Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
And what they’re almost all saying is…
Steve Smith is INNOCENT!
That Leslie chick sounds like a fuggin asshole!
STEVE FTW!
FREE STEVE SMITH!
Yo, Crodelia ur hot. If things don’t wurk out with Steve…
I close my laptop and let out a deep, deep breath. One that feels like I’ve been holding it in for… I dunno, a couple of decades maybe. And I look at my nails.
I think maybe tomorrow I’ll go get a manicure.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Eden Le Fay made a post on her social page about me. Which, honestly, is quite touching. Because it’s Eden Le Fay. She’s… mean, but in a lovable way. People often say they are afraid of her, but is fear the correct word here?
I prefer to call it a healthy respect.
The point is that Eden doesn’t hand out praise willy-nilly. In fact, it’s quite hard to persuade Eden to give a fuck about… well, pretty much anything.
She lives in her own world. A world of black leather, whips, and blindfolds. And that sex… partner of hers. Who I’m pretty sure is not an actual slave, but hell, who knows?
My point is that this post was different and it went like this:
Do you wanna know why I love Steve fucking Smith, bitches? Do you? DO YOU? Let me fucking tell you why. One time, when I was drunk after I made New York Times during Sin With Us, Steve held my hair back and whispered kind things into my ear as I hurled my brains out for eight hours. Eight fucking hours, you piece-of-shit haters! Name one other man—who is not even my slave—who would do that for me. No one. No one, I tell you! There is only one Steve Smith and I am proud to call him my friend. And if you don’t like him, too fuckin’ bad. I love his ass. I love his talented, crazy, humble, beautiful, kind, and gorgeous ass. Stay the fuck away from my Steve, bitches. Or I will cut you a new pie hole. #TrueStorySteve Peace out, motherfuckers.”
And below that was a picture of Eden from seven years ago. All dressed up like a dominatrix, ass cheeks mooning the camera from either side of a strip of leather, and blowing her guts into the hotel toilet.
I was, indeed, holding her hair.
I remember that night. It was the first time we had Sin With Us at the Aria, and did we ever get drunk. Ho-lee shit, that was fun. We were loud, and sailing high on Nile rankings, I had just signed the deal for the Master Choke movie, and none of us could quite believe that it was real.
That was Mike’s first year. He and Essie weren’t married yet, but they had just gotten engaged. And the whole time Eden was puking he was texting me, Bro. I love you, bro. I’m gonna marry your sister and we’re gonna be bros.
I’m smiling so big now. Because… it was a good ride, ya know? It really was. And if it’s over, fuck it. I can’t complain. Maybe this wasn’t my dream life, but it was a dream life. And I don’t care if it’s time to wake up now. I really don’t. I wrote good books, I supported people and lifted them up as much as I could, and I made a difference in my own small way.
Anyway. Eden’s post was… kind of out of character? While still being firmly in character.
I guess that’s why the comment section went nuts.
Shawn has been reading them out loud ever since he got to Terry’s house an hour ago. “Listen to this one,” Shawn says. “‘This one time I was on my way to pick up my kids from school and I got a flat tire. I was on the side of the road and do you know who came to my rescue? Steve Smith. That’s right, Steve Smith. He rode up on his glistening gray stallion in a suit of armor and gave me the horse off his back. He literally said, “Don’t worry, little lady, I’m Mr. Happily Ever After. Take my horse, pick up your kids, and I will deliver your car home when it is fixed.” I found a friend in Steve Smith that afternoon. I will be forever grateful for how he saved me from being the joke of the parental pick-up line the next day. Thank you, #TrueStorySteve. You will always be my hero.’”
I just shake my head.
“Oooooh, oooh, ooh. Listen to this one,” Shawn says. “‘I can clearly see why people love Steve. Steve is one in a million. He taught me how to basket-weave. He was so patient. The basket he helped me weave was entered into the Louisiana State Fair and took Grand Prize. Thank you, #TrueStorySteve! Without your help I would’ve never made the USA Olympic Basket-Weaving Team!’”