For a second, I was sure I was going to vomit. I could hear the blood pumping in my ears and my hands begin to sweat.
This can't be happening.
My first thought was to find whoever it was who sent the email and kick the living shit out of them. The second thought that crossed my mind was to call the cops.
But I hadn't called the cops in my life, not that I could remember anyway. What exactly was I supposed to do? Dial nine-one-one and ask them to investigate a nasty email? They'd probably just laugh in my face.
I know, I thought. I'll head right on down to the nearest police station and explain it all calmly to an officer. I'll print off everything to show them and they'll understand how serious it is. And they can see who I am. Not some wacko on the end of the phone, but Matthew Banks from the commercials.
I clicked the print button so hard I almost broke the mouse, and a second later, the photos and emails came spewing out. Clutching them tightly, the paper still hot and the ink still smelling fresh, I strode out passed Sandra again.
“Remember you have a meeting at four with Yamanoto,” she said.
“Yep! I'll be back.”
* * *
“Sir, I understand how frustrating this is for you, but there's not a whole lot we can do right now.”
The officer behind the desk, a little squirt of a thing that barely looked old enough to graduate high school was flicking through my print outs.
I had handed them to him, hoping he would file them away as evidence, but he only thumbed through them disinterested.
“Someone's following me,” I told him. “You've got to find out who it is.”
He slid the pages back across the desk to me and leaned his elbows across the counter. “There's nothing we can really do,” he said. “I mean, do you have any idea who it could be? If you did, I suppose we could talk to them.”
“I have no idea who it is. That's why I'm here.”
“Ah, yes. Obviously.”
“So, what are you going to do?” He blinked at me in response. “I can hand over my computer to you if that makes things easier. Can't you get your techy wizard computer forensic folk to poke around and see where the email came from?”
“Hmm...that's not really how the forensics department works.”
“What? Can't you find an IP address from the email or something? Anything at all?”
Still disinterested, he glanced at the clock as though I was holding him back from his break. Then, as though he couldn't get any more annoying, he yawned.
I wanted to reach across the counter and strangle the little shit. But I stopped myself. Millionaire fitness tycoon strangles policeman would not be a good headline for business.
“You can come back if things escalate,” he said.
“Escalate? Escalates into what? The guy shoots me with a gun instead of a camera? Whoever this creep is, they're sending what could be perceived as threats to me. And they're accusing me of something I didn't do!”
“I know. I know. It's a bummer.”
“A bummer? Are you serious? Look, I need this sorted today. I want you to find out who this person is. Got it? I'm a rich man. I don't know if I've made some sort of business enemy or someone thinks they can get some cash out of me or what. But I need you to act on this right now.”
That seemed to get the message across to him and he twirled in his seat toward the computer.
“Name.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your name.”
“Matthew Banks.”
I expected this would have roused some interest in him. That he would have seen my commercials and recognized me, but I would have no such luck.
“Contact details.”
I rattled off my phone number and address and slid the print outs back over the desk.
“We'll see what we can do,” he said, taking the photos and emails back. “But I can't promise anything. This is a big city, Mr. Banks. There's a lot of serious cases that need solved. We can't just send our lead detectives out to chase down a couple mean emails.”
“They're not just mean emails,” I explained, balling my hands into fists at my side. “They're evidence that I'm being stalked.”
He acted as though he didn't hear me and reached over to a flimsy plastic shelf on the wall. Pulling out a leaflet, he handed it to me then slid lazily off his chair.
“Read this,” he told me, dismissively adding, “And have a nice day.”
Before I could say a word, he disappeared through the door into the back room. Looking down at the flier in my hand, I read the first line.
Are you a victim of internet bullying? Below the question was a stock image of a teenage girl sitting in bed crying.
“Asshole,” I seethed, balling up the flier in my hand. Throwing it onto the desk, I stormed out, barging through the revolving doors.
If the police aren't gonna do shit, I'll find the bastard myself.
* * *
“Mr. Banks!” the man named Sean said in a thick Irish accent. “Seen your commercials on the TV.”
He was sitting at his desk with a lit cigarette dangling from his thin, rubbery lips. A brown fedora was perched precariously on his head, a few straw-like strands of red hair poking out the edges. I got the impression it was more of a prop than a fashion statement.
There wasn't a single computer in the office. There was, however, an overflowing ashtray, a stack of brown envelopes, and something that looked as though it might be a pastrami sandwich that had been sitting for several hours.
“So, how can I help you?” he asked, knotting his sausage-like fingers together on the desk. “It's some private investigating you're wanting done, is it?”
He blew out smoke that stung my eyes and nose. I guess he didn't get the memo that smoking wasn't permitted in business establishments anymore, but it looked as though he missed a lot of memos.
“That's right,” I said. “I was searching for a reputable private investigator and your name consistently came up.”
But as I sat in his office, the smell of tobacco clinging to my clothes and my shoes sticking to the filthy carpet, I was starting to think all the online review were fake. This guy didn't look as though he knew how to find his way out of the nineteen-fifties let alone find my stalker.
“That's right,” he said. “I use traditional methods of investigation. Have for decades now, and I find they get the best results.”
“I like traditional methods,” I murmured, feeling as though we may have more in common than I previously thought. “So, you can help me track down this piece of shit?”
“I can do more than find him,” Sean assured me. “I'll find out his blood type, his mother's maiden name, and what size his feet are if you want.”
I couldn't help but laugh. The old guy, as crusty as he was, was a breath of fresh, smoke-filled air. “I'll hold you to that,” I said, reaching over to shake his hand. “Name your price. I'll pay you half now, half when the guy is caught.”
He nodded solemnly as he reached into the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a notepad. On it, he began scrawling a number.
“This is my flat fee for every one of my clients,” he explained. He pushed his notepad over to me and I read the number, which, to me, looked strangely modest.
“I'll double it if you can do it in half the time,” I countered.
“I’ll try my best.”
“Pleasure doing business with you,” I replied, shaking his hand for the second time.
“You won't be disappointed, Mr. Banks. I can guarantee that.”
Becca
It was five to four and the boardroom was set up for the meeting. Everyone was there, ready and waiting, making awkward, polite small talk. Everyone except Matthew. He was nowhere to be seen.
“Please excuse me,” I said to the room as I shuffled around the table and out the door.
Sandra was waiting at her desk, staring at the elevator doors as though she could summon Matthew out of them if she looked
hard enough.
“Where is he?” I asked her.
“I was gonna ask you the same thing.” Her tone was still bitter, her eyes icy.
“The meeting starts in four minutes,” I worried aloud. “And Mr. Yamanoto and his associates have come all the way from Tokyo to meet with Matthew about expanding his brand in the East. If he's even ten seconds late, they'll freak.”
“I’m well aware of that,” Sandra snapped. “He’ll be here. Sometimes he might cut it a bit close, but he always shows up.”
I was growing more nervous by the second and couldn't stand just waiting around. “I can't go back in the room without him,” I said to Sandra. “I'm going into Matthew's office. He has some files saved on his computer I was waiting for him to print out anyway. May as well do them now.”
Sandra raised one questioning eyebrow then another. “Oh, so he lets you just walk on into his office now, does he? And log on to his computer?”
“Yeah, he does,” I replied, staring her down.
She stared back at me as though she was trying to set me on fire with her mind. Ignoring her, I entered his office and took a seat at his computer.
Shit, only three minutes to go. Where is he?
Logging into his computer, I tried to find the folder with the files, but to my horror, I saw he had seven tabs open already.
Jesus Christ. Has he never heard of canceling a page?
I ignored them and dragged the mouse across the desktop looking for the folder I needed. But instead of clicking on it, my finger slipped, and I accidentally tapped a random tab. His emails opened before I could stop it. I moved to click off it, but my eyes were drawn to the body of the email written in angry capital letters.
You’ve been grooming her since she was a child…
What the fuck? What lunatic sent this? And why didn't he tell me about this?
I was so in shock, so absorbed by what I was seeing, I didn't hear the door open.
“Becca?”
Frozen, I looked up with a hand clapped to my mouth.
“What are you doing?” Matthew asked looking down at his computer. “What's the matter?”
My eyes moved back to the email, then up to him. By the look on his face, he knew I had seen it.
“Who sent this?”
“I'm going to find out.”
“This is beyond fucked up. You need to go to the cops.”
“Believe me. I've been.”
“And? Are they gonna find them?”
He let out a long sigh and massaged his temples with is fingertips as if he had a massive headache. “I'll find the asshole,” he said. “You have my word I will.”
“You better. They're obviously insane! What are they gonna do next?”
“Who the hell knows?”
“What if they get violent? They're already following us and now they're making crazy accusations and spewing this shit. I mean, what the hell? You and I both know you didn't groom me as a kid.”
“Yeah, we both know that. But if they start spreading the rumor, do you think other people are gonna believe it?”
“Of course they won’t! You're a good guy, Matthew. You're not some sleazy douche bag.”
“But the public love a rumor,” he replied sadly. “And once one as serious as this comes out, people will always wonder if Matthew Banks groomed his best friend's daughter to be his little sex slave once she was of age.”
“No one will think that!” I tried to convince him, but even I knew the public were fickle and loved gossip. And what better story was there than this?
“But it's not the public that scares me the most,” he continued, moving around beside me. “It's your dad.”
“You’re his best friend. He loves you like a brother. He'll understand.”
“I fucking doubt that. He'll kick my head in. He'll never forgive me for what I've done.”
“What we've done,” I corrected him. “It's not like I was some passive victim. I wanted it.”
A look of understanding flashed between us. We both wanted to be together. And knowing the trouble it could land us in seemed to bond us even closer, as though it was us two and our forbidden fucking against the world.
“What if this nutcase blows all this wide open?” he said, waving his hand angrily at the screen. “What if he tells your father?”
“My dad will understand. He loves me and wants me to be happy. I mean, sure, he'll be shocked, but he'll get over it. I'm sure he will.”
“I think you're delusional,” he laughed mockingly. “Your dad will have an aneurysm if he finds out and you know it!”
We fell silent for a second, each of us contemplating what to do next. I knew what was on Matthew's mind. He was thinking Let's hush everything up and pretend it never happened. Let's make sure Bob never finds out a thing. But I was thinking the complete opposite.
“I think we should tell him,” I announced, projecting all my strength into the statement.
Matthew looked at me warily for a second as though he thought I'd grown a second head.
“Tell him,” I repeated. “If he finds out from whoever this person is, it'll be catastrophic, but if it comes from us...” I let the sentence die as I shrugged.
“It'll still be catastrophic.”
“But not so much of a shock,” I pointed out. “And, he's going to find out eventually, right? How long can we hide this?”
Forever, said his eyes, but his mouth said, “I suppose he'll find out eventually.”
“So we'll tell him?”
He clutched at his hair and looked out the window across the city. I noticed he was staring in the direction of Dad's gym.
“Matthew. I'm not sure exactly what's happening between us, but I know something is happening. And it's intense and it's raw and it's the best thing I've ever experienced. We're amazing together. And I think my dad deserves to know that.”
His eyes glossed over as he disappeared inside his own head. He remained in a daydream for a second, and just when I thought he'd never come out of it, he snapped and looked at me. He took my hand and brushed my hair behind my ear, pulling me closer to him.
“We are amazing together, aren't we?” he said. “You're right. He has to know, but I can tell you, this isn't going to go well. I wouldn't be surprised if he knocked me flat on my ass. He's a boxer, remember?”
“He won't touch you. Let me do all the talking.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Okay,” he said and took in a deep breath. “What's the worst that can happen?”
“Exactly. What's the worst that can happen?”
“Hey!” A loud voice and a bang from the door announced Sandra as she barged in. “I don't know what the hell is so urgent in here, but Yamanoto is on the cusp of shitting kittens if you don't hurry up.”
“I'm coming,” Matthew said, pulling away from me. “Just give me a second.”
Sandra grumbled in response, but she ignored him completely as she glared at me. I darted my eyes from the email on the screen to her angry face.
Was Sandra actually crazy enough to send it?
Matthew
How did I let her talk me into this? This is the worst idea I've ever had in my whole fucking life!
What's the worst that can happen? Well, Bob could actually kill me. Didn't he say he used to keep a gun in the house? If there was ever a time to grab it, it would be now.
"Are you okay?" Bob asked across the table. He was chewing on a piece of steak, giving his jaw a good workout on the slab of meat that was still bleeding.
"Yeah, man I'm good."
"You looked miles away there," he said. "And you haven’t touched your steak."
I looked down at my plate where my favorite, a sirloin steak slathered in peppercorn sauce, sat untouched. Usually I would have devoured it in minutes, but tonight my stomach was churning.
"Are you not feeling well?"
"I'm fine," I said and stabbed my fork into the steak.
Beside me, Becca was nibbling on a broccoli stem looking as sweet as apple pie. Could she have looked anymore innocent if she tried? With no makeup, her hair tied in a high bun and her office clothes replaced with skinny jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, she looked like a teenager. As I watched her eat, I noticed no trace of the powerful office boss I saw at work.
Her eyes met mine, and she offered a cute little smile. Below the table, her hand made its way to my thigh and I shot her a panicked look.
Is she nuts? What if her dad sees?
"So this is a real nice idea of Becca to invite you over for dinner," Bob said as he sipped his beer. "I don't think I see you enough these days. You work too much, you know that?"
"I know. I should take a day off eventually."
"You're damn right you should. You should actually take some time to enjoy all that money you've been making. Christmas is coming up in a couple weeks. That would be the perfect excuse for a vacation."
I shoved a mouthful of steak into my mouth and savored the taste. I mumbled through the bite, "Fuck me, Bob. This is your best one yet. You've been working on the recipe like your life depends on it. What's your secret ingredient?"
He laughed, a great chuckle from somewhere deep in his gut and slapped his stomach. “I'm taking my secret ingredient to the grave," he said. "Nobody, and I mean nobody, is gonna find out what it is."
"It's ketchup," Becca revealed, giggling.
Bob instantly stopped laughing and glared at her as though she'd just insulted his great ancestors. "Becca!"
"What? It's true. You put ketchup in everything."
"If you must know, it's ketchup and soy sauce,” Bob clarified. “There. You have it now. Bob's big meat marinade secret is out."
I knew he was only joking, but he looked genuinely hurt at the revelation.
Shit, if he's this worked up about a steak recipe, how's he gonna react to finding out about Becca and me?
Knocked Up by Daddy’s Best Friend Page 13