“Kayla?”
I turn my head and lift my chin, meeting his gaze. Determination stares back at me. “Please,” he murmurs. “I need to kiss you.”
But he doesn’t lower his lips to mine. Instead, those beautiful, oh-so-familiar dark eyes scan my face as if waiting for my approval.
“Yes,” I say, momentarily surprised by how easily the answer slips out.
He presses his mouth to mine. It’s a soft touch. Lips against lips. Not the deep, sensual, barrier-breaking experience I anticipated for a heartbeat after he asked for a kiss.
He turns his mouth away and begins walking. He’s still holding me close to his side, so I follow, practically tripping over my shoes to keep up.
That’s it?
And the pesky voice in my head is right. He gave me more of a kiss last Valentine’s Day when he ditched his girlfriend-of-the-hour to take me to dinner.
We reach the car and he releases his hold on me. Using his free hand, he opens the rear passenger side door. I slide across the cream leather.
“Sorry, Kayla,” he murmurs, once he’s buckled up beside me in the backseat. The take-out bags rest at our feet, filling the car with tantalizing smells. “But that was necessary.”
The car pulls away from the curb, and I’m still trying to makes sense of his apology.
“A necessary kiss,” I say.
The realization hits me as the driver brakes for a red light. The seatbelt presses tight against my chest as if forcing me to hold tight to the truth.
Gavin Black is a mediocre kisser.
I let out a laugh as the light changes and the car lurches forward. The seatbelt relaxes against my chest, and I realize I can do this. I can wake up to the sight of my best friend’s abs and leave dinner dates with a kiss. A necessary kiss. I can follow through on this ruse and still hold tight to my heart and my independence. I’m not going to fall for Gavin.
Oh, I love him. I’ve loved him for as long as I can remember. That won’t change. When our fake engagement ends, we’ll still be best friends. I reach over and take his hand, intertwining my fingers with his.
“Margaret said a reporter might be waiting outside the restaurant to get a picture,” he explains. “I didn’t see one, but—”
“It’s okay, Gavin.” I give his hand a squeeze. “It’s all going to be okay.”
He nods and stares straight ahead. “We’ll find out when we get to Margaret’s fortress.”
CHAPTER 9
GAVIN
I walk through the lobby of Margaret’s Upper East Side office building as if I own every inch of the place, from the wood-paneled walls to the exotic plants lining the walls. The security guard behind the reception desk nods to me. I’ve never seen the man before. Hell, I can’t recall the last time I visited Margaret’s office. My PR team always comes to me.
What’s my plan?
I stop in front of the elevator and press the up button. Five floors away from her lair, and I don’t have a strategy mapped out.
“Someone has a thing for cactuses,” Kayla murmurs.
I glance over at her. She’s examining the prickly lobby décor with an amused smile.
“I’m not worried about the damn cacti right now,” I say. The elevator door opens and I gesture for her to lead the way inside. “I hate not knowing what bombshell Margaret’s about to drop.”
Kayla slips her hand in mine. “I’ve got your back. What is your plan?”
“Follow my lead.”
“Said the man who announced our engagement to the police before informing me.” She brushes her long, black hair over her shoulder. With the dark lipstick and smoky eye makeup, Kayla is insanely beautiful. The black tailored skirt hugs her hips. And that pink blouse? The V-neck has played peek-a-boo with her breasts all night.
Those breasts are on the top of the do-not-touch list.
But we’re engaged. And I need to sell that fact to Margaret the minute we step out of the elevator.
I release her hand and wrap my arm around her shoulders, drawing her close. My hand travels up her shoulder, and I slip my finger under the fabric. If anyone catches us, it will look as if I’m seconds away from drawing her blouse away from her skin and peering down her shirt.
Kayla looks up at me, her lips forming a playful smile. “Do we need to add a necessary touching rule?”
“Maybe.”
Her eyes widen as if I’ve issued a challenge. For a second, I think she’s going to discuss the definition of “necessary touching” right here in the elevator.
“You do have a plan, don’t you?” She nods to the doors, her lips curved into a playful grin. “For when we face Margaret? Beyond slipping your hand under my shirt.”
There must have been something in those dumplings. She’s still smiling and joking despite being dragged away from her Korean feast and hauled into my publicist’s building.
Maybe she liked the kiss.
I quickly dismiss the idea. I can’t picture any woman enjoying a kiss like that.
The elevator door opens. My gaze snaps to the lobby, and I spot Margaret waiting for us. I remove my hand from Kayla’s shirt. Then I hold the elevator open and allow her to step out first.
“Margaret,” I say. “Let’s get this over with. Our dinner is waiting in the car.”
My publicist gives a curt nod and spins on her stilettos. “Follow me. We’ll talk in my office.”
Holding Kayla’s hand, I march through Margaret’s banana yellow reception area. The sleek black chair behind the wooden reception desk is unoccupied, but it is Sunday. The entry to the in-demand PR firm has a throwback décor with a mix of modern furniture. Wide, wooden floorboards offer a path away from the yellow room to the offices.
“You’re working late tonight,” I say.
Margaret stops at a glass door. In fact, the entire wall of her office is made of glass. I’m fairly certain it wasn’t like that the last time I dropped in. Also, I don’t recall the bright yellow in the office lobby.
“I like to be prepared for Monday mornings.” Margaret holds the door open and gestures for us to step inside. Windows line the far side of the rectangular space. A glass desk supported by a chrome frame stands at one end of the room. The workspace appears empty aside from a slim, silver laptop.
Margaret closes the door behind us and leads the way to a sitting area. There’s a gray couch with white cushions lining the back. On the other side of wooden coffee table stands a single gray chair.
I lead Kayla over to the couch. As I sink into the fabric, I note the blue file folder on the table.
What the hell did Alexandra send? I slip an arm around Kayla and draw her close.
Margaret perches on the edge of a chair and reaches for the folder. “How would you describe your breakup with your ex? The woman you were dating before you proposed to Kayla?”
“Less than amiable,” I say.
Kayla leans forward. “Alexandra threatened him.”
I cross my legs and give her a gentle kick in the process. What the hell happened to following my lead?
“How?” Margaret demands, turning her laser focus on my fiancée.
Kayla gives me a sideways glance and then turns her attention back to Margaret. “He wouldn’t tell me,” she says in a low, conspiratorial tone. “I think she might have a sex tape.”
What is it with Kayla and the sex tape? That happened once. I’m careful about cameras now. And I doubt my best friend watched the damn thing. If she published a sex tape, I wouldn’t watch it.
Okay, that’s a lie. I would take a look to see if she’ d been talked into something that made her uncomfortable. I wouldn’t enjoy watching it.
What if Kayla did see that tape I made? What if she liked what she saw?
I uncross my legs and lean forward, resting my forearms on my thighs. I need to focus. I can deal with “what-ifs” surrounding Kayla, that damn tape, and her potential reaction later.
Margaret’s gaze zeroes in on me. “Does your ex have a t
ape?”
“No,” I say firmly. “Alexandra wanted to keep the relationship going, but she doesn’t have a tape to hold over my head.”
I hope.
Margaret nods. She thinks I’m lying, but I’m guessing a potential recording of my intimate moments doesn’t concern her nearly as much as what is in that folder. She opens it and I feel every muscle in my body tense.
Kayla senses I’m ready to detonate, and not in a good way. My best friend reaches over and places a hand on my left thigh. Her pinky finger brushes against my arm. Her touch grounds me. I’m ready to face the next hurdle that blackmailing bitch tossed my way.
“An envelope was left with the doorman around five this afternoon,” Margaret begins. “The security guard called up after the woman left. He said she insisted that I read this immediately. She asked to come up, but ran away when Steve—he’s the guard on duty—asked for her driver’s license to scan for the visitor’s log.”
“That’s standard practice?” Kayla asks.
“Yes,” Margaret says. “But he knows most of my clients and waves the requirement. For example, the building has Gavin’s ID on file.”
“What’s in the folder?” I hold out my hand, unwilling to wait in suspense while Kayla and Margaret discuss security procedures. I don’t give a damn how Alexandra dropped off the package. I want to see what she brought.
Margaret withdraws a packet of paper-clipped photographs and hands them over. One glance at the top image and I know they are from the same era as the picture she used to blackmail me on Friday night.
“Oh, God,” Kayla whispers, peering over my shoulder as I remove the paperclip and leaf through the half-dozen pictures. They are all from around the same time, my freshman year of high school, all shot in the same place, and probably on the same day.
“That poor child,” Kayla adds.
I stare at the final picture. I’m sitting at my foster parents’ kitchen table. Bruises cover my face. There are tears streaming down my cheeks. But it’s not the black, blue, and purple marks on my skin, or the fact that I’m crying that shake me to my fucking core. There’s a flicker of hope in that child’s eyes—in my eyes—that seemingly begs the other people in the room, hell maybe the person taking this picture, to save me.
Save me or I’ll die.
The thought would run through my head while I lay on the bathroom floor at my foster parents’ home. Those words played on repeat while I walked the halls of my high school, listening to kids tease and taunt me.
Terrance, why don’t your clothes fit? Why do you smell funny, Terrance? Why don’t you just die already, Terrance?
Yeah, I heard that last taunt so much I started wondering if maybe I should die. There was no hope for the kid in these pictures. Like the psychologist said, that kid was held captive by his abuse. He was a failure, and he always would be. Looking at those images now, is there any question why I needed to be someone else?
Kayla recognizes the kitchen in the image. But she’s letting me take the lead now. I heard her choice of words—that poor child. She’s giving me the option to select door number one, and admit that I’m being blackmailed for my past. Or I could go with door number two and claim that my ex is making the whole damn thing up.
I can’t follow the path behind door number two. Margaret knows my full story. She doesn’t know the identity of my foster family, but she knows enough.
She also doesn’t know I keep tabs on all of the people who tormented Terrance Montgomery.
I know exactly where Jack Johnson, the ringleader of the bullies at our high school, lives in Buffalo. Sure, there are dozens of Jack Johnsons in New York State. But I tracked down the one who went out of his way to make me feel worthless, beginning in fucking third grade. The one who gave me a series of mind-numbing concussions in high school.
Jack Johnson manages a bar hundreds of miles away from New York City. He’s behind on his truck payments, and his second wife filed for divorce. He’s got three kids, all boys from his first marriage. And I’m guessing he is raising those poor kids to pick on the next generation of weak outcasts.
“I’m the ‘poor kid’ in these pictures,” I say flatly.
“I connected the dots,” Margaret says in her usual high-pitch tone. But this time the hint of sympathy sounds pretty damn close to genuine. “Do you know who took the pictures? Was it the woman you were dating?”
I shake my head. “I would have remembered Alexandra. She is—” And yeah, I hesitate because it feels like poor manners to call my blackmailing ex-girlfriend pretty in front of my fiancée.
“Too beautiful to forget?” Kayla suggests.
I nod.
“Are we talking Lauren Ann pretty?” Kayla asks. “Don’t forget, I was in your class from the day you moved to town. I knew all the pretty girls too.”
“You were one of them,” I point out. “Still are.”
“That’s sweet.” Kayla pats my freaking leg.
I shoot a look at her that I damn well hope says careful or I’m playing the necessary kissing card again. But I don’t know if that’s a threat right now. I want to draw her close and hold tightly to her. I want to kiss her and pretend these pictures never surfaced. Hell, while I’m walking through my fucking imagination, I’ll pretend I never met Alexandra. I’ll conjure up a reality where my best friend wishes to kiss me more than she wants another plate of tofu dumplings.
I close my eyes. My imagination’s gone haywire. Or maybe I’m craving the comfort Kayla delivered when I was a kid. She would sneak into my room on the nights my foster parents yelled so damn loud she heard every word through her bedroom window. She’d come in through my first-floor bedroom window and offer to study with me. Night after night, she reminded me that there was a way out. She believed I could rise above the bullying and the abuse one day.
And now the past is threatening to pull me under again.
“Gavin?” Margaret says. “Are you certain Alexandra didn’t go to school with you?”
“I’m sure,” I say, opening my eyes and refocusing on the present. “She’s too young. She’s still in her early twenties.”
“A good dermatologist could help her appear a decade younger,” Margaret says.
Kayla tenses beside me at the word dermatologist. I need to shut that line of questioning down before Margaret delves into Kayla’s past relationships. It’s bad enough we’re talking about a woman I was sleeping with around a damn coffee table. If we launch into a discussion of Mr. Mistake, Kayla might walk out.
“I never met her before she took a job at my gym,” I say firmly.
“She might have altered her appearance since high school,” Margaret said. “You changed your name. Others might have too.”
“No, I keep track of the kids who bullied me.” I ignore her pointed comment about my former identity. My past is supposedly under lock and key. Yet, here we are.
“I know exactly how much Jack Johnson hates his life right now,” I add. “And every other kid who beat me until I could barely get off the school bus at the end of the day.”
“Really?” Kayla murmurs. “You never told me that.”
“I didn’t think you’d approve,” I say honestly.
“I don’t.” A small frown replaces Kayla’s smile. “Do you also keep track of the Masters?” She turns to Margaret. “They were his foster family.”
“Rick and Liz served six years in prison,” I say flatly. “Rick died about a month after his release, and Liz moved in with his sister in Vermont. I’ve known exactly where they were since I pressed charges against them when I was seventeen. I’ve also followed my caseworker. Sophia Galanos never went to prison. But she was forced to close that damn agency. She lost her license and never placed another child in a home and left them to rot. I made sure of that. She moved to Greece seventeen years ago to live with her parents.”
I deliver the facts in a monotone. Still, the hate rises up when I think about the so-called parents who kept a roof over my head,
but did little else to protect me. Sophia Galanos wasn’t much better.
Tossing the stack of photos on the table, I look at Margaret. “How do you know these are from my ex?”
“The pictures came with this letter.” My PR rep reaches into the folder and withdraws a single sheet. “She signed the missive Alexandra.”
I glance at the letter but don’t move to take it. “What does she want?”
“Nothing.” Margaret cocks her head and studies me. I know she’s waiting for a reaction, but I don’t say a word. I don’t even move a muscle.
“She wished to inform me of her plan,” Margaret continues. “Alexandra intends to tell the whole world that Gavin Black was once a terrified, abused little boy named Terrance—”
“He doesn’t exist.” I stand and pace the seating area. “I buried him when we created Gavin Black. It took years to make him disappear and both of you helped.”
“After all this time, after all your success, why not tell the world the truth?” Margaret asks gently.
“Look at the picture, Margaret,” I demand. “That boy sees two options. He’ll die if he’s left where he is. Or someone will come to his rescue.”
“Gavin,” Margaret begins.
“I know how this story ends,” I cut in, pointing to the picture as I pace beside the table. “This kid has to wait two fucking years before he is beaten so badly by his foster father as punishment for getting beat up by a bully at school that a school nurse finally calls the police. This kid has to beg and plead for them to hear him, to listen to him, to understand that he’ll take his own life if they send him back to his foster family.”
“Gavin,” Kayla whispers.
I hear the pity in her voice, and shit, I’m tempted to shut up and walk out of the office. But if I’m going to fight back, if I’m going to preserve my image, I need the people on my side to understand why I must do this.
“The cops send the kid back anyway,” I continue, “They accept the social worker’s reassurances that the boy will be okay with the loving fucking Masters family. It will take months before the police realize their mistake. When the cops add up all the calls from the neighbors, from Kayla’s parents, and the others who knew something wasn’t right at home, and pull that kid out of the house, that boy wishes he’d done what all the bullies told him to do for years—killed himself. So yeah, I’m pretty fucking certain I don’t want anyone to know I was that kid once upon a time.”
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