The Blessed - By Tonya Hurley Page 0,13

read blog in town. Thanks to her.

She thought back to how BYTE began as a vile little online journal authored by Jesse Arens less than a year earlier to settle perceived slights with his enemies, a snotty clique of blue-blooded party-hopping prep schoolers of which Lucy was a charter member. As was he, for that matter. But it didn’t take off until Lucy came on board, involuntarily at first. Jesse knew that Lucy was not nearly as well-to-do as the others in her circle, that she blew her “allowance” from her absentee father at the beginning of the month, and then, at the end, was hard up and desperate for cash and attention. He also knew her secrets, her mother’s backstory—a source of huge embarrassment for Lucy, and one she did not want shared.

In an effort to avoid an all-out personal tabloid assault by the release of the humiliating details, Lucy complied. She would secretly provide him with embarrassing information about her high-profile friends, and he would see that every little move she made, everything she said, ate, or wore, would be covered. The more exclusive the info, the more widely read was BYTE, the more famous “Lucky” Lucy or LULU became in turn, which translated into free stuff, gift bags, and coveted invites for her. The “lucky” moniker came from the fact that nobody could quite figure out what she’d done to merit so much notice. With little more than guts and ambition, she’d mastered the fame game. Lucy’s deal with the digital devil had paid off.

Fame could bring many things: personal appearances, sponsorships, free travel, clothing, accessories, carte blanche at clubs—but there was an even bigger thing that it couldn’t bring her. As she brushed the screen gently with her fingertips and spun through the backlog of personal e-mails on her smartphone, there wasn’t a single entry from anyone she knew asking how she was doing. They had to know, had to have seen the hospital coverage. Not one relative or girlfriend, not one ex-boyfriend, few though there were. Actually, she didn’t have friends anymore, just competitors, sacrifices, distanced from her peers both by her own sudden fame and the means by which she’d achieved it. It was harder to betray people you were close to, even for a media mercenary like Lucy. Especially lately, when her onetime BFFs were becoming increasingly suspicious of her.

Truth be told, she didn’t miss them until she found herself in the ER and found out firsthand that no one genuinely missed her. No one besides Jesse, but his motives weren’t exactly pure and always came with strings attached. The more frantically she searched for some online sympathy, the more depressed she became. Then the cell phone rang. She checked caller ID and wasn’t sure if she should answer, and then she did anyway. “What?”

“Didja see it?” Jesse asked.

“How could I miss it?”

“We did it again. The site is almost crashing from the traffic.”

Lucy fought back the sick feeling that began brewing in her stomach.

“Where are you gonna be in the next hour?”

“In bed.”

“I’m coming over.”

“Ewww. No. Pig.”

“Not for a booty call. For a photo call. I need a picture. The premium subscribers want some exclusive content. To see how . . . you look.”

Lucy was used to being treated like this. As a thing. Mostly she didn’t mind, but tonight things were different. “Can’t you wait until the body is cold?”

“Not on BYTE. We only run hot.”

Even our verbal sparring revolves around branding, she thought.

“Wear something sexed-up, you know, heels and boxers, but maybe no makeup,” he said, art-directing her as he usually did.

“You’re so gross,” she said, douche chills running up her arms and legs.

“Don’t be so self-righteous, Lucy. Nobody put a gun to your head.”

“I wish someone had,” she said. “I’ll send something tomorrow.”

“I need eyeballs and advertisers,” Jesse insisted. “Now.”

Lucy crossed her legs and stared at the chaplet. The open eye carving on the charm freaked her out a little, like it was looking right at her again. She looked at it for a second and then turned it around so that the eyes were facing away from her. “Don’t ever speak to me like I’m your bitch. You’re the one that needs me. More people read what I write on my shoe than read your blog. Last word, jerk-off!” she screamed, slamming the phone back in its charger cradle.

The phone rang immediately.

“What the fuck’s gotten into you?” Jesse asked.

“Don’t you get that all this is really disgusting?”

“I’m not