stupid enough to sleep with me again.

Whatever he’d meant by that, it had stung.





15


I woke up at ten o’clock the next morning to the sound of someone banging on the door of the guest room. “Come in,” I moaned sleepily.

“It’s locked.”

Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten about that.

For the past few weeks, Sylvia had been popping her head in every morning before she left for work. She never said anything, but the sound of the knob turning always brought me out of sleep. Harrison might say it was sweet of her to check on me, but I hated being woken up every morning at eight. So I’d started locking the door.

But now I didn’t want to get out of bed to unlock it.

“Who is it?”

“Nathan.”

“Go away.”

“Let me in, Whitley.”

I frowned into my pillow. He was calling me by my proper name, which meant it was something serious.

“Go away,” I tried again. He was the last person I wanted to see. “I’m sleeping.”

“Let me in!” Something hard slammed into the door, jolting me upright in surprise. Was he, like, punching it or something? “I’m not kidding, Whitley.”

What the hell?

“Fine!” I snapped, falling out of bed and stumbling to my feet. “I’m coming, I’m coming.” I walked across the room, flipped the lock, and opened the door, not even caring that my pajamas were skimpy and made of sheer material or that I hadn’t put on a bra yet. That was his problem.

Lucky for me, though, he was fully clothed.

“What?” I demanded.

His eyes moved down my body for a second, and I didn’t miss the way they lingered—for a fraction of an instant, really—on my chest. Christ, all boys were the same. It wasn’t even like boobs were interesting. That was one thing I would never understand.

Still, even if he had rejected me last night, it was nice to know he thought I was attractive.

Nathan cleared his throat and shook his head. “Have you seen Facebook?”

“Um, no,” I said. “I don’t use Facebook. There’s no point unless there are people you actually want to talk to.”

“Come on.” He grabbed my wrist and yanked me out of the guest room, practically dragging me across the hallway and into his room. Then he shoved me into his desk chair and gestured to his computer screen. “Look.”


Whitley Johnson: Hamilton’s New Free Ride



The headline at the top of the page was the first thing I saw. Directly beneath it, in smaller text, was a short paragraph.


In late May, Hamilton welcomed the daughter of hottie anchorman Greg Johnson to town, but Whitley Johnson doesn’t seem to be her daddy’s sweet little angel. Looks like we’ve got a bad girl on our hands. What dirty antics will she get into next? If you spot her out and about (and we’re sure you will), keep us posted!


“What the f*ck is this?”

“A Facebook group,” Nathan said.

“Why would someone make a group about me?” I asked.

“It’s Facebook. You can make a group about the tree in your front yard if you want,” he said. “Did you see the picture?”

I scrolled down. On the left-hand side I saw the page’s main photo—a blurry shot of me, clearly drunk, stumbling around at Wesley’s party. In the center of the screen, a little farther down, I saw the most recent post. It was marked as a mobile upload, a shot of me and the dreadlocks guy from last night. We were making out in a booth at the Nest, his hand under my shirt.

“Oh my God,” I whispered.

“Keep scrolling.”

I did.

There were more photos, taken from people’s cell phones. Most of them were of me dancing with boys at the Nest, but a few were from Wesley’s party—including an image of me taking a shot in the kitchen, Harrison at my side.

But the comments were the worst part.


What a skank. Could her skirt be any shorter in that pic?


Her dad seems so wholesome and sweet on TV. I bet he is soooo ashamed of her. Poor guy.


Man, I hope she’s at the next party I go to. I’d tap that.


“Why would people do this?” I asked. I’d been called a skank and a slut and a whore and every other thing you could imagine before, but it had never been on the Internet. No one had cared enough to build a freaking web page.

“Your dad is a celebrity to these people,” Nathan said. “Which means you are, too.”

I clicked on one of the photos. Below the image was a list of people tagged. Greg Johnson was at the top of the list. My dad would see this picture of a boy with his hand up my shirt. Maybe he could see all of these photos.

“I can’t believe this.”

“Small towns are known for their big rumors,” he said. “And you’re starting quite a few. Can you blame them for talking? Look at how you…”

“How I what?”

I was on my feet, my fists clenched. I felt like someone had read my diary—you know, if I kept a stupid diary—or like I’d just discovered a Peeping Tom. It was disgusting and embarrassing. I felt hurt, violated. And I just couldn’t take Nathan acting like a prick on top of everything else.