I think about that week with Dylan on Isla Escapar. “Yeah, it was good…not just the sex, the whole week.”
“Well then, you have nothing to be ashamed of or regret. Own it. You’re a woman who likes good, slightly adventurous sex. So what if some loser decides to make it public. Own it!”
I laugh again and sip my cider. I knew coming here was the right move.
I can only hope that Dylan feels the same about what he plans on doing.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Vanessa
“A few days ago, a post on Instagram by a young woman named Kaylee Charleston showed a video suggesting that a photographer at this year’s Sexton Spring Fling had not only taken but publicized photographs of Ginny Lawson in a compromising position.
“I am here today to clear up the facts. And those facts are that I, Dylan Sexton, am the individual—the sole individual—who both took the photos of Ginny Lawson and sent them to the New York Post, and other publications.
“There was no malicious intent behind the act, which was nothing more than my—in retrospect, ill thought out—attempt to publicize the event. I would like to personally apologize to Ginny Lawson, whose career has been directly affected by my reckless act.
“I would also like to apologize to Vanessa Paige, the photographer who has been unfairly accused and defamed as a result of this.”
“Wow,” Simone says, next to me on the couch. “So Dylan Sexton was the one who leaked the photos after all.”
She stares at the screen in awe as Dylan ignores all questions and rises to walk away. Then, she turns to me with her eyebrows raised in surprise, no doubt expecting the same expression on my face.
“I guess so,” I mutter, feeling the betrayal hit me almost instantly.
“What an asshole,” she mutters.
That’s one I refuse to agree with, even to maintain the facade. “Maybe he had his reasons, reasons that he can’t make public.”
“Vanessa, I know you liked the guy, but I’d think you of all people would be pissed about this. What a betrayal, not just for poor Ginny, but you too!”
“If anything, it’s actually helping me,” I point out. “At least now, no one thinks I leaked those photos.”
“I suppose…but he could have at least taken into account that the finger would naturally be pointed at you since you were the photographer. Speaking of which, what happens with Ideal Gentlemen now? Are they cutting the interview.”
“Are you kidding? They actually wanted to do an addendum to the story in light of this. They called me when they couldn’t get a hold of Dylan. I guess he’s not too eager to be interviewed regarding this.”
“So, what will they do if they can’t get in touch with him?”
“They’re still going to run it they tell me.”
“Well, I do have to say that I was damn impressed with those pictures. Where were you hiding that talent while taking my photos?” Simone teases.
She was one of the few people to whom I showed the photos before the magazine comes out this week.
“Stop, your photos are fine,” I protest.
It is a shame that the photos are now going to be tainted by all of this mess. Simone is right though, they are particularly good, if I do say so myself. They are exactly what I was going for. Poignancy.
In those shots is the Dylan Sexton that I got to know back on Isla Escapar. The one I’ve been missing more than I thought I would in just the few days that I’ve been back in New York. Apparently, I don’t have the appeal of an A-list celebrity since there was no paparazzi camped out in front of my apartment building. At worst, it’s just been the case that my email and other social media tied to my professional work has been inundated with requests for comment—or just people giving their own comments in particularly colorful language.
I’ve ignored and deleted them all.
I can only imagine what it’s going to be like for Dylan. I pull up my phone, where I’ve uploaded some of the photos from the Ideal Gentlemen interview. I stare at the one I took when he was deep in the midst of revealing his past. He’s looking thoughtfully off to the side with a severe expression that shows off the hard lines of his strong jaw in profile. It gives one the impression of a statue of a Roman or Greek god.
Then, there’s the one I snapped when he brought the interview around to me—also now in print. This time the look in his gaze is serious, but with a hint of something endearing.
One might almost believe he was in love.
* * *
Even though Dylan told me not to call for a while, as soon as Simone leaves, I do just that.
“Vanessa.” I can hear the mixture of admonishment and gratefulness in his voice. I’m probably the only person calling him who doesn’t want to add to the pile of shit he’s already in.
“So how bad is it?” I ask.
“Do you mean how bad is it being the most hated man in America? Well, Gene has already called at least three times, if that tells you something.”
“I take it you didn’t tell him ahead of time what you were going to do.”
He laughs, but I hear very little humor in it. “He would have personally called every news corporation ahead of time and threatened to rain blood on them if they showed up.”
“So they’re probably going to remove you as president. Then what are you going to do?”
I hear him inhale and exhale, almost like he’s breathing new life into himself. “Take it easy for a while. Lie low until the press decides they’re bored with me. Then, I’ll probably take a trip to see an old friend.”
I know exactly who he’s talking about, his friend and former partner in crime from his biography that’s set to be published in a few days.
“You can come over to my place,” I offer, feeling suddenly turned on by the idea. Isla Escapar has yet to fizzle in my memories.
“Not with as much heat as I have on me.”
I twist my lips with disappointment. “You’re probably right. It wouldn’t be a very enjoyable evening knowing they’re waiting right outside.”
“Oh, it would definitely be enjoyable,” he says, and I smile, imagining the sexy grin on his face right now`. “But no, I wouldn’t do that to you. All the same, I’m definitely calling in this rain check when all of this blows over.”
I laugh, pleased to see the old Dylan Sexton hasn’t completely disappeared.
“So, are you going to be okay?”
“I’m going to be fine, Vanessa. You just wait up for me until this blows over.”
“I definitely plan on calling in that rain check,” I say with a smile.
He laughs, and then we say our goodbyes.
After hanging up, I stare at the phone in thought. Throughout Dylan’s press conference, Kaylee Charleston was a constant thought throughout my mind. I can only imagine the kind of shit she’s now getting. A part of me wants to revel in it—enjoying the fact that she’s getting her just desserts. Another part of me, for some crazy reason, actually feels bad for her.
I pull up Instagram and search for her account. I expected to find the post demonizing me to be deleted. Instead, I see her entire account has gone private. It’s only been a few hours, but still, I can only imagine the utter vitriol she was subjected to on the heels of that press conference.
I’ve tried calling her multiple times since that first time and always met with an ignored call, which I fully expected. Now, I feel the itch to reach out just to see how she’s doing. Like Dylan, I’m sure she could use a sympathetic ear. I’d be willing to bet those two friends of hers are already fleeing the rainy day surrounding the star of their trio, probably with just a wee bit of smug glee.
I roll my eyes at my own pathetically weak will and call, as futile as it will be. I’m actually surprised when she picks up.
“Kaylee?”
“Can you please stop calling now!” She cries in a voice that sounds like she’s been crying for a while. “You win! You’re the good guy, and I’m the stupid, ugly, a
ttention-whoring slut who should just kill myself.”
I’m almost sure that’s a direct quote from one of the trolls who have no doubt been harassing her online.
“I’m not calling to slam you, Kaylee. Please don’t consider hurting yourself over this. I know right now it seems bad, but it will get better.”
“Thanks for the pep talk, Mom. Please, I’m not going to kill myself,” she adds with a sneer in her voice. “So, what do you want?”
“Honestly, I just want to know why you did it. Was it just for more followers on Instagram?”
“Why?” She coughs out a sarcastic laugh. “Are you serious? You think this was about followers on Instagram? I mean—yes, okay, yes it was. Are you happy? But I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t been paid.”
“What?” I ask, sitting up straighter. “By the New York Post?”
“The Post? No, of course not!” she says as though I’m an idiot. “I mean, you of all people should know who it was, considering.”
“Considering what? Who paid you, Kaylee?”
The sniffles go quiet on the other end, and I sense her pulling away, as though certain things are just now falling into place for her.
“Who paid you, Kaylee?” I repeat, trying to channel the school principal voice of my mother.
“Forget it. I said too much.”
She hangs up. Naturally, I try calling her back, but once again, I’m ignored. I have a good feeling that this time it’s for good.
I put the phone down and stare at it, now feeling like the world that I finally managed to get back on track is spinning again.
Who the hell paid her to make that video?
Chapter Thirty-Six
Dylan
I give my phone a brief glimpse to read the message Vanessa sent before putting it back in my pocket:
Call me when you can.
Brief and lacking any hint of information, so I leave it for later. Considering the ambiguous tone, whatever it is, couldn’t possibly be as important as this meeting right now with Gene.
The fact that he’s not as hot-headed as he could be—or more of a slightly above room temperature, which is as much as Gene’s temper ever rises—should tell me how much shit I’m in.
“I realize that the board wants me gone. That is why you’re here today, is it not?”
“You’re lucky that’s all it is, Dylan. What the hell were you thinking? We finally had a chance to distance the company from this mess, and you dive right back into it, head-first.”
“Which is exactly why I did what I did. This company is a lot of things, but it isn’t that kind of unethical.”
“Oh, grow up, Dylan. This isn’t Mr. Rogers Neighborhood. This is a corporation with obligations to our shareholders. They don’t give a damn what goes on behind the scenes, so long as it doesn’t seep onto the front page of the Wall Street Journal—which it most certainly has!”
“I apologize.”
“Now is not the time to be a smart ass, Dylan. I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation. The board isn’t just talking about ousting you, there’s talk of suing you for breach of fiduciary duty.”
“Perhaps we should find out just how much this has impacted the company before we give the Wall Street Journal another tasty headline?” I say, trying to mask the mild bit of panic that hits me at the idea of being sued.
By the same fucking business I started!
“I think, at the very least, you might just find out come next year when you see how many people fail to RSVP for your little Spring Fling.”
“And I think you might just be surprised.” People love the scene of a scandal, and there will be plenty of them hoping to recreate just this kind of buzz for themselves. If Ginny were any other actress on earth, her agent’s phone would be ringing off the hook. Frankly, I’d be surprised if it wasn’t right now, despite the legal tightrope she’s probably walking.”
“I should have known you were up to something with that damn phone call,” Gene says, sitting back in his chair to study me. “With this one? You’ve gone too far. The good news is, we’ll give you an opportunity to resign rather than fire you.”
I exhale a cynical laugh. “Less meat for the press to dig their teeth into, right?”
He shrugs. “Like I said, we have a duty to the shareholders. This is a win-win for everyone.”
“Except that’s not how it’s going to happen. If I’m going, you’ll have to fire me. I’m not going down without a fight.”
His face falls and his eyes narrow. “Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be, Dylan. You already know that a vote won’t work in your favor. I don’t know a single member of the board who wants to keep you on after this!”
“Including you?”
There’s a flash of something like guilt in his eyes before he steels them again. “What do you expect me to say, Dylan? You invite a young woman who’s just barely old enough to drink to this thing. A woman who is the face of…what is it these days? Girl power? Then you capture her in the most provocative situation possible, only to hand it right over to that salacious rag? And for what? More publicity?”
The disappointment in his eyes reflects what I feel about myself, hearing it explained in detail that way, even though I know the truth. “Okay, I get it.”
“Good, so…you’ll resign?”
I sigh and look out the window of my office, the office that I’ll no longer be in after I write that letter. Maybe this is a good thing. A chance to start something new and completely different. Turn the things I’ve only thought about into another business—this time privately held. Heaven knows I’ll have the funds to do it.
“I’ll have my letter of resignation for you by the end of the week.”
* * *
I’m out on the sidewalk across the street from where Sexton Enterprises is headquartered. The food cart is the standard sort you see on every other corner in this city, selling “halal” everything from gyros to hamburgers. I can’t remember the last time I ventured to one of these things to grab a bite.
I’m incognito in my baseball cap and sunglasses, having replaced my suit jacket with a hoodie from my office. The idea that Superman could pass as Clark Kent with no problems makes so much sense to me. It’s incredible how context changes everything.
With my lamb gyro in hand, I walk toward the East River, pulling out my phone as I do. I hit the button to call Vanessa back.
“Dylan,” she says, as though she’s been staring at the phone waiting for me to call.
“Boy, is yours a voice I don’t mind hearing right about now.”
“Dylan,” she repeats, as though I haven’t said a thing. “I managed to get in touch with Kaylee.”
I stop walking and frown. “What did she say?”
“She said she was paid.”
“By who?”
“I don’t know, she wouldn’t tell me, but…she made it seem like I should know. What do you think that means?”
I feel my heart stop a beat. “What exactly did she say? Her exact words.”
“She admitted that yes, it was for more followers, but then added that it was also because she was paid to do it. When I asked who, she just said that I of all people should know, considering. I mean, considering what? Who could I possibly know that would do something like this?”
I wrinkle my brow, trying to decipher it and come up just as lost as she is. There are only so many people involved in this that she would know.
The same people I know.
“Where are you, I’ll meet you.”
Almost half an hour later, the car I’ve hired finally makes it to Vanessa’s neck of Brooklyn. She’s leaning on one of the posts on either side of the stoop leading up to the townhouse where her apartment is situated.
“I’ve been trying to figure it out, and I just don’t know who it is! Who would have it out for me like this?”
“It’s okay,” I say, trying to calm her.
I try to lead her ba
ck up the steps, but she plops down on the second one instead, her brow furrowed with sudden determination.
“Let’s start with anyone who is involved with this in the first place. Anyone. I don’t want to leave a single soul out of the running just in case.”
“Sounds like a plan. Okay, so…there’s me.”
She gives me a patronizing smile. “I think we can safely eliminate you, Dylan.”
“You never know,” I say with a shrug.
She laughs. It seems to ease the tension in her shoulders, which were threatening to reach her ears with how scrunched the were.
“Seriously,” she says, looking ahead. “Let’s start from square one. Ginny Lawson and Pete Marx.”
My instinct is to cast doubt on those two, but I douse it. Vanessa is right, other than the two of us sitting here, all interested parties have to be considered. “Okay, that’s two.”
“Sexton Enterprises, obviously,” she says, tilting her head as she glances sidelong at me.
“Fair enough.”
“Even though she claimed they didn’t pay her, I think we can throw in the New York Post and really any other media that ran the photos. Then there are the people with Can Do Town. Her agents, managers, hell, maybe even her personal assistant. She has one, doesn’t she?”
“Pretty sure her mother encompasses all those roles. Let’s throw her in for good measure.”
Vanessa nods.
“Any competition in the fashion photography field?”
“Always, but we’re a pretty civil bunch. This would be a pretty low level to stoop to. Besides, there’s no one in particular that I can think of who has it out for me.”
“Okay, now the obvious question. Any exes come to mind?”
When I stare a little too hard at her, she smirks and shakes her head. “Nothing that would incur this kind of vengeance. Also, none that would have the kind of money to throw away on this.”
I bite back a smile, which disappears as the most obvious suspects begin to rise to the top. “So, I suppose now we should narrow it down to the likeliest candidates.”
Dylan: Ex-Bad Boy: An Ex-Club Romance Page 17