Dirty Scandal

by Amelia Wilde

  “Elsie?” Her forehead wrinkles.

  “Do you guys take notes or anything?”

  She gives me a wry look. “Yes. But they’re not always available when you need them. Who’s Elsie?”

  “My hometown. That’s where my brother is, and Charlie has been threatening to hurt him and my mother if I don’t keep giving him the information he wants.”

  The policewoman leans across the table and lowers her voice. “Angelica, be honest with me.”

  “I am being honest with you.”

  “Are you in any way associated with the account those funds are being transferred to?”

  “No!”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  I hold up both my hands. “I swear to God, the only reason I did any of this is because Charlie attacked my brother. Adam will tell you.”

  “We’ll attempt to locate him right now.”

  “Hurry.”

  A little while later, my lawyer comes in. Turns out Sisterspark offers legal services for its employees. She’s a tiny woman, even shorter than I am, and she is wearing a terse expression. She explains that I haven’t been formally charged yet because it’s starting to appear as if I’m a victim of extortion.

  “I’d say.”

  “Here’s what’s going to happen. They’re not going to book you right now. In fact, it seems Mr. Brandon has urged them to proceed with caution.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Did they find my mom and brother?”

  “Yes, and a local watch is being posted at the residence. They’ll be safe for the time being.”

  “Great. And what about me?”

  She gives such a slight shrug that it’s almost imperceptible. “You’re not considered a flight risk, and if this Charlie character you told them about is actually running a crime ring targeting the ultra-rich, they don’t have any room for error. People with a considerable amount of influence are going to make life miserable for the NYPD if it turns out they didn’t invest their resources in shutting down a scheme like that.”

  I nod. What else is there to say?

  “So, Angelica, go home and stay there. The best thing you can do is sit tight while they investigate. It doesn’t hurt to cooperate, okay?”

  “Okay.” There’s no clock in this room. “Is it going to be a pain in the ass for me to hail a cab right now?”

  “I’ve got one waiting outside for you.”

  When the cab pulls up outside my building, tears well up in my eyes.

  “Thanks,” I tell the lawyer, handing her half the fare. I never got her name. I assume I’ll be seeing her soon.

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  My apartment is as I left it, silent and neat. Sarah still isn’t back—her business trip was extended—and at first I can’t tell what’s off about the space.

  Then it hits me.

  Jett.

  I haven’t spent an evening without him since all of this started.

  The lump that rises to my throat is so painful that for a minute I think I’m choking. I swallow past it, flipping on the lamp in my living room, but when I sit down on the sofa by myself, my body aches for him so badly that I can’t hold it in anymore.

  It’s pathetic, sobbing alone in my apartment, so loud and fierce that I’m sure any neighbors who are still awake at this hour will hear and wonder if someone is hurting a dog or killing a seagull.

  I cry until my stomach hurts, until there are no more tears left to shed, and then I get up and go into the bathroom. Turn the shower on hot so the steam fills up the room, and then I step inside pulling the curtain closed.

  The water cascades down over my skin, washing off the nervousness and fear. I wash and rinse my hair meticulously, then scrub every inch of skin until it’s pink and clean and I’m confident there is nothing from the police station left on me.

  When I step out, I reach for the fluffy robe that Jett kept for me next to the shower in his master bathroom, but my hand finds empty air. I settle for a thin towel. I should get around to replacing those sooner rather than later.

  I look in the mirror.

  I’m still mostly the same, with red eyes and skin flushed from the heat of the water. I could use a trim. I could use some sleep.

  But there was one thing the shower couldn’t wash off.

  The heartbreak.

  38

  Jett

  I’ve never been more desperate to put something behind me than I am right now.

  I thought Emerald was a disaster, the way she distracted me long enough to get what she wanted, the way she played me like a fiddle, the way she almost yanked me off course.

  Now I know better than that.

  Every time I think of Angelica, my face goes hot, my gut churns, my heart feels like someone has stabbed it with a blade.

  Why didn’t I learn my lesson? How stupid am I?

  Angelica was the disaster. Angelica played me better than Emerald ever could have.

  I toss and turn in my empty bed, thinking of Angelica at the police station. They call to update me when she’s released for the night. Not a flight risk, they say. Extortion, they say. It’s all part of some plan to reel in the guy at the center of the crime ring. She’s agreed to turn herself in if charges are filed.

  I start to say that they should press charges against her right this very second, but bite back the words.

  She affects me even now, in the black depths of my anger.

  The way she approached me so tentatively, never wanting to pry but wanting to know...the way she made me want to curb my temper...

  It pisses me off.

  It pisses me off that someone who lied to me so well and for so long could still have a hold over me.

  I force myself out of bed and stomp over to the walk-in closet, choosing the first workout clothes I find. Then I stalk out of the penthouse, stalk into the elevator, stalk across the street to the gym—which is always accessible by key card to VIP clients like myself—and lose myself in hours of sweating, pressing weights up and up, heavier and heavier, and running on the treadmill.

  When I’m done, my muscles ache and burn.

  But my heart is still an open wound.

  I manage to claw three hours of sleep out of the early morning. Then, even though it’s Saturday, I go to the office.

  I don’t want to be in the penthouse.

  I should sell the thing and never go back.

  I tear through paperwork, reading every single word. By the time Monday morning arrives, I’m going to be so far ahead that Emily’s not going to know what to do. But I’ll tell her. She can schedule meetings into infinity because I’m going to be involved now.

  This is going to be my life.

  The thought makes my stomach tighten. This office, these people, making money hand over fist, that’s going to be my life.

  It was the right choice to end things with Angelica. How was I going to sleep at night knowing there was a liar lying next to me in my bed? A scam artist who wanted me for my money? A thief who apparently had no qualms about sleeping with the man she was helping to rob?

  She didn’t get anything out of this.

  The thought bubbles up and my hand clenches around my pen, ruining the signature on the form I’m signing.

  “Fuck.”

  There’s nobody in the office to hear me.

  When the papers are gone, it’s two o’clock in the afternoon and the silence of the building rings in my ears.

  My phone has been buzzing throughout the day, but none of the messages are from Angelica.

  Good.

  I don’t want to hear anything from her.

  What could she say that would make her actions any less heinous?

  That she loves you, and she loves her brother, and she couldn’t let him get taken out by some creep. That the stakes were too high. That she got in over her head.

  No.

  Not even that.

  She can never take back what she’s done.

 
I text Stuart and tell him to take the rest of the night off, then walk home, looking in the windows of all the shops and restaurants.

  Everywhere I look, there are couples.

  Jaw set, muscles tense, I pick up the pace.

  No matter how much it hurts right now, I had no other option.

  I can never let her—or any woman—get that close to me again.

  I spend the evening ensconced in the penthouse, looking it over.

  No, I’m not going to sell it. That would be letting her win, and I’m not about to let her achieve that kind of victory over me.

  Instead, I’ll remodel the whole thing. Remove any traces of her. Replace the furniture. Make it a new place.

  Make it mine.

  Like she was supposed to be mine.

  “No,” I say out loud to the emptiness. “There’s no way.”

  Isn’t there?

  No.

  I strip off my jacket and suit pants and change into comfortable lounge clothes, and then I crank up the air conditioning.

  Now that I’ve got the penthouse to myself, I can do whatever the hell I want.

  Tomorrow I’ll get back in the game. Tomorrow I’ll ask Connor to go to the Swan. He’ll find us some beautiful women to talk to and I can enjoy them for an hour and leave them behind, like I’m supposed to.

  In the meantime, I can finally enjoy the quiet. The peace.

  It’s not deafening. It’s how I like it. I like the solitude.

  I relish the solitude.

  I do.

  But solitude is nothing if you’re going to sit around and waste it, so I queue up my favorite moves from my digital collection—my own personal Netflix—then place a call to Sasabune.

  “It’s Jett Brandon.”

  The people at the hostess station put me through to the chef.

  “Buddy!” he cries. “Takeout for you and the lady?”

  He doesn’t need to know about any of this. He needs to send a metric fuckton of food and send it fast so I can get started on my night in.

  “Give me your best.”

  39

  Angelica

  My lawyer calls at ten o’clock on Sunday. I’m already awake, burrowed under my comforter. I don’t know how long I’ve been lying like this.

  I don’t care.

  “Hello?”

  “Good morning, Angelica. Are you at home?”

  “Of course.”

  “How soon can you be at the police station?”

  I shove my hair away from my face and roll over onto my back. “Half an hour. Is there something they want?”

  She sighs a little, like I’m deliberately being an idiot. “They want to question you, Angelica.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll meet you there.

  When she hangs up, I toss my phone onto the bedside table and get out of bed. My muscles ache like I’m an old woman. I feel vaguely ill.

  Heartbreak.

  I can’t summon the energy to deal with a full shower, and anyway, I stood in there long enough last night. So I compromise by taking five minutes to twist my hair into a respectable bun at the back of my head and choose an outfit that won’t make me look like some kind of desperate criminal.

  If only I hadn’t done this to Jett.

  If only Charlie had chosen anyone else to be the target.

  Shit, if that were true, then I might still have a chance with the man I’m almost certain is the love of my life.

  It was stressful, doing what I did, but when I was with him there were stretches of time when it faded into the background. He made me feel treasured. Precious. Wanted. Like I’d never have to worry about walking past some street harasser, heart racing, again.

  “That’s over now,” I tell myself in the mirror when I stop to check my outfit one last time. “It’s over.”

  As soon as I step inside the police station, I’m nearly bowled over by a woman who’s coming at me at full speed.

  At first I try to step aside—my mind is on Jett—but then her arms envelop me and I inhale her scent, and oh, my God—

  “Mom?”

  She squeezes me tight. “Angelica.” I look past her shoulder, and Adam is standing there, too, hands in his pockets, bags under his eyes.

  My mom hugs me for a long, long minute, and then steps back to look at me. I’m expecting to see disappointment in her eyes, but they’re filled with confusion. “I don’t understand, Angie,” she says after a beat. “They want to ask me questions, too, but I didn’t have anything to do with this. Adam won’t even tell me what’s going on.”

  “That’s probably...that’s probably the best choice, Mom.” I cut a glance over my mom’s shoulder at Adam, who gives me a little nod. “Tell them what you know. That’s all you need to do.”

  She drops her hands to her sides, then reaches out again and pats my arm above the elbow. “Whatever it is, honey, you can tell me.”

  “I will. We will.” I guide her a couple of steps closer to Adam. “What are you doing in the city?”

  “The police asked us to come.”

  My stomach turns over. “That doesn’t seem like—”

  “I know.” Adam cuts me off. We don’t need to say out loud that my brother could be a sitting duck in the city. Things have almost certainly started to go wrong for Charlie by now, unless the police have chosen to do nothing in the interest of tracking him and his people. There’s no way to know.

  I lower my voice. “Where are you staying? Not at your place, I hope.”

  “The Times Square Sheraton,” my mom says, trying to put a smile on her face. “I got a bonus at work and I thought we could make a vacation out of it.” She blushes a deep red. “Not that I think this is a vacation...”

  I put my arm around her shoulders. “I know what you meant, Mom. But don’t worry about the bill. I’ll pay for it.” Out of the savings I’ve spent years scraping together, but she doesn’t need to know that.

  A sergeant approaches, along with a detective. The instant they introduce themselves, I’ve already forgotten their names. Now that I know my mother and brother are safe—at least for the moment—my mind turns back to Jett. Jett’s face. Jett’s hands. Jett’s heart that I’ve broken, stomped underneath my high heel like a worthless piece of trash on the sidewalk.

  No—what I saw in his face wasn’t heartbreak. It was anger. It was rage.

  Anger at having his heart broken.

  The detective is still talking. “Mrs. Chandler, we’d like to speak with you first. This should be a quick interview.”

  “Okay,” my mom says slowly, looking at me, then at Adam.

  “Come back with us to my office.”

  She kisses each of us on the cheek like she might not see us again, then follows the pair of them out of the room.

  Adam sighs, then his eyes flick around the station. Nobody seems to be paying attention to us, but I can guess what he’s thinking. We don’t want to seem like we’re conspiring, getting a story straight...anything like that. Of course, my only experience with this kind of thing is from crime shows. Adam? I’m not so sure anymore.

  “I didn’t throw you under the bus. I told them Charlie threatened you, and that it was about money. That was it.”

  “I’ll tell them the rest. You don’t have to worry about it, Angie. They’re going to want to meet with me next.”

  I roll my shoulders back and straighten my spine. After that, it’ll be me—and we’ll rehash all the things I told them yesterday, but in greater detail. Where exactly did I meet Charlie? What time? What was he wearing? Was there anyone with him? I settle in, start organizing my memories.

  If I’m going to lose Jett, I might as well help end Charlie’s reign of terror.

  40

  Jett

  Moving on is impossible when the police call me three times a day with updates.

  It seems like it’s been forever, but it’s only been three days, and already I can feel myself becoming snappish, the kind of asshole I always hated grow
ing up.

  I don’t want to hear anything else about Angelica.

  On Monday, the doubt clouds my mind like a thunderstorm descending over the city.

  Everyone’s words go in one ear and out the other, and after meetings, when I look down at the legal pads in the leather portfolios I’ve taken to carrying with me, I don’t remember what my notes are supposed to be about.

  If I made such a great choice, why is it eating me alive?

  By noon, I’ve had enough. I’ve also had enough of being alone at my penthouse. I never ended up asking Connor to go out, and now my chest is dull and heavy and somehow like a live wire, raw and exposed, at the same time.

  Maybe a night out would have lifted the weight a little bit.

  “Emily.” My voice is loud and clear. I stand up from behind my desk, grab my suit coat, and pat my pocket. Phone is secure. “I’m out for the rest of the day. Reschedule everything for later in the week. Wednesday at the earliest.”

  “Mr. Brandon?” she says, standing up from her own desk as I come through the outer office. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “No.”

  She takes in a breath like she’s going to ask another question, but changes her mind.

  It doesn’t matter. I’m gone.

  I end up at a piano bar on 47th with my hand wrapped around a cold glass, which contains something called the Hell’s Kitchen. I’m not entirely sure what’s in it, and I don’t care.

  There’s no music playing right now, but one of the pianos is being tuned and the man doing the work occasionally lets a note sound long, then fiddles with it. Aside from a couple of tourists—from the Midwest, judging by the accents and the way they gleefully order every appetizer on the menu and giggle their way through each one—I’m the only one at the bar.

  I’m halfway through my drink and beginning to relax when the bartender leans against the bar across from me. I’ve been staring at the polished hardwood bar top and thinking about Angelica. When I raise my eyes to find out what he wants, he’s looking at the tourists in the corner booth.