by Wynne Roman
A ruckus is going on outside the automatic doors. It’s a crowd, more men than women, and all seem to be jostling for position. Two security guards—all we have on duty at any given time—are holding them back, and nobody seems happy.
Charlotte, who normally works the welcome station, isn’t there, and I can’t begin to guess what’s going on. I watch for a minute, noticing that some of the men have large cameras, while others—mostly women—have their cell phones out.
Geeze, is this some kind of tourist thing? And why would it be? If you don’t work here or have someone living at The Bridge, why would you visit?
It can’t be anything else, like a bad report or an insurance snafu gone public. Irene would be all over warning us about something like that.
I watch for a few more seconds, but nothing makes sense. I know I can’t just stand there and stare, hoping to figure it out, so I continue on to the Alzheimer’s Unit. I’ll find out soon enough what that was all about.
The rumor mill at The Bridge will make sure of it.
I arrive at the locked doors of the Alzheimer’s wing with a deliberate smile on my face. I enjoy these patients and don’t mind their repeated comments and questions. Sometimes it hurts, but I visit with every one of them. Some know me, some don’t. Some are friendly, some confused, some suspicious. I respond to them all however I need to. My goal is always to keep them calm and happy and relaxed.
Of any area at The Bridge, I feel most useful here.
My visit goes much as expected, and soon I’m ready to move on to patients who are physically unable to care for themselves. When I reach the nurse’s station, the charge nurse stops me.
“Ruby called for you,” she says. “Walter’s looking for you. He asked that you come to his office.”
“Walter?” I give my head a quick shake. “Okay. Uh, thanks.”
Walter.
His name rings in my head as I leave the lockdown wing and start for the executive offices. Not Walt or Wally, but Walter. He’s The Bridge’s Director of Operations, and I’ve never met a more formal, prissy man in all my life. His over-the-top propriety is even worse than that of Irene in HR, and he makes me uncomfortable. It’s like he’s always looking for something to disapprove, and it’s a relief that I rarely have to interact with him.
What’s up today? I sigh. I know they won’t have made a decision on my position becoming permanent. Walter would never allow that to happen early. So, what is it? And why does it feel like this is a Monday for the books?
Noah
Jay’s real estate office is easy enough to find. I had a general idea of the location, and my GPS takes me right to it. I spot Rye’s Harley parked near the front door.
I’m not the first to show up. Good. I’m ready to get this shit over with.
The receptionist must be a Wycked Obsession fan, because she keeps staring at me. She looks disappointed when I turn down her offer of coffee or water, and then she escorts me to the conference room. Rye’s waiting.
“Knox and Ajia are a couple of minutes out. They’re ridin’ together.”
I nod and drop into a chair across the table. “Anything we need to know before this thing gets going?”
Rye shakes his head. “We won’t be signing any deals today. Maybe put down some earnest money if we get a verbal agreement about some things, but lawyers gotta get involved first. Baz and Jay agree on that. And Johnson’s gotta sign an NDA. Everything about this deal stays private.”
“How do we manage that?” We’ve all seen just how hard it is to keep even little things private in today’s world.
“That’s why we’re gettin’ a lawyer.”
I nod. There’s a lot of ground we have to cover first. Obviously. Seems like this meeting is a little premature, but it’s not my call. Rye wants all of us involved every step of the way.
Knox and Ajia blow into the room a minute later. “Let’s get this shit show on the road!” announces Knox.
“Just waitin’ for the owner to show,” agrees Rye.
“Any word on Elyssa?” asks Ajia, looking at me.
I give a quick shake of my head. “Not since last night.”
“London was checking on some things when I left the house,” Knox admits. “Talking to Baz. I quit following all that crap.”
“Me, too.”
We all agree, like an echo. Once London became our publicist, we got to know and trust her, and we started to rely mostly on her. She and Baz are one hell of a team, and they cover our asses like diapers on a baby.
I feel sorry for her sometimes. She and Knox are a couple; they love each other in ways I haven’t seen much of in my life. It can’t be easy for her to deal with some of the shit that comes up, but she never flinches. Like Bree, she’s part of the Wycked Obsession family, and she’ll always go down fighting for us.
We chat for a few more minutes, mostly Rye talking about shit like architects and engineers and contractors. Don’t know that I have any real interest in any of that, but I have a feeling Rye is gonna make sure we all get an education about construction and renovation before this thing is done.
I suppose that’s not a bad thing.
Thank God, I think when the conference room door finally swings open. Jay steps inside. “Ready?”
The four of us turn, almost in unison, and then our realtor waves behind him and starts the introductions.
“Guys, meet Raymond Johnson. He owns the property in question. Oh, and this is his son, Drake.” Jay starts pointing to us, one by one. “This is Rye Myles, Knox Gallagher, Ajia Stone, and Noah Dexter.”
I look from my bandmates—four long-haired, tattooed rockers dressed in our typical uniform of ripped jeans, graphic T-shirts, and motorcycle-style boots—to the other three men. Business men. Dressed in suits and ties and looking like they’ve got identical sticks shoved so far up their asses they haven’t shit in a year.
Wish suddenly we’d all worn eyeliner, like we do on stage.
I laugh and don’t get up. None of us do. We don’t offer our hands, either. In fact, the others stay totally silent as I lean back in my chair and stare at Drake.
“Oh, I know Mister Johnson.” I twist my lips into the biggest fucking smirk I can manage. “And Drake. We went to school together.”
Everybody else is silent. Jay’s clueless about Drake and the crap he pulled, but my guys know enough. Our discussion the other night gave them all the information they need to prove that I’ve got the biggest dog in this fight. They’ll let me handle it.
“Noah!” says Drake’s father jovially. It’s so fucking fake I want to gag. “Please,” he adds with a bogus smile, “call me Ray.”
I nod once but offer nothing more.
He watches me for a minute, then turns to look from me to Drake and back. His Spidey sense is screaming; I can see it in every tense muscle and short, aborted breath.
Drake’s been keeping secrets. The certainty satisfies me.
“Ray.” Finally, I offer a greeting. “And I just saw you the other night. Drake.”
He looks uncertain. He was confident until the second he spotted me. Been gloating. Feeling smug. He pissed all over Paige, got one up on me. But now . . .
Now, what?
He doesn’t say anything. Just stares.
It’s my turn to gloat. “Oh!” I pretend to be surprised. “Didn’t know this deal was with Wycked Obsession?”
Drake clears his throat. “Noah.”
“What’s going on?” asks Ray.
I look between the men, then glance over at my bandmates. I get small nods from each of them.
“Nothing.” I gesture to the empty chairs at the table, like this is my place. “Sit down. Let’s have a little talk.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Noah
We wait silently for Drake and his dad to take their seats. Jay’s expression gives me an idea that he senses something unsaid is going on. He sits at the far end of the table without a word. I give him a long look that claims, I
got this. We don’t really know each other, so hope he trusts me.
“So . . .” says Ray heartily, dragging the word out like he’s trying to take charge of the conversation. “I understand you boys have some questions.”
No one else responds, and I weigh my options. Call him on his use of the word boys, or just move ahead to more important shit?
I nod my head in his direction, more of an acknowledgement than agreement. Decide to tackle the biggest issue. “We have a couple of things,” I admit. “But first, we have to be sure we can actually do business with you.”
“I . . .” He doesn’t finish, just blinks and shakes his head. He doesn’t get it, but I didn’t expect him to. That was the point.
I don’t give a shit what Drake’s reaction is, so I don’t look his way.
“There’s a—” I pause deliberately “—little issue we have to work out first.”
Ray blinks, looks from Jay to me. “Something with the property? I can assure you, it’s exactly as advertised. Or—” he hesitates “—is this about your financial capability? I—”
“The finances of this group are impeccable,” Jay puts in stiffly.
So Ray doesn’t think much of our being able to afford the place. It makes me want to smile—but I don’t. I’ve learned to take advantage whenever people underestimate us. Me.
I shake my head in a simple gesture. “No, this is more of a . . . personal problem.”
I look from Ray to Drake, who’s let his smirk loose for some stupid reason. Does he not get how this works?
“Maybe this meeting is premature,” he says confidently, smugly. “Maybe you want to take care of your personal problems first.”
I raise my eyebrows. If that’s how he wants to play the game, I’ll go along with it.
“You might be right,” I agree, and his satisfied smile expands. “Maybe we need to look for another piece of property. Or just explain to your father why we can’t proceed with this deal as long as you’re working on it.”
“What?” demands Ray.
Drake’s face goes blank all of a sudden, and then he blinks. Did he really think his little games were off the table?
Anger settles over his expression. “I don’t know what Paige told you—”
“She didn’t tell me anything,” I interrupt. “I was there when you called her your weekend fuck. Remember? And when you admitted to sleeping with Marlie behind Paige’s back. And, what’s the rest of it? Oh, that’s right. I—well, we all—” I gesture across the table “—read your interview with . . .” I pause, look in Knox’s direction. “Who was it again?”
“Oliver Clark.”
“Right. Oliver Clark.” I transfer my gaze back to Drake. “We all read your interview with Oliver Clark. You know the one? When you told the world that Paige must be into kinky sex because she left you for me.”
“What the devil?” Ray’s face bursts out into an unnaturally red flush and his eyes bug out. He glares at his son. “You broke up with Paige?”
“I . . . yes.” Drake is looking anywhere but at his father or at me.
“Actually, Paige broke up with him,” I correct.
“No, I—”
“And when you shared your pitiful little story with the world, you forgot to mention the part where you cheated on her,” I put in helpfully.
“What did you do?” demands Ray.
“Paige and I—” starts Drake, but his father interrupts almost immediately.
“She left you?” He glances in my direction “For this man?”
“Yes,” Drake says at the same time I insist, “No.”
Ray glares between us. “Which is it?”
My phone pings with a text, but I ignore it and silence the ringer. Nothing gets in the way of these moments.
I give Drake a few seconds to speak up. He doesn’t. Trying to come up with the best lie?
That’s his problem. I have the truth.
“How about this?” I ask. “Paige saw Drake and Marlie Davis together. D’you know Marlie?” I don’t wait for an answer. “She’s from our class in school, too. And, well, the short version of the story is that Paige heard them talking about their affair, broke it off, and I helped her get home. Drake got pissed and decided an international audience needed to hear his lies.”
“Int—” Ray cuts himself off, stares at Drake, tries again. “International audience?”
Drake flushes. “I talked to a reporter. So what? What he does with the information is his business.”
“I . . .” Ray pauses. “Will you gentlemen give us a few minutes?”
Everyone looks at me. I just lift my shoulder.
“Of course,” says Jay.
Ray stands, stalks to the far end of the room, and after a minute, Drake follows like a naughty little boy. The idea gives me a shitty smile that I share with the others.
“What the fuck?”
I wonder if Ray thinks he’s really whispering, because I can hear him pretty well. And why doesn’t he leave the room? He’s got to know better. This is way too obvious.
“Dad—”
“Don’t Dad me. Haven’t I told you, you don’t mix your sidepiece with your real life?”
“I—”
“And didn’t I tell you that Paige is a girl to marry? Her mother’s a doctor, her father’s a lawyer! She’s educated, and she works helping others. She’s beautiful, she’s sweet. She’s the perfect wife—and you fucked it up? Publicly?”
“Dad, listen.”
“No. You listen, sonny boy. Shut the fuck up and listen for a change. We are going to negotiate this deal and hope we can work it out—” Ray pokes his son in the chest “—because it’s the first real interest we’ve had on this property in years. You’re going to keep your mouth shut and do what I tell you. And we are going to hope like hell I can pull this off.”
There’s a long pause where no one says anything.
“Got it?” demands Ray, poking Drake again, and finally he gets the nod he’s after.
“All right, then.” Ray turns back to us with another fake smile. “Gentlemen, shall we proceed?”
The rest of the meeting goes pretty much as expected. I’m far less involved, and that’s just fine with me. I’ve had my say, and Knox makes it clear that the non-disclosure agreements are both non-negotiable and include our personal lives. Jay lays out the basics of how we intend to proceed, starting with some pretty serious inspections of the property. If Ray can live with that, he gets an earnest money check today. If not, we’re outta there.
Nobody gives a shit what Drake thinks.
Ray Johnson is no dummy. He wants to sell this property, make his million or whatever profit he’s getting, and he’s gonna see his son follows the rules. Daddy’s rules. It’s another non-negotiable deal, one that Wycked Obsession isn’t a part of.
I like that a whole hell of a lot.
I leave the office satisfied that it’s been a pretty productive day. It’s kind of childish, but I’m looking forward to telling Paige about the little confrontation with Drake. Aside from hoping it’ll reassure her some, it just feels really fucking good to have put him in his place for a change. He embarrassed her on a very public scale, and though this was much more private, it’s still something.
She doesn’t answer her phone, so I send her a quick text to call me when she can. I didn’t really think about it before, but maybe they don’t let her use her phone during work hours. I have no clue what the setup is like at her nursing home.
Moving on, I head back to my apartment for a little privacy. Maybe Baz or London have turned up something more about Elyssa. And maybe Bernie’s investigator has news.
A million possibilities crowd into my head. Some hopeful, some kind of shitty. They’re enough that I don’t really notice a car in my extra parking spot at first. I pull into my space, blink, look again.
Damn. That’s Paige’s car. What the hell?
Is she sick or something?
I slam the Range Rove
r into park and hurry toward the elevator. I shift from side to side; the fucking thing moves way too goddamn slow. By the time I’m on the twenty-third floor and reach my apartment, my key’s already out.
I burst into an oddly quiet room, search the space until I spot Paige curled up on one end of the couch. She might be looking out the window, but I can’t tell for sure.
“Sweetness?”
She doesn’t answer, so I cross the room. “Are you okay, baby? You sick?”
She doesn’t answer. I can see her eyes are open, but the look is vacant, like she isn’t really there. After a minute, she blinks and glances up at me.
“Noah.” It isn’t a question.
“What’s wrong? You’re scaring me a little, sweetness.”
“I . . .” She shrugs. “Sorry. I was thinking.”
I sit down on the edge of the sofa, my hip near hers. “What’s wrong?” I ask again, and she blinks again.
“I was sent home. Put on unpaid leave.”
“I—what?” I pull my head back, angle it so I can look at her from a different direction. Like that’ll explain. “What do you mean, put on unpaid leave?”
She levels me with a don’t-be-dense gaze. At least it adds some life to her expression.
“As in,” she finally says, “I’m instructed to stay away from work indefinitely, and I won’t be paid for the time.”
“I . . .” I narrow my gaze. “What happened?”
She pushes herself up to sit, and I move to her side, telling myself to ignore the way her skirt rides up her thighs. “There were complaints,” she says.
“Complaints? About what?”
“Seems Drake’s interview gained some traction among the families of The Bridge residents. I don’t know if it was his name, yours, or mine, but somebody read it and shared with the others. They all called to complain. Apparently they think an acting Activities Coordinator who likes kinky sex might arrange for inappropriate events.”
“What the fuck?” I’m not even sure what to say. “How stupid can they be?”
“Then, after today’s incident—”