I don’t bother to change how I know it’ll go. When we get there, I let him help me out of the truck. If I’d tried to resist, he’d only insist on it, just like he’ll insist on walking me to the door. So, I let him walk by my side while I clutch the phone holding that awful picture to my chest.
When I reach my door, I turn to face him, essentially stopping his progress onto my porch. “I can’t do this.”
“Can’t do what?” he inquires hesitantly, but there’s an edge to his tone. He knows exactly what I mean.
“Can’t date you. See you anymore. It’s too hard for me.”
“Because of a silly social media post?” he asks defiantly.
I’m actually stunned he’d make light of it, which fuels my anger. “Silly? It is humiliating. Just like Tripp did—”
“You need to back the fuck up,” he snarls, throwing his palm up. “Don’t you dare lump me in with that asshole. Tripp did something to you—I did not.”
“You posted a picture on social media,” I accuse.
“So what?” he says. “I posted a pic because I was proud to be with you. I wanted to show my fans who I’d fucking fallen for. It’s not my goddamn fault it somehow got turned into something else.”
I’m stunned speechless. The power of words fails me at the mention of him falling for me. I mean… what exactly does that mean?
I shake my head, the bitter feelings pushing aside any warm emotions or curiosities his declaration tried to build up within me. My pride won’t let me explore it.
Because it doesn’t matter. At this moment, I can’t see past the shame of being a joke to the entire world. Again. This won’t be the last time it happens, either.
“I’m not cut out to be in the spotlight like that,” I say imploringly… begging him to please understand where I’m coming from. “I thought I could deal with it, but I can’t.”
“So that’s it? You just want to end things?” he asks with a harsh laugh.
Well, shit… the thought of never seeing Aaron again makes me feel like I want to die. “I don’t know,” I practically wail. “I just know this is the same stuff I went through before. Now, because of you, it’s all riled up again, and maybe… maybe I just need some time to think about this.”
Aaron takes a step back, and I can tell he’s pissed. His sympathy doesn’t last long. “You know what? Take all the damn time you want. I’m out of here.”
He pivots sharply and bounds down the steps, muttering curses in his wake. He doesn’t look back, but angrily hops in his truck and stomps the gas, squealing tires as he leaves.
Dropping to the top step, I stare morosely down the street until his taillights fade away. Realizing I’m still clutching my phone hard in my hand, which is now aching, I pull it away from my chest. The meme glares back harshly.
A surge of anger sweeps through me and I cock my arm back, slamming the phone down onto the concrete sidewalk as hard as I can. It shatters as I expected it to, but at least that horrid meme isn’t in my face anymore.
Wrapping my arms around my shins, I put my head on my lap and start to cry.
CHAPTER 25
Wylde
“Dude… you are practically vibrating,” Tacker says, his hand coming down on my shoulder. I glance down at the folder in my hand, gripping it tightly. “You need to take a couple of deep breaths before you go in there,” he warns.
In there would be the conference room we’re standing outside of in the downtown Los Angeles offices of Frank Cannon. The walls are heavy paneled oak, but there’s a vertical pane of glass beside the heavy wooden door and I can see Frank. He sits at a large conference room table with what appears to be a very nervous Tripp Horschen, who repetitively tugs on his tie.
Dominik ended up calling in a huge favor for me, and he’d arranged a telephone call between Frank Cannon and me. I should have felt stupid laying out such a plan, but I didn’t. After Clarke essentially broke up with me four days ago, I was more committed than ever on raining retribution down on the man who broke the woman I love, who made it impossible for her to accept me.
To my surprise, Frank thought my plan was brilliant. He’s always been known as a bit of a strange duck, but he’s so highly respected for his creativity and brilliance it’s probably not so surprising he was more than happy to play a role in my revenge plot.
His role wasn’t extensive, but it was important. He had his people reach out to Tripp’s agent to express interest in casting him in an upcoming Frank Cannon film. Of course, Frank would never do such a thing. His films commanded the most elite Hollywood actors and actresses. Purely A-listers. Tripp couldn’t even be considered B-list at this point. My investigator gave me a summary of his less-than-stellar acting career, which included the popular soap opera he was on, which was admittedly a success, but, since then, he’s not been able to break into anything big. I knew he’d jump at the chance to have a face-to-face with the undisputed king of directors.
Of course, the guy is an idiot to actually think someone like Frank Cannon would be truly interested in him. If Tripp had an ounce of brains, he might have considered this was a setup.
I’m glad he’s stupid because he’s waiting in there right now with no clue what he’s about to get hit with.
Frank doesn’t have a lot of time to spare, so he’s only engaging Tripp for a few minutes before he stands from the table. The plan is for him to bring me in for an introduction, then leave to give us privacy so Frank doesn’t become an accomplice.
Tripp nods as Frank moves around the table to open the door.
“Good luck,” Tacker murmurs, but I don’t reply. I’m so thankful he came out to Los Angeles with me to do this. It’s been a bro trip, through and through, and he’s steadied me greatly. When we arrived yesterday, I just wanted to go to Tripp’s house and stomp his ass into the ground. Tacker talked me down, as a best friend should.
Frank gives me a wink when I step into the conference room. I wait until he exits, then close the door behind him.
Brows furrowing in confusion, Tripp half rises from the table, unsure of who I am. I can see he thinks he knows me, but he’s not quite sure. Unless he’s a super hockey fan, maybe not. If he’s been following the rising trend of the new meme with Clarke and me, though, he’ll know.
Tripp straightens, deciding to offer me a smile as he buttons his suit jacket. He even sticks his hand out for me to shake, but I ignore it. “I’m Aaron Wylde,” I say as I round the corner of the table, moving toward him. “Does that name ring a bell?”
“Um,” he hedges, still not quite sure.
“Surely you know Clarke Webber, right?” My voice is low and dangerous. Recognition flares in his eyes as I come toe to toe with him. I give him a solid push backward, and his knees catch the back of his chair. “Sit down. We need to talk.”
Tripp sits, but he immediately holds his hands up. “Look, man… I don’t know what you think you’re doing interrupting my important meeting with Mr. Cannon.”
“This isn’t a meeting,” I say casually, kicking out the chair beside him and lowering myself into it. “Frank just set this up to get you out here in a neutral territory so we can talk.”
Disappointment floods his expression as he realizes I’m on a first-name basis with the great Frank Cannon, while he is not. There will be no Oscar-worthy film role forthcoming for him.
“Clarke Webber,” I announce her name again, setting off a small pang in the middle of my chest. The woman who broke my heart because she refuses to be brave enough to work past this with me.
Tripp jolts at my mention of her, and his gaze slides away from me as he mutters, “I didn’t make that new meme.”
“Ah,” I drawl with a wry smile. “You do know who I am then?”
He nods like a petulant child, still refusing to meet my eyes.
My foot shoots out, kicking him lightly in the shin. “Helps if you give me your attention because what I have to say is important.”
“What do you want?” he snaps, finally giving
me his regard.
My voice is soft, but penetrating in the silence of the room we’re in. “I want you to suffer.”
Tripp’s eyes grow so large I’m afraid they just might pop out of his head. I find I like the fear on his face. I throw the folder I’d been holding on the table in front him, then nod at it.
He gapes at it like a huge black spider will erupt from the inside if he dares to touch it.
“Open it,” I growl.
He jerks and leans forward, gently taking the edge and flipping the folder open. The eight-by-ten glossy photo of him passionately kissing a woman outside of a seedy motel shines like a beacon. Tripp blanches at the irrefutable proof that he’s a cheater.
Turns out, the investigator I hired turned up two interesting things about this man. He’s a philanderer of the worst sort who routinely cheats on his wife—the woman he proposed to and married on Celebrity Proposal—and he desperately needs his wife to survive as she’s the breadwinner in the household. After her brush with fame on the reality TV series, she ended up becoming a reporter, then an anchor with one of the national celebrity news stations, while Tripp’s career tanked down the toilet.
Closing the folder, Tripp snarls. “So you’re going to expose me?”
“Not if you make this right,” I say blandly.
Not that he ever could make this right to Clarke. The damage has been done, and the hurt he inflicted on her was too powerful for Clarke to overcome.
Right now, a lot of this is about me and my anger for not only what he did to Clarke, but also for how it has now affected our relationship.
Or lack thereof, as the case may be.
“What do you want?” he asks hesitantly. “A public apology?”
A bark of laughter erupts from me, sounding almost maniacal as I shake my head. Tripp shrinks away from me.
Still chuckling, I say, “No. Clarke would absolutely hate that. She hates attention, unlike you. She’d never want that revived in any way, shape, or form. She’s everything you’re not and therefore, you couldn’t understand the type of damage you inflicted on that beautiful soul, so you could never make it right with her. I’m afraid what I want is going to hurt you a bit.”
Tripp’s complexion turns a nice shade of green as he swallows hard. “What do I have to do?”
“Simple really.” I sit forward in the chair, bracing my elbows on the armrest so I can look him straight in the eye. “You’re going to donate $200,000 to a literacy charity that’s near and dear to Clarke’s heart. You’re going to do it anonymously because I don’t want you getting any credit for it. Clarke would absolutely hate hearing your name, even though it would be to benefit a great cause she loves. Now, you’re going to make that donation and you’re going to provide me proof in the form of your bank statement and a receipt from said charity. Oh, and you’re not going to claim it on your tax return as a deduction. If you do that, I’ll destroy these photos.”
“You’re fucking crazy,” Tripp scoffs, getting a little daring with me now that I’ve threatened his purse strings. “No way—that’s most of my savings.”
“Yes, I know.” The investigator I paid very good money for was able to illicitly gather Tripp’s financial information. The asshole has a little bit more than that in his savings, but not much. “It seems B-rated actors don’t make much money in Hollywood, but I have it on good authority you made $200,000 for being on Celebrity Proposal. As such, I think that’s a sufficient amount to set things right.”
Tripp’s upper lip curls, his anger and sense of entitlement getting the better of him. “All because of some girl who gave it up?” He sneers. “I didn’t make her drop her panties.”
In all my years of professional hockey—gliding swiftly on the ice in a breakaway or targeting someone for a hip check—I’ve never moved as fast as I do now.
I have Tripp pulled up from the chair by the lapels of his jacket, spun, and slammed into the plexiglass window that overlooks the streets of downtown Los Angeles. His head cracks hard against the thickness, and I pull my arm back to deliver a vicious uppercut into his soft belly.
He doubles over, but I haul him up straight again, my fist cocked back for a second strike.
The conference room door flies open and I glance over my shoulder to see Tacker standing there. He had either been watching through the window or felt the shudder from me slamming Tripp into the glass. Either way, he gives me a pointed look and merely shakes his head as if to say, “Don’t do it.”
Tripp is gagging and wheezing, and I scoff at how pathetic he’s acting. With a sigh, I spin him back around and shove him into the chair. Tacker backs out of the room, shutting the door.
I squat beside Tripp’s chair, resting my hands on the armrest. He refuses to meet my gaze. “I’m not asking you, Tripp. I’m telling you that you are going to do this, or your wife will receive those photos. And then you’re going to be out of a marriage, which appears to keep you in a pretty cushy lifestyle from what I can tell. On top of that, Frank Cannon is going to blackball you to the entire industry if you don’t make the donation. You won’t be able to cut a toilet paper commercial after this.”
He still refuses to meet my eyes, but I know he heard my message.
I stand, towering over him. “You’re lucky.”
That gets his attention, and his head tips back with a hateful glare.
“I could have ruined you in so many ways. I could have just sent that stuff to your wife. I have the connections to blackball you forever. Hell, I could have driven you to homelessness if I wanted to. I’m giving you an easy out by letting you make a difference to people with that donation, and that’s going to satisfy my need to beat you to a bloody pulp. Because that’s really all I want to do.”
“Whatever,” Tripp mutters, once again not able to hold my stare. “Are we done?”
I reach into my pocket, then pull out a card with my email on it. Tossing it on the table, I instruct him, “You have two days to get it done. Send me the proof.”
Without another word, I whirl away from him and head for the door. Just as I open it, he grumbles, “This is blackmail, you know?”
Glancing back, I give him a bright smile. “Yup. Ain’t it grand?”
He flips me off, but he and I both know that donation will get made. He can’t afford to go public against me about this, because his wife will find out he’s a cheater and his career will be over. It’s a risk I know for certain he’ll never take, so blackmail is kind of moot.
I step out into the hallway. Tacker leans against the wall, studying me. He finally breaks out into a smile. “Went well, did it?”
“Well, I got to punch him,” I reply with a shrug.
We move down the hallway, intent on swinging by Frank’s office to thank him for his help. I sort of lied about the blackballing part. I have no clue if Frank would even do that for me, but I’m not about to involve him more than I already have. I just needed a legit place to meet Tripp to offer my deal. The threat of what I could do to the twerp is more than enough.
CHAPTER 26
Clarke
“It’s called depression,” Veronica says as I slump on the stool behind the cash register. As a proprietor of a store that depends on customers to come in and buy things so I can make money, I continuously glare at the door and wish for people to stay away.
“I’m not depressed,” I mutter.
“On the verge of tears, feels like you’re slogging through mud, flat monotone effect. You’re depressed.”
I swing my gaze from the door to my best friend, who leans on the back counter as she watches me. After Aaron had left the other night and I’d finished crying my eyes out, I’d called Veronica.
She came over, then listened to me recount everything without interruption but for a few well placed “uh-huhs,” and “that makes sense,” she lent me her rapt attention as only a best friend can do. She didn’t offer advice or tell me I was wrong. Of course, she didn’t say Aaron was wrong, either. She merely va
lidated my feelings. It’s what I needed then.
Now, four days later, I need someone to just put me out of my misery.
“Let’s go through it again,” Veronica suggests.
I swivel on the stool, scowling. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I don’t want to think about it. I just want Aaron Wylde and all my memories of him to go away.”
“Yeah,” she replies dryly. “How’s that working for you so far?”
“Shut up,” I mutter, swiveling to glare at the door again.
To my shock, it opens and a woman walks through. Tall and gorgeous with dark hair and equally dark eyes set into a modelesque face.
Nora.
I sit up straight with a smile, a concerted move to display false confidence and a general joy for life.
Her keen eyes cut through me as she strolls my way, and I can’t help but slump back down. Nora raises an eyebrow at Veronica. “Is she depressed?”
“Yup,” she replies.
I whip around to glare at my best friend. “Traitor.”
Then I remember my manners, so I make the introductions. “Nora… the woman behind me who thinks I’m depressed even though I’m actually just stoically brooding is my former best friend, Veronica.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Nora says as she moves around the counter to shake Veronica’s hand. “I’m Tacker’s wife.”
“Aaron’s best friend,” Veronica exclaims, getting the connection. I’ve obviously filled her in on everyone she hasn’t met yet, but it’s a lot of people to keep track of.
Nora puts her purse on the counter, slowly scanning the interior of the store. She walks down the adjacent wall, quietly perusing some of the items for sale. Picking up a ceramic cardinal bird, she flips it over to look at the sticker before setting it down.
Finally, she focuses on me. “You have a lovely place here. Aaron told Tacker and me all about it, and I’ve been wanting to come see it for myself.”
I don’t buy that for a moment. Well, I mean yes… I do believe Aaron probably talks about me to his best friend and his wife. I can also believe Nora wanted to come by at some point.
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