Page 84 of Out of the Blue

My hand steals into her hair, and I hold our faces together. When she pulls away, she’s breathing as hard as I am. “When I get home, you’re going to wear a Naughty Nurse outfit for me, right?”

She bites her bottom lip. “I don’t know. You’re going to need bed rest, without extracurricular activities.”

I frown. “Who said that shit?”

She bops me on the nose with her index finger. “You’re bad.”

I snuggle closer to her, grabbing her tit for good measure. She removes my hand and starts up the video again.

“This would be a great feel-good story, if that were the end of it,” the other host takes over the narrative. “But it’s not. Not by a long shot. Turns out, Washington’s donor match was none other than future Rock and Roll Hall of Famer Braxton Hunte.”

My breathing stops. How did they find this out? Where is this story going?

Cordy fumbles the phone, but she performs a quick save.

The first host agrees, “That’s right. In an unusual situation, Braxton Hunte was Washington’s perfect match. He donated his kidney so the young musician could live.”

The other talking head pipes in. “I know, what a fantastic ending!” He leans toward the camera. “Except, it isn’t the end.” The screen goes black. We exchange looks.

After some ads, the music forIn the Knowplays again.

“Welcome back from the break. As we were saying, Braxton Hunte donated his kidney to the lead singer of the band that has been opening for them on the East Coast leg of their tour. Of course, we were intrigued by the story, so we dug a little deeper. And you’re never going to believe what we uncovered.”

Photos of Braxton and me, side by side, take up the entire screen. “What the hell’s going on?”

Cordy shakes the screen. “I have no idea.”

A voice-over asks, “See anything in these two pictures?” Bile rises to my throat.

After a beat, the camera focuses on the first host. “It’s in their eyes.” The camera zooms in on our identical amber-hazel eyes. “Did you catch it? The reason they’re a perfect match isn’t so far-fetched after all. Cordelia Hernandez, social media manager for Washington’s band, confirmed Braxton Hunte is, in fact, Washington’s father. We’ve reached out to Hunte’s rep, but so far no comment.”

The host’s words ring in my ears. Cordelia outed me to the entire world as Braxton Hunte’s son. I’m going to be known as his illegitimate by-blow. All my band’s hard work to establish ourselves is tarnished. With one sentence, my entire world shatters.

The phone drops onto the bed and the screen goes to black. She yells, “I didn’t do any such thing!” Her hand covers her mouth.

I round on my erstwhile girlfriend, whose eyes are filled with crocodile tears. Spare. Me.

“I have no idea how this happened. I never talked with anyone from the stupid show. Ever.”

My throat tightens in time with the pace of my shallow breathing. “Then how did they get your name?”

“I don’t know! I’m associated with the band. I’m listed as your social media manager on the website. Maybe they zeroed in on me there.”

“Riiight.”

Her arms fly akimbo. “I don’t know!”

An icy calm descends. I cross my arms over my chest. “Who have you talked to about Braxton and me?”

“No one! I mean, other than the band, and Hunte, obviously.” She pauses. “Raine and Keith and Mr. Hewitt know, but they had to. You know?”

The more she babbles, the less inclined I am to believe her. Lies. It’s always lies. “No one else?”

She goes still. Bingo.

“Tell me.”

“No, no, no. There’s no way.”

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