Page 82 of Payback
He pats me on the back as the guest speaker takes the stage for his presentation. I exhale, relieved for a break from that surprisingly tense moment. I have no fucking clue what possessed me to ask Vaughn for his niece’s hand in marriage, but ag, I think that’s what I just did. The other shocking thought is that I don’t regret it. It just felt right. Allie feels right.
I do my best to focus on the long presentation, but I notice that Niall is paying very close attention to his phone. A rude amount of attention, if I’m being honest. His brow furrows as he taps on the screen and pulls it closer to his face. After a few minutes, he taps Allie on the shoulder, who had been completely focused on the speaker up until now.
He leans in and whispers in her ear. Then Allie takes a sharp breath and covers her mouth with a shaky hand as she stares at his phone. Niall’s face looks furious at her, pissed at whatever they are looking at on the screen.
I begin to notice other people’s phones illuminating their faces all around us and wonder what the hell kind of breaking news has just occurred. Was there a bomb? A terrorist attack? A shooting? Who the fuck died?
Suddenly, Allie’s eyes lift, connecting with mine. The look on her face is so terrifying, it takes everything I have not to jump across the table and ask her what’s wrong.
I frown back at her and she shakes her head, tears slipping down her cheeks, one after another. I’ve never seen Allie cry. I’ve seen her tear up. I’ve seen her eyes water. This? Crying? Never.
Just as I plan to go to her, she looks at me and parts her lips to whisper, “I’m so sorry, Roan.”
At the same time, Catalina gasps beside me. I turn to find her eyes locked on her phone, her jaw dropped. She looks up at me and blinks, her gaze sliding up and down my body before she finally leans in and says, “How much would I have had to donate for this kind of date?”
She holds her phone out to me, and at first it just looks like an array of moving shadows in a dark room. I squint and grab her hand, pulling the screen closer to me to make out what’s on the video.
It’s then that I see something I recognise.
Garter belt.
Wet dress.
Wet suit.
Wet…Allie.
I yank the phone out of Catalina’s hand and jam my finger on the screen, fast-forwarding to see what comes next because I’m too impatient to watch the familiar scene that I’ve replayed in my mind a thousand times. But I have to say, my memory wasn’t this vivid.
Allie’s face suddenly fills the screen, making no mistake she is the woman wearing the garter belt. She fumbles with the phone for a second and then the video continues. My own face eventually comes into view. It’s dark and shadowy, but it’s obviously me. And let’s face it, I was just outside talking to the press for a fucking hour. People know my face now. That means that this shit is out there for all of them to identify me.
I click the BACK button and see that the video is posted on some seedy-looking website written in a foreign language. The one headline I do catch sight of reads, “Striker Roan DeWalt Scores a Goal with a Harris.”
The thumbnail video that plays on a loop is horrifying. In my memory, this night was only flashes of passion and lust. Laughter and enjoyment. It was sexy and pure. This video is anything but that. It shows everything. The oral, the different positions we fucked in, me spanking her ass, Allie riding my cock, the two of us looking like goddamned porn stars.
This video takes all those feelings I developed for Allie—feelings that I started having our first night together—and turns them into a seedy, disgusting, public, fucking sex tape.
The crowd begins to applaud because the guest speaker finished his presentation. I can’t hear anything other than the ringing in my ears. Thank fuck I couldn’t hear the sound on the video because I probably would have flipped the fucking table.
I slam Catalina’s phone down and stand up from my chair. Allie stands up with me, watching me like I’m a lion ready to pounce.
“Roan, please—” she says through a choked sob.
“Don’t,” I growl, my teeth clenched together so hard, they could crack.
“What’s going on?” Vaughn asks, his voice low and authoritative.
I ignore his question and shoot Allie a warning look that says, “Don’t fucking follow me,” before I turn to walk out of the ballroom.
Fuck this date.
Fuck this gala.
Fuck Allie fucking Harris.
And fuck her whole fucking family.
I storm out the front doors of the hotel without even thinking, and I’m instantly assaulted by paparazzi. Flashes go off and voices shout horrible questions at me about the twenty-eight-minute-long sex video that was just revealed by a porn site in India called Garish Entertainment.
