by Wynne Roman
“We don’t have everything,” she says carefully, “but we know who Elyssa’s with.”
“Who?”
“Oliver Clark.”
“Who the hell’s Oliver Clark?”
“The reporter who published the interview with Drake.”
“What?” It’s kind of a gasp from Paige, while I cuss.
“Son of a bitch.”
“How did that happen?” asks Paige.
A pinch of satisfaction follows her question. Maybe it shouldn’t please me so much that she’s taking an interest in the stuff that affects me, too, but it does.
“Best guess?” London is asking, and she lifts a shoulder. “She saw the interview with Drake and contacted Clark. The question is why.”
Paige looks confused. “To tell her story?”
“The NDA prevents that,” London points out.
“Will that really stop her?” Paige doesn’t sound convinced. I’m not, either.
“It’s supposed to,” says Knox, for once more serious than smug, while I consider the question.
“I dunno,” I admit. “She has it in her head that we had some great love affair or some bullshit.”
“And she’s been extremely upset that you won’t see her again,” London reminds me. “Now that you’ve been seen with Paige . . .” She lets the words fade.
Now that I’ve been seen with Paige, Elyssa thinks she’s got some serious competition.
“What happens if she doesn’t follow the NDA?”
“Good question,” I answer Paige. “I can sue her.”
Knox snorts. “Sounds like a pretty fucking hollow threat to me. What does she have worth suing for? She has a crummy apartment, a dead-end job, and no reputation to speak of, because nobody knows her.”
“If Oliver Clark comes up with some bloody cash, she might have that,” London suggests.
“Lot of good cash will do me. It’ll be too late if she’s already trashed my reputation.”
“Probably what she’s thinking,” says Knox.
“Do you . . .” Paige hesitates, glances at her lap, but then looks back at me, starts again. “Sounds like she’s been planning to have a relationship with you. Especially after the baby’s born.”
“Maybe. I don’t fucking know,” I blurt out, suddenly pissed that this shit is even in my life. “The kid isn’t mine, so I don’t know what she thinks.”
“We’re wasting our time with this.” Knox looks bored, but I’ve seen that expression before. It’s not really boredom but resignation. He deals in facts, not guessing games.
“Until you can get to her,” he adds after a minute, “we won’t know shit.”
“Not sure we’ll know the truth after that, either,” I remind him. He needs to be sure of that. We all do.
“Maybe so.” Knox shrugs. “But we sure as hell don’t know it now.”
“Let’s wait until Baz gets here,” suggests London, taking Knox’s hand. He glances aside, his gaze softens, and, not for the first time, I’m surprised by the way his English has tamed him.
The new thing is when a shaft of jealousy pierces me. I never thought about wanting that in my life. After high school and Paige, I figured I wasn’t cut out for that kind of relationship.
Now I wonder.
Knox and London don’t stay long after that. Un-fucking-fortunately, this isn’t the end of things, and we’ll pick it up later with Baz.
Paige is even quieter after they leave, and she loses her interest in lunch. Something more—something new?—is bothering her.
She stands with her back to me, looking out through the large plate glass window. I don’t know if she hears me come up behind her, but she doesn’t move when I put my hand on her shoulder.
“Sweetness?”
She turns her head to one side, but I can’t tell if she can see me or not.
“Yeah?”
“Are you okay?”
Her body shifts with her sigh. “I don’t know.”
Not really sure what’s up with her right now, and since I’ve actually touched her, I can’t seem to stop myself. I wrap my arms around her waist, settling just above her hips, and pull her back against my chest. She stiffens but slowly relaxes when I don’t make another move.
“Talk to me, baby,” I whisper against her ear. I like the feel of her hair tickling my lips.
“I . . . I’m sorry.”
“About what?”
She shakes her head. “This bullshit with Drake. This thing with Elyssa wouldn’t be happening like it is if he hadn’t—”
“Stop. This has nothing to do with you.”
“Oh, c’mon. You know that isn’t true.”
“Okay, maybe some of the details involve Drake and his shit, but the thing with Elyssa has been whack the whole time.”
“If everything you say is true, it just doesn’t seem . . . right.”
I ignore the part where she says, if everything you say is true. I get it. It doesn’t sound sane. I wish Paige trusted me more than that, but I understand why she doesn’t. I ruined that years ago. If I want it back, I’m gonna have to earn it.
“I let it go too far,” I admit. “Didn’t really want to believe it was happening, I guess. Seems like my way of trying to deal with her only made it worse.”
“Maybe. But we are where we are. Now we just have to figure out a way to fix it.”
Monday morning traffic is lousy.
I laugh almost as soon as the thought occurs to me. How the hell would I know what Monday morning traffic in Austin is like? I’m never out in it. Haven’t been in years, and this is hardly rush hour. It’s ten a.m.
Paige is the one who has to deal with that kind of traffic. Her schedule is eight to five, she said, and so she got up at six o’clock.
Six fucking a.m.! Until today, I wasn’t even sure my body remembered how to breathe at six a.m. She is slow to wake up, she says, and needs some extra time for a shower and coffee to get the blood flowing again. I get it but . . . six a.m.?
Still an ungodly hour to start the day.
She was quiet this morning, just like yesterday. Can’t really blame her, and so I’ve been giving her some space. I didn’t want to talk about anything serious, either. Not even when Baz checked in last night.
I’m disappointed that he didn’t have much to report. Guess I expected too much too soon. The investigator tracked Elyssa to a motel in a seedy part of L.A., but that’s it. He hasn’t spotted her yet but says it’s normal. He’s sticking with it—and I have my instructions.
Stay put, they tell me.
Baz got Bernie on a conference call, and they were firm about it. Me going out there is the worst idea of all, according to them, so I’m staying home in Austin. For now.
My grip’s tight around the steering wheel, and I have to force myself to let go.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I smack my fist against the gearshift knob between the bucket seats. I hate just sitting here, leaving others to take care of my shit.
I got through yesterday because being around Paige gave me some kind of ease. A distraction, I guess. We spent the rest of the afternoon and evening watching Avengers movies, drinking beer, and eating pizza. We even joked about ordering out when we’d just spent hundreds on our Whole Foods shopping spree.
Didn’t matter. Neither of us wanted to deal with something as basic as cooking.
We managed to pretend pretty well until bedtime. It started out a little awkward, and so I just shouldered my way through. Brushed my teeth, left my boxers on because I’m trying to be sensitive here, and crawled into bed like it was no big deal. Paige moved a lot slower, but eventually she came out of the bathroom wearing her PJs.
They shouldn’t have looked so sexy, but they did. Shorts and tank top. I can see pretty much the same damn thing any day of the week, just walking down the street. But this was different. These were lightweight shorts and an incredibly thin shirt. Made for comfort in bed.
Made to remind me of those delicious tits a
nd perfect pussy. Every curve, every angle, every bit of softness hidden beneath some ridiculous fabric.
So, yeah, I got a hard-on just looking at her. And part of me was glad when she turned off the light and crept into bed on the opposite side. Didn’t have to see anything more. Wasn’t tempted.
And who the fuck am I kidding? I’ll never close my eyes again without seeing Paige all shy and sexy—unless I’m imagining her completely naked. And laying next to her, I was just as fucking tempted in the dark as in the light. It took way longer to fall asleep than it should have.
Jesus! We’re gonna have to talk about this. Tonight, I promise myself. Don’t know what it means, except I want to touch her again. Kiss her, fuck her, cover her body with mine, and make her come again and again.
And, holy hell, I’m getting hard just thinking about it!
Kind of relieved when my phone goes off, and I answer hands free.
“Yeah?”
“It’s Rye.”
“Hey, man. On my way.”
“Cool. It’ll be the band and our realtor. Got a thumbs-up email from Zayne.”
I have to slow down for a traffic light. “No Baz?”
“Nah. He’s workin’ on your shit.”
“Fuck.”
“No big deal.” I’m relieved that Rye doesn’t sound very concerned about it. “Showed him the place this morning, and he’s on board with it. Gotta get a lawyer involved, though.”
I shake my head, even though he can’t see me. “You’re really into this deal, aren’t you?”
Rye doesn’t answer for a second, but finally he says, “Yeah. I am. Not sure why. I can just see it all so clear in my head. The studio, the lofts, the rest of it. Keepin’ Wycked Obsession together and private.”
“Not a bad idea. We’ve been kind of . . . exposed.”
“Those first rumors about Bree and the orgy shit? That hit me hard. Tried to keep it to myself, but I didn’t like it any more than y’all. Then the rest of it? If we’re gonna take this thing all the way like we been talkin’, we gotta start protecting ourselves.”
“You’re right.” Hearing him say it like that makes so much sense. “It’s just moving pretty fast.”
“You okay with that?”
I think about the question for a second. Start moving again when the light turns green.
“Guess sometimes that’s the way it goes.”
“Admit we probably wouldn’t be meeting today if the owner didn’t push for it.”
“You think Mister Johnson thinks he’s got a live one?”
“Maybe. Probably.” Rye snorts. “No real interest in the place for a few years, according to Jay, and Johnson doesn’t wanna lose this one. Bet he thinks we’re a bunch of dumb shits with too much money or too high to know what’s goin’ on.”
“Then he’s in for a surprise.”
I met our realtor Jay only once, but he seems like kind of a hard ass. Maybe thirty-five, good ole Texas boy with a fuck-you glare that’d stop a snake.
Yep. I nod decisively.
Just who we need to go up against Drake’s father.
Chapter Twenty-One
Paige
The last thing I feel like doing on this Monday morning is working, but I already missed Friday. For a girl who never takes a day off, that’s just a little too much to handle.
Plus, it’s not just that. I’m the acting Activities Coordinator, working out my six-month probationary period while the powers that be at The Bridge Nursing Home and Assisted Living Facility decide if I’m the right person to get the job permanently. I’m a little young for the position, something they remind me of almost daily. It wasn’t my fault that I was the only one with any experience at it when my boss up and quit without notice.
Stella was a little older, in her late thirties, and she’d worked at The Bridge for a long time. Eight years or something, she told me when we first met. She always loved her job, she claimed, but things were changing for her. Her biological clock was ticking with a vengeance. When her third in vitro had taken, she immediately stopped coming in, using her sick leave instead, and landing me with the job.
Temporarily.
As HR has reminded me more than once, I’ve gone from volunteer to assistant to acting coordinator in two years, and that is unprecedented at The Bridge. Clearly, I’m the only one who is happy about it.
Oh, and Ruby. I’ll include her, because she took over my position as assistant.
This morning, no one else is in the office when I arrive, but I’m used to that. I like to get to work early, pour myself a second cup of coffee, and spend some time planning my day. I need it bad today. Even so, I figure out pretty quickly that waiting for my computer to boot up isn’t doing me any favors.
It gives me time to think, and that is something I really don’t need.
So why can’t I stop it?
But I know. Christ, it’s no big secret! It’s my life.
Drake, the cheating, Marlie . . . and Noah. I can’t even pretend that he isn’t the biggest part of the equation now. The other crap doesn’t seem so important anymore, except maybe for the way it can impact Noah’s life.
And my reputation.
I take a sip of coffee and smile a little. It’s supposed to be a happy expression, but it comes out feeling more rueful.
What reputation? Nobody knows me. Noah and Wycked Obsession have a lot more to worry about, and even that’s messed up. Scandalous stuff seems to make them hotter. More interesting. Popular.
And, again, the question comes to me. How the hell did I get caught up in all this?
I’m relieved when my computer boots up and is ready. Next thing, I’d be thinking about sleeping in the same bed as Noah. Laying next to him. Having sex with him!
Eek! I’ve been trying to think about anything but that, and allowing those forbidden thoughts to get through now, at work, is a terrible idea.
I load my email program and bring up my inbox. It’s full with Friday’s worth of unread mail, things from the weekend, and a bit of correspondence from today already. I empty my spam folder, delete the junk mail, and then go through the ones I know will be simple responses.
Once I’ve cleared that out, I get busy with the longer, more involved emails. One from accounting to discuss the next year’s fiscal budget. One from the company safety officer about clean-up after the monthly family night event. One from HR about a strict schedule for holiday decorations: no sooner than the first of each month in which the event occurs.
I smile to myself over that one, and this time it feels more genuine. Irene in HR is always such a stickler for having rules about everything and following them. If there’s ever any doubt about who runs The Bridge, we all know it’s her.
I take a drink of coffee just as Ruby slips into my office. She’s very tall and very thin, with a head of dark bushy hair and kind of a prominent nose. She’s very self-conscious about it, and so I always meet her dark gaze directly.
“Good morning!” she calls brightly.
“Morning.”
“Feeling better?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “I am.”
It’s mostly true. Entirely so, if I’m talking about that godawful hangover from Friday.
“So what happened with Drake?” Ruby gives me a big-eyed stare. “He sounded so mad.”
I shrug, trying to make light of it. “We broke up.”
“Really? I mean . . . wow! That’s good. Right?”
“Yes.” I give one emphatic nod. “Very good.”
“Because—” she leans forward and lowers her voice “—I always thought you were too good for him.”
“Thanks.” I give a half-hearted smile, genuinely touched. “I found out some things about him that . . . well, let’s just say he wasn’t the guy I thought he was.”
She straightens. “Well, whatever happened, I’m glad you’re done with him.”
“Me, too.”
She stands. “Anything I need to know so far this morning?”
I shake my head. “Not yet. I’m going through email—” I gesture toward the computer “—so let’s catch up after that. You can fill me in on whatever happened Friday.”
“Sounds good.” She nods in that bouncy, friendly way she has. “I’ll check my email until you’re ready.”
I stay busy catching up from my unexpected absence, and then I have a quick meeting with Ruby to find out that Drake’s little temper tantrum was the most interesting thing that happened on Friday. I start matching purchase orders with receipts from Family Night, make a few notes for next month’s event based on patient and family requests, and generally try to finish up anything left from last week.
Whatever happened then, leave it behind, I tell myself. And I will. I am. In all parts of my life. It’s the best advice I could give myself, and I know it.
When I finally glance at the clock, it’s after ten a.m. I don’t mean to, but my thoughts immediately go to Noah. What’s he doing? Will he be there when I get back to his apartment tonight? And why should I expect that?
He actually got up with me this morning, made me a cup of coffee—but then he went back to bed. It makes me want to smile, but I don’t let myself.
I can’t. Things are just too uncertain with him.
You can’t keep thinking this way. You need to do something!
I need to listen to that wise piece of advice. If I know anything, it’s that letting Noah into my head now is simply far too dangerous.
I stand, adjust my tan pencil skirt and white button-down shirt, smooth a hand over my forehead to push back any loose strands from my tightly-held ponytail, and head out of my office.
“I’m going to walk through the units,” I tell Ruby. “Say hi since I wasn’t here Friday.”
“Good idea.” She nods. “Several residents were worried about you.”
“Right. I’ll start in the Alzheimer’s Unit if you need me.”
The administrative offices are at the back and on one end of the sprawling facility, and so I head to the opposite corner where the Alzheimer’s patients live. The building is quiet, which is typical for a Monday morning. That is, until I reach the welcome station and the front doors.