“I have to be honest, mate—you look like shit.”

“Not sleeping and an overabundance of lactic acid will do that,” I deadpanned and went to knock back a bottle of water, emptying it almost all in one go. I’d been functioning on less than three hours sleep a night.

“And having your heart broken,” Tom put in.

I scowled. “Piss off.”

My phone pinged with yet another notification, but I ignored it. I’d been ignoring it for hours now, too stubborn to face the world. Annie didn’t want me. Well, she didn’t want me like I wanted her. That was the only fact I could handle right now. Any online bullshit could wait.

“Have you spoken to her?” Tom asked, wincing at my harsh response.

“Yes.”

“And…?”

“And nothing. I’m moving on.”

Now, if only I could convince my heart of that. This pain was worse than any injury or beating I’d ever had to endure.

“Moving on to what? Tying up women like Brona and letting them sell their story to the highest-bidding tabloid? You were famous before all this, but now everyone knows who you are. You can’t go back to the way things were.”

His tone put me on edge. “I never said I could. And why are you here anyway? Don’t you have work?”

He paced and continued talking, ignoring my question. “I’ve even had photographers hanging around the restaurant, you know. It’s verging on ridiculous. And I came because I give a fuck. Look what happened the last time you lost the plot—you nearly killed that prick Sean Cassidy. I’m here to make sure you don’t go down the same road again.”

“Jesus, Tom, that was a completely different situation. Who do you think I’m going to hurt? Annie?”

“That’s not what I’m saying, and you know it.”

I was about to throw back some cranky retort when my phone started buzzing and I recognized Lucy’s ringtone. She was the only person whose calls I never ignored, so I went to pick it up.

“Lucy,” I answered.

“Oh, my God, bro, have you been online yet this morning? Have you seen it?” Lucy began, her voice positively bursting with emotion.

“I’m taking a break from online, Luce. What is it?”

She let out a worried sigh. “So you haven’t seen it. Okay. You need to go onto New York’s Finest right now and read the latest post. Crap, why didn’t you tell me about any of this? Why didn’t you tell me who Annie really was?”

What she said had me moving through the penthouse at warp speed and searching for a computer. “There wasn’t a right time.... How the hell do you know?”

“Quit asking questions, and just go read her post. Call me back when you’re done.” She hung up, and I finally found my laptop. My heart pounded, the anticipation killing me as I waited the fraction of a second for the page to load. Then it was finally on the screen, and I felt my skin prickle as I started to read.

New York’s Finest

Blogging as *The Socialmedialite*

April 22

LADIES AND GENTS! I have an announcement!

You know that guy I featured on my blog a few months ago? The really, really hot Irish rugby player who plays the position of “hooker” in the RLI (Rugby League International)? The one with the anger management issues, the body of a gladiator, and the face of a movie star? The one with the questionable fashion choices, leading me to ask whether he was the lovechild of a leprechaun and a hobbit? Ronan Fitzpatrick? Yeah, that guy.

Well, I have a confession to make…. I'm in complete and total foolish love with this man. I love him more than Dara Evans loves stealing baseballs and candy from children, or clubbing baby seals and turning them into coats. I love him more than Sean Connery loves talking about Scottish politics while living in Southern California with a llama. I dream about him; I miss him when I don't see him; and I want to spend the rest of my life trying to get him to eat ice cream and ruin his diet.

I don't care if he wears toe-shoes...okay, that's a lie. I need to talk to him about the toe-shoes, but even if he did continue to wear the toe-shoes, I'd love him anyway. He is the strongest person I know—and the kindest, the bravest, and the most generous. And I've pushed him away because I was too afraid of being seen. I was too afraid of being known. I was too afraid of deserving and needing someone, but it's too late. I need him. I need Ronan Fitzpatrick. And fuck, damn, shit, hell—I deserve him.

I love him more than my fear. I love him more than my safety and my peace of mind. I love him more than I value my common sense. I love him more than being anonymous.

So...there it is. I've just committed social media suicide (and maybe professional suicide), but I don't care. I would rather crash and burn in the flames of courage than sit in the comfortable, lonely shadows of air-conditioned cowardice for another second.

<3 The Socialmedialite

AKA Annie Catrel

“Holy fuck,” Tom swore as he read over my shoulder. “Your girlfriend has a pair of balls on her, that’s for certain.”

I was still in too much shock, the words on the screen blurring my vision; otherwise, I would have given Tom a wallop for insinuating the woman I loved possessed testicles. But okay, metaphorically speaking, she did have a pair. My heart beat faster than my brain was moving, and considering my brain was racing faster than Usain Bolt on steroids, that was saying something.

After everything that had happened, I’d lost all hope. I didn’t think Annie was ever going to give us a real chance, and now I had one hitting me square between the eyeballs. That’s what the article was about, wasn’t it? It was her saying she was all in; she was saying “come and get me” in the only way Annie could.