“That’s where you’re wrong. That’s where you’ve been wrong since I met you, Dylan.”
Suddenly I’m confused. I came here for clarity—for advice, and now it feels like he’s turning his back on me. “I don’t get it. What are you saying?”
The waitress puts down a cup of coffee on the table, and as Graham fills it with milk and sugar he explains himself. “Let me ask you something. Why do you think I hired you as my PA?”
“Because I was good at my job as your driver. You gave me a promotion.”
“No, that’s not why. I hate to tell you but you were a mediocre driver at best.”
“Mediocre? Then why would you give me an even more important job if you didn’t like the one I was doing?”
He snickers. “You still don’t get it, do you? You still don’t understand.”
“Understand what?”
“I hired you because I knew that you had a certain intelligence, well above average, and I’m not talking about the kind that you can measure in school.”
“Wait, did you just call me stupid?” I smile, and so does he.
“Hardly. You’re anything but stupid. What I mean is that I could tell as soon as I met you that you were someone who knew how to talk to people. Someone who knew how to manipulate situations to your own benefit, or the benefit of others if need be. That’s why I hired you, Dylan, and that’s why the hardest part of leaving the city is losing you as my assistant.”
I’ve never heard Graham speak like this. He’s been kind of a hard ass the entire time I’ve worked for him. He rarely paid me compliments to my face, and getting praise out of him would have been like finding $100 on the street three days in a row. I’m shocked and happy to hear what he’s thought of me this whole time.
“That really means a lot, man. Thank you. But I still need your help to. . .”
“No, you don’t. That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Dylan, you don’t need me. You don’t need my advice. You have everything you need to get yourself out of this situation right there in that sharp mind of yours. I’m here to run support, but you can figure this out on your own. I bet you already have a few ideas, don’t you?”
I can’t help the grin that creeps over my face. “Maybe.”
“It’s time to let all that potential that I saw in you come out—time to let what could be become what is. Chandler can be outmaneuvered, just like all powerful men, remember?”
“You said that to me so long ago.”
“And it’s just as true now as it was then. This is a test, Dylan. This is your final exam. If you want to be a powerful man yourself then you need to learn how to fight your way out of this. The planning is yours. The only real question is, how can I help you?”
There it is again.
That devious grin.
I can’t seem to get it off of my face.
39
Penelope
I don’t know what to do.
Chandler’s been blowing up my phone. It started last night, but I had my phone silenced and in my bag on purpose. I knew after I went missing that he’d try to find me. The time stamps on his texts read from about a half hour after Dylan and I left the party until this morning.
Each text is a little more aggressive than the last. Obviously, he knows something happened, and reading his texts, he knows it has something to do with Dylan. The last thing he wrote, which I haven’t replied to, says that he’s going to “. . . get that little shit.”
All of a sudden, last night’s calm disappears and I’m anxious again. Chandler can be a vindictive man—I see that now more clearly than ever, and I don’t want Dylan to get caught up in my personal drama.
My impulse is to blow Dylan off. Not because I actually want him out of my life, but because I don’t want him to get hurt. Chandler has a reach that Dylan doesn’t understand. He knows everyone—he has spies everywhere, and his tentacles can get to anyone. I don’t want Dylan’s future jeopardized because of me.
That’s just one part of my brain.
The other part is remembering his words from last night, and how many times he’s gone out of his way to reassure me that he was going to take care of me. I don’t know what to do, but I don’t really want Dylan out of my life. It’s Chandler I want out of my life, I just don’t know how to make that happen.
I’m not sure if it’s going to make things better or worse, but I text him back.
Me: I’m SO sorry! I got really, really sick and had to get the hell out of there. I vomited twice in the bathroom. I didn’t want to come back into the room covered in vomit and embarrass you. I figured you’d make an excuse for me and I’d leave. I fell asleep after that. Sorry.
He texts back right away.
Chandler: Fell asleep where?
Shit. I hadn’t thought this through.
Me: I got a cheap hotel room.
Chandler: How stupid do you think I am?
Me: What are you talking about? I don’t think you’re stupid.
Chandler: Yes, you clearly do. And just like everyone who’s ever thought that of me, I’m going to show you that you’re the stupid one. I can’t force you to be my fiancé anymore. Goodbye Penelope.
There’s something about his goodbye that frightens me. I decide to text Dylan, even though he said he was meeting with Graham and didn’t want to be interrupted.
Me: Hey. We have some trouble. I got a bunch of texts from you know who.
Dylan: I’m on my way. I just have to do something first. I’ll see you in a little bit. I spoke to the hotel manager and the room is taken care of. Just hang out, watch some TV and get some room service for lunch. I’ll be there soon.
Me: Okay. Be safe.
Dylan: You too.
I put my phone down. I don’t want to see it right now. Instead I lie back on the bed and let myself feel something that I haven’t allowed for a long time—something I desperately need.
I let myself feel comforted.
I hear his voice in my head, in that deep tone that gets right inside of me.
I’m going to give you the life that you deserve. . .
I hope he can.
40
Penelope
I hear a brief knock on the door hours later, before the door swings inward.
“What took you so long?”
Dylan is standing in front of me, looking tired but still looking good. Laying eyes on him has been the best part of the day so far. That and some pretty trashy daytime TV—the kind where they run paternity tests and the audience cheers.
“I’m sorry,” he tells me, stepping inside. “I know I told you I’d be back sooner but I got held up.”
“Is everything alright? You were gone for a long time.”
“Everything’s good. At least I think it is.”
He’s being a little weird, and I’m not sure why. He sits down on the side of the bed and takes a deep breath as I stand in front of him. “What does that mean? Are you sure you’re alright?”
“Let’s just say that I’m playing a very high-level game of chess, and there are things about that game that I can’t really tell you right now. What would you say if I told you that?”
“That you were being super cryptic and weird,” I tell him. “But I trust you, so I’m not going to ask any other questions about your day. I’m just glad that you’re here with me now.”
“I was thinking about you the entire day you know?”
Hearing him say that relieves some of my stress. His voice has a way of doing that—it’s deep and full of bass, and when that baritone hits my ears it ricochets throughout my entire body, soothing me like a deep massage.
“Oh yeah?”
I see a look in his eyes that I recognize immediately. His gaze drifts from my face down to the skirt that sits on my waist, and I know what he’s thinking. The depth of his eyes is limitless, and when he looks into mine I know exactly what he wants. “Yeah.” He doesn’t say any more words, just reaches up and pulls me onto his lap with on
e strong motion, and I fall onto his already hard lap. His arm finds my knee easily, and with a single pull of his hands he pries my legs wide open.
I give him what he wants, opening up my world to him until he has easy access. His hand creeps up my thigh, until he’s so close that I can feel him inches away from me. The force he’s using to take what he wants is enough to make me wet, and as I feel his long, powerful finger slide inside me I gasp and lean back into him. He goes so deep that I can feel the edge of his knuckle pressed against the outside of me, and with his thumb he forcefully presses into my clit, moving in small, powerful circles until I feel my orgasm building and building.
He keeps his powerful hand between my legs, his thumb circling in ways that are making my entire body tremble. I arch my back as much as I can, pressing into his body as his movements get faster and faster. Eventually I feel the explosion coming, and I scream out as my whole body convulses.
When I’m done, I close my legs and breathe a deep sigh of relief. That release was what my body and mind needed, and when I’m done he rolls me over onto the bed. I expect him to climb on top of me, but he doesn’t. Instead he lays down next to me and buries his head in my neck.
“I really missed you,” he whispers.
“I missed you too. You know, you could repay me for being so late.”
He smiles just like I want him to. “I think I just did, or were you faking that?”
“Nope, that was very very real,” I tell him. “Now that I’m good and relaxed—and thank you very much by the way.”
“You never have to thank me. That turned me on as much as it did you.”
“Really? I’ve never heard that one before.”
“Of course it did,” he says. “Getting to touch you, feel you, see your body experience nothing but pleasure—there’s nothing I’d rather do than make you feel like that.”
Wow. Holy unselfish lover, Batman. I’m not used to that at all. I’ve never had a guy just worry about me without wanting his also, but I’m starting to see that Dylan Murphy is a different species than the guys I’m used to.
“I’m going to let that one settle in for a second,” I say, smiling. “But while I do, I need you to tell me all about this incredible ink. It was the third thing I noticed about you, you know?”
He smiles. “What was the first?”
“I think you know. There’s no way you haven’t gotten a million compliments on them before. Don’t play coy.”
“I’m not playing anything, I’m just wondering what you noticed is all.”
He wants me to say it. He really wants the words. It’s the least I can do.
“Your gorgeous blue eyes. It was the first thing that caught my attention. Then how tall you were.”
“And then?”
“The tattoos. I love tattoos and yours are amazing. I wanted to know the story. Where did you get them? What do they mean? All of it. I want to know, if you feel like talking about it.”
“Of course. I forget they’re there, you know?”
“Come on.”
“No, it’s true. Do you have any?”
“You’ve seen me naked, you should know that.”
He laughs. “You’re absolutely right, but in my defense, I was a little focused on certain parts of you—I might have missed something.”
“Nope. Not a single one. My mom would have beaten my ass. She always said the girls with the tattoos were hoes. Just a bias she had—it’s not true, and I totally want one.”
“I’ll go with you one day—when all of this is behind us and we’re looking back, we’ll get something to commemorate all that we’ve been through. Something cool. Something we both will have on our skin.”
Wow. I know that’s the second ‘wow’ I’ve thought in about five minutes, but there’s something about the way Dylan speaks about me and about us—something so assured and confident that I can’t help but believe every word that comes out of his mouth. Normally, if a guy I’d met only a few weeks ago was talking about us having a life together one day, and getting matching tattoos, I would run screaming for the hills, but when he says it I believe. I really believe.
“That sounds amazing. But right now, you’re the only tatted one, and I want to hear all about them. Like this one on your hand—what are those symbols?”
I touch his left hand—the same one that he put on my shoulder in the lobby the first time we met. He holds it up and looks at it nostalgically.
“The skull with the rose coming out of it is for a buddy of mine in the service who died when his vehicle hit an IED, just on the outskirts of Kabul, while he was on patrol. His vehicle capsized and he died right after. I got it to remind me how life and death are intertwined, always, whether we like to think of it or not. Every time I look down I think of Joey.”
I almost start crying. He hasn’t spoken too much about his service, but I can tell it’s a huge part of who he is. “That’s really beautiful, and I’m so sorry you lost your friend.”
“He wasn’t the only one I lost—but those are stories for another day. Let’s move on to some happier ink. This one,” he says, looking further up his right arm, “is to remember my first band. I was the drummer.”
“Wait, you’re a drummer?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve been drumming my whole life. My grandfather used to take me to lessons every week since I was twelve. I’ve been in a few bands.”
“Look at you, all full of surprises. I can totally see you being the drummer. Getting all sweaty and hitting super hard.” I’m not sure I’m talking about drumming right now, but the metaphor totally works.
“I do hit hard,” he grins, catching my drift. “You already know that.” We both smile at that one. “But I haven’t played in a long time. I miss it. Hard to find the time, and I can’t really practice drums in the building.”
“Well if my little scuffle with that crazy chick who was banging Chandler didn’t disrupt anyone, you could probably practice a few bars of Stairway to Heaven without people noticing.”
“That’s definitely true. I do want to play again, but I have more urgent things going on.”
“What about that one?” I point to his other hand.
“The dinosaur was for Pop—he loved dinosaurs. He and Nonna used to take me to the Natural History Museum in the city at least four times a year. I could never get enough of the dinosaur exhibits and neither could he. He used to take me to the library to get books about them all the time. After he died, I got this to commemorate him. It seems stupid, I know.”
“Stupid is about the last thing it seems, Dylan. I think it’s beautiful that so many of your tattoos are to remember the times you had with others. I think that’s amazing.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you want to tell me about that weird, cryptic game of human chess you said you were playing, or no?”
“Very nice try,” he says, smiling. “And you know that I’m not going to keep things from you anymore, but in this case, I need you to not know a few things. I just need you to trust me.”
“I do. And that’s fine, I won’t ask again. But what happens now?”
“For starters,” he says. “Tomorrow I’ll be going to jail.”
41
Dylan
I was being a little dramatic last night. I’m not going to jail—I’m actually going to court. An arraignment, to be specific.
Tomas’ case is up on the docket today. Chandler had the man railroaded for some bullshit charge that he probably paid off a lot of people to get to stick. It’s a little less than a week until the official full acquisition of Chandler’s social media app, and he’s using all of his power, money and influence to leave no loose ends that could mess it up for him.
He’s probably plotting against me as we speak, but I’m not worried about myself, I need to be here for Tomas. He’s the link I need in this whole process, and Chandler’s done everything he could to get him out of the way, at least until after his business venture goes through. I’
m here to do something about that. But not directly—never directly.
Arraignments are public, and I’m here as a member of the public—nothing more. I’m sitting along the back benches like an extra in Law & Order. I’m here to watch and to be invisible, at least for now.
Tomas comes out with his attorney as the judge announces his case. “In the case of the People vs. Tomas Snyder on the charge of 2 counts of child pornography, how do you plead?”
Child pornography? Jesus Christ, Chandler isn’t messing around, is he? He’s not just trying to get Tomas arrested, he’s trying to ruin his reputation and career forever.
“If there were something more severe than ‘not guilty’ I’d plead it, your honor. But as I’m guessing that isn’t a thing, I plead an emphatic not guilty.”
“Very well,” the judge says. “And the people on bail?”
The suit who was clearly hired by Chandler turns to Tomas and his attorney and looks at them smugly before turning to the judge. “Remand, your honor. This man is accused of some very serious crimes involving minors, and we perceive him as a threat to the community.”
Tomas’ lawyer—who isn’t Tomas’ lawyer at all, turns to his counterpart. “Your honor, this is a blatant smear campaign against my client, orchestrated to attack his reputation, and relying on weak evidence. We request bail be set at $100,000, and subject to the People’s objection, my client agrees to wear an ankle bracelet and remain under house arrest until his court date.”
“Your honor. . .”
“Save it, counsellor. Bail is set at $100,000, and Mr. Synder will be required to remain in his home, with an ankle bracelet, pending trial.”
Tomas just met the man standing next to him, but I’ve known him for a while. His name is Drew Hanlon, and he’s one of the best attorneys in Manhattan—a real Pitbull.
Oh, he also happens to be Graham Morgan’s personal lawyer.
I make my escape. My job’s done. Well, almost.
I wait on the steps outside, waiting until I see him go past me. My phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s Graham. His texts always have those cut-the-shit, get-to-the-point attitudes he’s infamous for. All it says is,
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