The morning after I left Jake's house feeling more pathetic than a walk of shame, my phone lit up with multiple contacts. The first message was from Ellie, sent to both me and Jake.

Ellie: Jake!!! Did you know about these!?
Ellie: link
Ellie: I can't unsee this shit.

Like an absolute dumbass, I clicked on the link. It dragged me to a girl name Shayla's social media page.

Who the fuck is Shay Who -

I scrolled down to a set of unflattering pictures of skank number two from the pool, along with a few pictures of Emily and Bambi, and my stomach dropped.

This can't be good. Coincidences never are.

Jacob Harrison, USC's quarterback and now top of my new naughty boys list!!! 🔥🤭🔥🥵🔥 link

"I'm going to regret this," I mumbled and clicked on the link.

My nose cringed up slightly as I braced myself for a video or pictures of my personal rant against Emily in a girl-bully smear campaign attempt.

What I saw instead dropped my phone into my lap.

Of all sites Ellie could've gotten sent, this one opened a Pornhub page. While visually bad, unrealistic sex wasn't what my erupted my lady fireworks, I respected others' preferences. This particular page however, turned my stomach.

What the fuck of all fucks!?

My eyes widened at seven pictures of Jake, each identical to a picture that he'd sent privately to my phone over the past three years. Seven pictures total of Jake were posted, no doubt it was him because his face was as clearly identifiable as the rest of his naked and full erection glory. Once I scrolled down to the last one, I flipped my finger up and looked at the account.

Of course it's anonymous.

The additional punch in the boob was the title.

"Jacob Harrison, USC quarterback just how his girlfriend sees him!"

What the fuck!? Are these...

My thumbs flew over my phone, where I closed out the browser app and looked at my 'EBO' album.

Eye bleach only, if not obvious.

Only seven pictures lived in this password-protected folder and my chest squeezed concave with tension when I pulled up exactly the same seven pictures that were online. The most recently added photo was the nude Jake had texted me before I'd driven down here.

They're the exact same seven pictures Jake himself had sent... directly to me.

Either my phone, Jake's, or both were hacked.

"What the..." I murmured and pawed through my phone. "Who violated you, baby?"

A quick look at my data usage was the only indication I needed. Other than a mostly flatlined, almost nonexistent pattern, a data usage surge spiked on my phone. A quick time check showed this happened roughly eight hours ago.

"Skank two, are you smarter than you looked?" I murmured, shook my head, and sank my ass down into my uncomfortable desk chair. My chest lifted and pitched with a sharp exhale while I tapped my fingernails onto my desk and considered my next options. "Whoever you were, you've messed with the wrong bitch."

I wouldn't have ever placed myself into a hacker category, since I barely operated a microwave successfully. But I knew the text codes that checked if my phone had been hacked and, one removed SIM card later, I followed enough geocoded breadcrumbs that placed the IP address of the intrusion within a block of Jake's house.

Had to have been from within the house.

And retaliation is a bitch.

My first response was I went onto Shayla's social media pages, created a fake under-13 account for myself, then flagged every fucking post, video, and duck-lipped, string bikini-clad selfie for inappropriate content. Shayla's online footprint was larger than Sasquatch's, so the complaint efforts took an annoyingly long time but I was a persistent bitch.

I repeated the efforts on Pornhub's site, then pulled a bunch of Dad's legal jargon out of my ass. Two weeks ago, our paralegal class had covered California's right of publicity laws. In particular, Professor Terns covered how uniquely specific the laws were to celebrities and used UCLA's athletes as an example.

More specifically, he'd state, "So, even though the university can use the Bruin players' images in media advertisements and publications, the players as individuals cannot be represented."

Look at me, paying attention in class and remembering shit.

"Where are you..." I dug into my ridiculously thick course notes binder and thumbed through the pages until I found my section on California's privacy laws.

The right of publicity in California is the right of anyone to control the commercial use of their identity. It is your personal right. Others might attempt to misappropriate it for commercial gain, which violates California law, and -

"Where's the damn code..." I muttered and skimmed faster until the pad of my index finger landed on my new favorite number.

California Code, Civil Code - CIV § 3344:

(a) Any person who knowingly uses another's name, voice, signature, photograph, or likeness, in any manner, on or in products, merchandise, or goods, or for purposes of advertising or selling, or soliciting purchases of, products, merchandise, goods or services, without such person's prior consent, or, in the case of a minor, the prior consent of his parent or legal guardian, shall be liable for any damages sustained by the person or persons injured as a result thereof.

I snapped a photo of the code, just in case whoever'd hacked my phone decided they wanted a second look. Since that option seemed like a copout, I forward the picture to myself, then opened the email on my laptop.

A few Google searches later, I pulled up the command prompt black screen with a white, square prompt and decided a generic warning to the IP address at Jake's house was better than doing nothing.

net send ***.**.*.* I know you hacked my phone. Clean up your breadcrumbs. CA 3344 bitch.

While I'd basically blasted the message to every device connected to their house IP address, I cupped my hands over my tired eyes and sat back.

Guess now we just wait.

I hate waiting.

"It won't stop," Li offered quietly, almost apologetically, about our dorm room's phone. The damn thing had run nonstop after a few media outlets picked up Jake's pictures, which had opened some ridiculous scorned ex-girlfriend witch hunt that ended up... right here.

Four fucking days after Jake's nudes were leaked, my name had been attached as the photo leak source. Despite zero attachment, literally, not even an anonymous account, to Pornhub, she said/she said/bitch said - type social media gossip sites pointed the finger at me and news 'journalists,' a term looser than I was, followed like a tsunami.

Fuck, this is so embarrassing. What the fuck can I tell anyone who really knows me?

Poor Dad.

Falling back on old habits, I texted Dad and Ellie that it wasn't me, then kept to myself.

In my solitude, I protected myself.

I guarded myself, except it felt borderline impossible this time. The herd of reporters that camped out of Rieber Hall, the School of Law, even the UCLA pools, left me with absolutely no peace. If I turned my air pods up loud enough, I almost drowned out their ridiculous questions.

"Did you leak Jake Harrison's photos, Miss Reynolds?"

"Miss Reynolds, do you have some kind of personal vendetta against Mister Harrison?"

"How is sex with Jake, Miss Reynolds?"

"Can you comment on the nature of your relationship with Jake Harrison?"

Isn't that the million fucking dollar question.

On the outside, I probably looked fine, even from the media whores' unflattering camera angles. In my normal routine, I attended class, ate, slept, and swam a few laps. Okay, most of the time I crawled in and out of bed.

Inside though, I was one prompted question or interaction away from a crazy hot mess. I was more vulnerable than an eggshell, and only knew of one way to deal with it.

The only way to get over someone is to get under someone else, my ass. That's what got me into this mess.

Wouldn't matter even if I tried.

For the second time in, well, seven years, I had no sexual desire whatsoever. My lady bits had been snuffed out like a soggy wet campfire. Not a single spark, flicker, thump, or twitch of interest stirred inside me. My dildos would've been better used as dust collectors.

Given that excuse, plus my unwanted attention, I avoided Jake and all Kevin Bacon contacts with them. Even Kieran was off-limits, although he was basically under quarantine while the Bruins conducted their own investigations about the leaked video during their game.

Dad believed I hadn't leaked the photos, but I barely even contacted him other than an occasional, "I'm fine," assurance. I doubt he believed those but I still send them.

Not surprisingly, I hadn't heard from Jake. Local news coverage, which I happily surfed from behind the dorm's firewall on my laptop, showed his house swarmed with journalists who desperately lapped up any and every tidbit of gossip related to the 'USC quarterback photo leak scandal.'

Not reaching out to him. I am not reaching out to him.

Besides, his phone might be tapped.

The worst part of all? Even after the pictures were removed from at least Pornhub and the first paths that directed people to its location there, Jake was branded a sex god. I nearly snorted my nose off my face at some of the reactions.

A stud of testosterone.

A Greek god of sexual prowess and virility.

Fucking typical. He's Italian, not Greek.

Each picture by itself was a thirst trap. Altogether, they were a full finger-flick session.

Believe me, I know.

Even worse? Jake's heartbreaking confessional video branded him a victim and a shitpile of sympathy swelled around him after USC released a statement that the video and photos were taken without Jake's authorization. The reactions that followed were unbelievable.

His number of online followers tripled.

Several articles were written that applauded how comfortable, in an era of toxic masculinity, he freely expressed his emotions.

I'm still trying to process that. Not because it's Jake but because what should be a normal, regular expression is being highlighted and praised.

Almost overnight, Jake Harrison - the same Jake Fucking Harrison who I'd always considered a prime example of how not to express one's self emotionally - became an almost poster child for misandry.

I couldn't make that shit up if I tried. He should thank whoever fucked him over for the PR image makeover when all this shit blows over and the dust settles.

Once 'scorned ex-girlfriend' became the determined source of the leaked photos, I'd gotten some curious calls, from Dad, Mrs. H., and Ellie in particular. Because I'd already told them, well Dad and Ellie, that I hadn't done it, I ignored all of them and opted instead that my phone stayed off.

Jake had to have known it wasn't me though. At least, I hoped he hadn't blamed me. Since I wasn't sure how safely private either of our phones were any more, I'd only offered him one message.

me: Didn't do it. Promise.

My message to Jake was left on unread status for six days before I abandoned the idea he saw it, let alone returned it. Instead, I took measures that protected my own personal privacy and security.

While I wasn't sure if the photos actually had or hadn't been taken off my phone, obviously it'd been tapped into. So, I backed up my shit onto cloud storage, stripped my phone down to factory settings, and returned it to the Apple store for an upgrade courtesy of Dad's early Christmas present.

And, of course, I changed my phone number again. Unfortunately, this one came with perils of a previous owner who hadn't paid most of their bills timely. But I happily took those calls instead of any that asked about my personal relationship with Jake.

The only person I gave my new number to, well other than Li for emergencies, was Dad. I even disabled the phone's Wi-Fi settings and essentially carried around a burner phone for 'fuck, I'm in a ditch'-situations.

At Dad's urging, we both changed our credit cards and bank accounts. He also set up a third party credit monitoring service for both of us and bought me a post office box for my mail.

Total pain in the ass.

The PO Box was actually a good idea because some of the shit people mailed me... I was fine with it getting tossed into the dumpsters but Li was a bit traumatized by the extent some of Jake's 'fans' tracked me down. So, I happily sorted through my hate mail separate from our regular mail.

Our dorm room phone, however... That was still a work in progress.

With one yank of my hand on the connector near the wall jack, the phone and Li both fell silent. In my haste, my elbow smashed hard into my desk, which caused two reactions. First, a sharp pain erupted from my funny bone outward. Second, my stack of two-inch thick paralegal notebooks wobbled and shifted slightly.

"Now it'll stop," I griped out in a flat, irritated voice, although internally I knew we both sat on borrowed time before some privacy leech tracked me down.

Poor Li couldn't wrap her too-kind brain around the excitement. "So many people are asking for you. I got stopped today outside my biology class. Kieran said reporters are now banned from speaking to the UCLA players."

Probably protecting their own asses, typical.

With the exception of my single message, I hadn't messaged Jake since the skank event. I especially hadn't contacted him from my new one but even I knew -

I need him to clear my name. If not my sake then Li's.

After I finished my last writing assignment for Monday's class, I swallowed my pride and went over to Jake's house. A sea of reporters swarmed over me, with questions and probes of who I was and how I was involved. The most offensive questions were always whether or not I was pregnant and if my photo leaks were a desperate attempt for... I don't know what the fuck.

"Ugh." I held up a hand to the multitude of photo flashes that blinded my eyes.

Silence greeted me within a nearly crowded living room. A sea of curious eyes roamed over me and I bit back the, "I didn't fucking do it," comment I wanted to scream at all of them. Instead, an exasperated sigh and mental reminder that whoever gaped at me wasn't important enough that they deserved an explanation were sufficient.

My feet stomped up two flights of stairs, until my breath rasped out. I lifted up my right fist and smashed it onto Jake's bedroom door as hard as I could, which echoed loudly through the hallway. I shifted my eyes from one foot to the other and pounded again, louder and harder until the fleshy side of my hand under my pinky felt numb.

"Jake!" I roared out, with only the vibrations bounced back against my lips as a response.

His hallway roommate's door opened with a quiet creak. "He's not here," London muttered quietly.

"Where is he," my snapped tone reflected the lack of patience I felt and I shot him a look like the last thing he wanted was questioned why I needed to speak to him.

"He was going to the hospital," he muttered. "I think he had a volunteer thing there today."

"Huh?" I grunted out quietly because Jake was the last person I associated with bedside manners.

"Yeah..." Drake held up his phone and handed it to me. "He's been visiting twice a week lately."

Weird. Maybe it's just a PR dog and pony show.

He showed a USC school newspaper article about the Trojans visiting kids at a cancer ward within Children's Hospital at Los Angeles-USC. Front and center was a picture of Jake himself, where he stood at the side of a kid's bed. A dad I assumed sat on the other side and offered a smile but my eyes focused right in on the kid in between them.

With his bright, light-blue eyes that beamed off the page, he -

Oh my God.

London's screen went black as it put itself into sleep mode and my wide eyes and parted lips reflected back up at me. I saw my lower lip tremble before the vibrations registered in my brain, violently.

Can't be. Couldn't be. Too much of a coincidence but I'm still going to talk to Jake.

"You can't reach him on his phone," London muttered quietly. "He smashed it a week ago."

While ordinarily that news would've reassured me, I only felt... ridiculously confused and conflicted.

"Probably for the best," I muttered and stepped past London's door. The weight of his eyes followed me down the hall, so I offered over my shoulder, "Hope you got my message."

The flicker of guilt that chased his initial confusion was the only confirmation I needed. While I didn't know the entire story, the quiet, introverted guy who crushed on Emily and possibly skank number two had also witnessed their brush off of shame. The timing itself was more than a coincidence but that part was Jake's business.

I just want my ass thrown out of this shitstorm.

London's only response was he stepped backwards then closed the door.

An uncomfortable, unsettling feeling sank through me as I walked out of Jake's house. I pushed it down and lifted my hand against the bright flashes, clicks, and repeated questions that bombarded me when I stepped out of the front door. With my hands cupped over my eyes, I made my way back to my car and silently headed back to... I had no idea where.

A quiet wrenched sound erupted between my fingers as I gripped the leather steering wheel tightly. Jake's house and the fucking media circus camped around it shrunk, then disappeared from my rearview mirror. I exhaled sharply when I realized I still had no idea where the fuck I headed.

He couldn't have known... fuck, he did.

Jake wasn't a boundary-pusher, he freely stepped over them whenever the fuck he wanted to. However, this time, Jake had poked himself too far, wedged himself too deep into my personal problems.

Because nothing is more personal than family and fuck, mine sure is broken.

In probably not the best move, I went for a drive. Not entirely familiar with the Los Angeles area, I drove around UCLA's campus, stupidly lapped around Jake's house, then found myself on the freeway in the direction of LAX. Instead of south like I normally went on the 405, I turned north and assumed at some point I found a beachside exit.

In my hasty visit to Jake's house, I hadn't noticed that my phone battery ran down to two percent. With a groan, I plugged it into my car's shitty charger.

Under what was today's apparent bad luck, I got about three more miles before a set of blue and red lights flashed in my rearview mirror.

"Oh fuck," I cursed and glanced down at my speedometer, which read only a tiny bit over the limit.

Fine, it was probably like twelve miles per hour but much less than the Indy 500 cars that whizzed impatiently around me.

But caught was caught, so with a huff I dragged my car over the three lanes of traffic on my right, which of course parted right away for the cop car. With the California highway patrol car behind me. With a forward slump, I gripped the wheel tight in my fists and bumped my forehead in between them.

My eyes flipped open at the window tap near my left shoulders, which jolted my attention back and I hit the window opener. A pair of veiny, meaty, black-inked forearms rested on my car's window edge, accompanied by an adorably dazzling smile.

"Do you have any idea that I've been looking for you?"

"Well, I.... huh?" I blinked as the words, and the teasing tones wrapped around them, sunk in.

His warm, friendly, masculine voice hit my ears the same moment the officer flashed me a white-toothed smile and removed his silver sunglasses.

"Officer... Davis!?" I squeaked out as my eyes took in his nametag.

My fingers trembled as I turned towards him with no idea if I exited the car, greeted him with a hug, or... what? I was in unchartered boomerang dick territory here.

"Hey, beautiful." He grinned widely. His brown hair was slightly longer but the same warmth glowed his hazel eyes as he bent over.

"Are you..." My lower lip rolled under my teeth. "Giving me a ticket?"

"I would if I was on-duty," he teased and roamed his eyes over my car like he gave it a visual inspection. "Twenty-six miles over the posted speed limit, cherry red Audi, beautiful blonde driver, license plate California -"

"Okay, smartass," I cut him off with a wave of my hand, then noticed a small notepad was clutched in his left hand and wondered if he'd saved my plate number from our previous... roadside assistance encounter. "What then?"

"Can we speak somewhere less of a complete danger to my life?" he asked in a light tone but I understood given the small yellow line that separated his ass from five lanes of traffic. Even though cars slowed for a peep show, probably a few pictures of his leaned over ass, he was right about the danger factor.

"Uhh... yeah. Just follow me?" I suggested.

Before I registered what happened, I pulled off the 405 shoulder and headed back to my dorm. Officer Davis followed me, which only encouraged every driver ahead of me to drive five miles under the speed limit. We crawled like slugs and took twice as long as normal while I screamed obscenities at every slow ass driver ahead of me.

Groan after groan left me as my car crawled home like an ant and I had absolutely no idea what he wanted from me. The smiles he shot me whenever I looked in my rearview mirror were no help.

It's not like I gave him an STD.

I pulled into the lot, then grabbed my phone so I could let Li know where I was. Not that she cared but whether I drove around randomly or sat down in Feast was different. I groaned when it flashed one percent, then a dead battery halfway through my message.

Useless car charger.

Officer Davis parked his cruiser along the curb, which I guess was a cop perk. He'd loosened the top two buttons of his uniform, which showed a tight, white undershirt underneath, but kept on his black utility belt.

Guess it's best if he doesn't leave a gun unattended in his car.

I held up my now dead phone and pointed at Feast's entrance doors within Rieber Hall. "I need to run this upstairs to charge it, can I meet you downstairs at a table?"

"Of course." He flashed me a big smile and walked in the direction I steered him in.

His tall, muscular frame, accompanied with his uniform, drew all the eyes in our direction towards him, which included mine. I shook the surreal oddness of his randomly popped up appearance months later out of my head and rushed upstairs. Li wasn't in our room but I plugged in my phone at my desk, scribbled a note and left it on hers, then turned around and headed downstairs.

Officer Davis sat comfortably at one of the wood tables along the floor to ceiling windows, his elbows rested on the edge. He thumbed through his phone but shut it off as I approached. Like a gentleman, he stood up and pulled the opposite chair out for me. Once he regained his seat, he leaned back and fisted his hand under his chin. The look in his eyes was best described as awe, like he couldn't believe we sat across from each other.

Me neither, probably not for the same reasons.

My forehead tensed as I raised my eyebrows. "Are you stalking me, Officer?"

"Eddie," he corrected me with a sly grin. His lips parted and he gently wet them with the tip of his tongue that I remembered felt fucking fantastic when lodged into the side of my neck.

"Fine." I clasped my hands over the table and leaned forwards. "Are you stalking me, Eddie?"

"If I say yes, then does that score me a date?" he joked, which only earned him a scowl from me. Before I reinforced it with an answer, he flashed his large palms up to me.

"No," I shot back right away but a smile still tugged across my lips at his forwardness. "But you do get points for being bold."

"If I can be bold..." He reached over and wrapped one of his hands over mine. His palm was warm and rough skin on skin but otherwise elicited no other reactions from me. "I haven't stopped thinking about you Harper. What we did, I -"

"You don't normally do," I filled in and withdrew my hand. While I knew nothing about Eddie, he seemed like a genuinely nice guy and a small amount of guilt lodged itself into me. "It's okay, sorry for a mindfuck, I wasn't -"

"You were perfect," he assured me in a quiet, steady voice. "I... wanted to track you down sooner but I've been out of a bad breakup, and -"

"Oh fuck." My hand clasped over my mouth.

Fuck, he was attached and cheated on his significant other.

"No," he rushed out quickly, then dropped his eyes down to his hands. "We broke up six months ago, I just... wasn't over her, I guess. It's a little complicated."

"Sounds like something you need to sort out," I replied lamely, with the 'alone' part I hoped was implied enough.

"I have," he smiled a real, beautiful pure flash of his white teeth and lifted his eyes to me. "I know I'm the type of guy who never has a chance with a girl like you but..."

Uh-oh. Oh no, fuck no. Not now. Not today. Or... any day.

"Eddie - " I cut in as my pulse quickened in my veins. My head shook slightly back and forth and the guilt moved itself up and settled right smack into the middle of my chest.

"Just listen," he requested in a calm voice, so I sat quiet and clamped my mouth shut. A warm sincerity flowed through his eyes, "Because I just wanted to say thank you."

"I - huh?" My head nearly snapped off my neck from how sharply I titled it sideways.

"I had zero interest in, well, anything," he admitted sheepishly and dropped his eyes to his hands, where his right hand's fingers stroked over his bare left ring finger. "You blew into my day and fuck, what we did, just... Made me feel like I was a regular guy again. I felt wanted, fuck, just alive for the first time in... a long time."

My shoulders sank as my heart pinched around itself. I wasn't sure what Eddie had gone through but it sounded like he'd needed the quick fuck more than I had.

"Call it a public service." I smirked at him, then reached over and patted the back of his hand awkwardly with my fingertips. "I'm glad you came to find me again, and told me. Thank you."

Each one of the flickers of hope in Eddie's warm, hazel eyes stabbed me with further guilt, but reality was reality.

"I can't, I'm..." my voice faded as I shifted my eyes out the window, then stretched them wide.

Jake stood out on the sidewalk. Casually dressed down in gray sweatpants, a faded red T-shirt and his hair slightly damp, he stood with his mouth open and eyes glued right on me. Through the perfectly clear glass, his eyes darkened as he lowered his phone off his ear and turned away.

Oh shit.