When, she asked herself, did the internet become so fucking negative? She remembered a time, not so long ago, when she could read messages from gushing fans and lovesick boys and not worry about running into hate-filled screeds. A simpler time, she supposed, an easier time.
She sat in front of the computer, her face lit by the glowing blue screen, and knew it couldn't be sugarcoated any longer. Nearly every website bearing her name had been flooded with lies and innuendo by young women determined to destroy the reputation she had worked so hard to establish. It was working too, judging by the responses they got, and there seemed no way to stop it.
For a woman with a caustic tongue and superior but well-deserved attitude, it was reciprocity come at the absolute worst possible time.
What hurt the most was the knowledge that these so-called concerned fans weren't entirely off the mark. Her once-promising screen career had indeed stalled, forcing her to take stroke roles in garbage like Dragonball and Dare where she had only to jiggle and look pretty. Her musical aspirations--sparked by a starring role in The Phantom Of The Opera--had come to nothing, her critically acclaimed pop album a decided flop. And to rub salt in the wound, her agent had stopped taking her calls.
All because she wouldn't play the game: wouldn't spread her legs for the various producers, directors, and casting agents who held the keys to fame and fortune: wouldn't suck some third-rate rapper's dick in the vague hope that he might one day decide to produce a track for her.
"But Gwen played it right," her producer-boyfriend once told her. "And look where she is now. Nelly Furtado, Katy Perry, hell, even Ashley-fucking-Tisdale. They all did what they had to do, and look at them now."
"Good for them, but I'm not Gwen or Ashley," she retorted. "I'm me. I have standards."
"Tell me about it."
Now, at the tender age of twenty-one, Emmy Rossum had to decide whether or not to loosen her legendary standards. That she was classically trained, extraordinarily talented, and unnaturally beautiful made little difference. Nudity, her agent told her, was the only way to rejuvenate her flagging career. She could do it now, while she was still young and firm, and hope the buzz put her back on someone's radar--or look forward to a career in local theater with the occasional direct-to-video cheesecake role.
She could only imagine what her fans would say about that.
Her phone began to vibrate, hard enough to slide across the desktop and bring her back to the here and now. She snatched it up and found a crude text message from her know-it-all boyfriend: he wanted to know if she coming over tonight. Emmy snapped the phone shut and threw it on the bed. She took a deep breath, refocused, and calmed herself before she gave in and sent him a strongly-worded reply. "Good luck," she muttered.
She closed down her laptop and slid it into the charging station. Justin could be fun company at times, but lately all he seemed to care about was sex. Well, no, that wasn't entirely true. He also liked to spend her money.
Emmy sighed. So many problems, not many solutions. What she really needed was some time away from the city: away from Justin and her mom and all the trash-talking wannabe divas. A little vacation from the drama. She could get some sun, recharge her batteries, and come back stronger than ever.
She dashed laughing to her closet and started to pack. She had never done anything like this before, leaving everything and everyone behind without so much as a phone call to her mom. It was almost naughty.
<><><>
Emmy leaned back on her blanket and watched the sun sink beyond the horizon. It glittered on the choppy water and bathed her and her fellow beachgoers in soft orange light.
She felt great. In the morning she'd taken a long walk along the boardwalk, buying trinkets and snacking on fish tacos while the occasional man or woman or kid tried to hit on her. In the afternoon: a long swim in the sparkling water for some sun and much needed exercise. And now, with an old sweater pulled over her sticky body, her long hair damp and frizzy, she felt like a new woman.
Down the beach a group of men began to break apart, all except one: a tall, well-built black man who had been checking her out all day. It was because of him that Emmy left her long legs uncovered even though the air was growing colder by the minute, her string-bikini bottom catching his eye whenever she stretched and shifted. He lingered behind and watched her, but couldn't seem to gather up enough courage to come over and chat her up.
Emmy shook her head. It happened all the time. She was famous enough to be recognized in public, but not famous enough for anyone to actually know who she was and not assume they knew her from school or an old job at McDonald's.
The sun seemed to hang in the distance before vanishing. Emmy pulled off her sunglasses and dropped them in her bag. She stood and slipped her feet in a cheap pair of flip-flops she had bought earlier that day and folded her towel. She watched out of the corner of her eye as he did the same.
They met at the stairs that led up to the street. Emmy gave him an unconcerned glance, as if she could take or leave him, but checked him out all the same. His dark skin glistened in the dim light cast by the streetlights. He was a lot more ripped than he had looked from a distance.
"Hey," he said. "Name's James." He waited as someone passed between them. "I noticed you looking at me back there."
"Did you?" Emmy said in a haughty, slightly annoyed tone. Upper-class and Jewish, it was sometimes expected of her to be a little spoiled, a little bitchy, and she found she played the part rather well. Most men found it irresistible. "Well, James, I hope you weren't offended. I was merely taking in the view."
She switched her bag to the opposite shoulder and put a hand on her hip, having long ago mastered the art of physical flirtation.
James gave her an embarrassed smile. He was used to a different kind of woman, one who didn't come straight to the point. Emmy briefly considered coming out even straighter and telling him she really needed to have her pussy eaten, then decided the comic effect of watching him run away wouldn't compensate for not actually having her pussy eaten out.
"Thanks," James said. "I work out a lot. Nice to see it paying off."
"I don't," Emmy said. She scanned the beach over his shoulder, ever the disinterested rich girl. "I like to dance."
"It shows," James said. "You've got a great body."
Emmy touched his arm. He seemed to melt under her fingers. "You don't do this very often, do you?"
He laughed and shook his head. "So, uh, yeah." He inhaled. "I know we don't know each other all that well, but maybe we could get something to drink. If you don't want to, that's cool. Maybe I could get your number or something."
