by Staci Hart
Betty shook her head. “Too much of a chance we’ll be recognized. Especially Zeke.”
“I’m taking that as a compliment whether you mean it as one or not,” Zeke said flatly.
“You’ve got this, Stell,” Joss started. “We’ll have booze and pizza when you get home, okay?”
A flash of excitement and vengeance zipped through me. “All right. Tonight, we’ll know.” The thought was a comfort, as nervous as I was.
Because somebody was going to pay for fucking with us.
Tonight.
LEVI
I flew toward Half Moon diner like a fucking hurricane.
She’s the boss for a reason, I heard Yara say when I raged into her office upon finding out they’d pushed the article live on the website within a half hour of my turning the approved edits in.
And nobody had told me. But they wouldn’t have, knowing I’d push back. So they’d just gone ahead and fucked me, and with that, my chances. And just hours ago, without any time for Stella to process it. Without any time to calm down before I told her it was me.
Fucked. Well and truly fucked.
Part of me wondered if Yara and Marcella had planned this, pushed it live knowing it would complicate things for me in the hopes that I’d fold, keep up the ruse so I wouldn’t Chernobyl the whole operation. They’d succeeded in complicating things. But there was no way I would fold. Forcing me to do something I was morally opposed to only had one outcome: defiance. And I was so fucking mad, I’d blast it all to hell before I’d bend, not after they’d disregarded my requests and gone around me to publish.
Stella was pissed. We’d been texting all day, but when the article broke, she lost it. I’d let her talk, didn’t say much, and ultimately promised her we’d talk about it tonight. Which we would. She just had no idea that I was about to throw a grenade at her.
As soon as this interview was over, I was onto the next hard thing. And the only way to cope was to stuff it into a box to be dealt with when we were face-to-face.
The tip had come in a few hours ago, answering the question I’d asked in the article—the identity of Cecelia Beaton. Inside the diner I approached was an informer with a condemning notebook and a real name, and once I got them, I had to figure out what the fuck to do with them. Yara had suggested sending an intern first to scope it out in an effort to protect my identity with the intent to plan a second meeting. But hiding had been her idea, not mine. Slinging my work around like it had come to them for free was them. I had nothing to hide, not anymore. And I certainly wasn’t going to send an intern to do my job. Yara wasn’t happy about it.
I couldn’t pretend to give a shit what she thought.
The bell over the door rang as I entered, and a waitress somewhere from the back told me to sit anywhere. But I was too busy scanning the diner to hear her. The caller was male, and I noted two males and one female sitting alone. My eyes snagged the woman dressed conspicuously inconspicuous in a baseball hat, Army jacket, and sunglasses that were too big for her face. Her gaze shifted from her phone to me and held it.
A smile spread on her face.
I knew that smile.
Oh my fucking God.
I turned to stone, my heart slowing. Is it her? Is she Cecelia Beaton?
Stella stood and flew across the room to me.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, still smiling as she hitched up onto her tiptoes to press a kiss to my lips.
I didn’t kiss her back. “I’m … what are you doing here?”
She shook her head. “Just this … thing. It’s Zeke’s fault, really.”
“Zeke,” I said to myself as the trap made itself known. “Zeke.”
“Can you keep a secret?” she asked, leaning in. “Zeke set up the reporter so we could figure out who it is. Told them we knew who Cecelia Beaton was. Come sit with me—we can wait together. Makes me look less suspicious anyway.”
She grabbed my hand and pulled, but I didn’t budge. I schooled my face to neutral.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, her brain clicking behind her eyes to piece something together. “Why are you here again? This isn’t anywhere near your place.”
A storm brewed in my chest. “No, it isn’t.”
She blinked at me, her frown deepening. “What are you doing here, Levi?”
I drew a deep breath with no idea how to tell her, not caught so off guard. Her face was confusion and suspicion.
I took her arm, looking around the room to make sure we weren’t causing a scene, not with Stella being who she was. “Come sit down. I’ll explain.”
“Explain what?” She removed her arm from my grip.
I dragged my hand through my hair, searching for an approach that would make this easier, but my mind was static. “I should have told you from the start,” I muttered. “It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.”
The truth didn’t dawn on her—it cracked like lightning, splitting her in two. “Oh my God,” she breathed. “Oh my God, it’s you.”
My chest was too tight, too small for my lungs. “Let me explain—”
“Oh my God.” Her hand covered her lips.
“Are you Cecelia Beaton?”
“How many fucking times do I have to tell you I’m not? What I am is sick and tired of our circle being infiltrated. We had to know who it was, but I … I never thought …” The words broke, and she swallowed hard. “All this time I’ve been trying to figure out who let the reporter in, and it was me. It was me the whole time,” she said half to herself, her voice wavering as she looked up at me like she’d never seen me before. “You lied. You lied to me.”
“Please,” I begged, reaching for her. “Hear me out.”
She dodged me, and my fingers caught air. “Was any of it real? Or did you sleep with me for the sake of your story?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but she waved a hand and looked away.
“No. You know what? I don’t want to know.” She took a step back. Then another. “I can’t believe it was you. That all this was my fault. That you used me this way. But I always do this. I always choose the worst kind of man.” Tears rose in her eyes. “Fuck you, Levi, for proving the theory.”
She whirled around and shoved the door open, marching down Fifth, and I followed. Because even if she never wanted to see me again, I had to explain. I had to try.
I had to fight, even if it was only for the chance to come clean.
“Stella—” I called.
She picked up her pace, weaving through people.
“Stella, wait. Shit, sorry, ma’am. Stella!”
Her eyes were wide and shining as she looked for an escape. A cab, maybe. The subway. If I was lucky, she’d end up stuck on a train with me long enough to hear me out.
I gained on her, called her name, miserable at the sight of her dashing tears from her cheeks.
“Please. Please, Stell—” I reached for her. My fingers brushed her arm, but she jerked it away. “Just give me five minutes, and I swear, you’ll never see me again.”
She slowed. Stopped. Turned to face me, flushed and furious. “You have two minutes.”
My brain burst with starting points, rejecting them all on entry. Another rake of my hand through my hair didn’t help, and I searched her face with dark desperation for answers.
“A minute forty-five.” She folded her arms.
“I’m not out to get you. And I’ve never used you.”
“Ha.”
A long exhale. “No, you don’t understand.”
“Explain it to me. Because the way I see it, you fucked me for information. For a ticket in. Lied about being a reporter. Spied on us, betrayed our trust. My trust.”
“That isn’t why I’ve been with you—”
“Then fucking spell it out.”
“Jesus, Stella—if you’d stop talking for more than ten seconds, I will.”
Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t speak.
“I couldn’t tell you who I was”—she starte
d to argue, but I kept going—“not without this happening. And not if I wanted to be able to do my job. I left the speakeasy and wrote down everything I saw, everything I felt. Everything but you. That first piece was just for me, an exercise to produce some material for the big article for the magazine. But my editor took it, and they published it without telling me. I didn’t know, Stella. I didn’t know they were going to publish it or I would have told you. Warned you. But once they put it out, it was too late.” I pleaded with my eyes, with my heart. “This article, this piece, is my ticket to my dream job. It’s security for my only family. I didn’t know I’d meet you.”
“Sure, you’re a regular fucking hero,” she shot. “You kissed me that night knowing you’d have to lie to me. You went home with me knowing you were a goddamn liar. And you betrayed everything and everyone.”
“Stella, this is my job—”
“A professional liar?”
I laid a hard look on her. “How I feel about you isn’t a lie.”
“Stop it,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to tell me you have feelings for me like it absolves what you’ve done.”
“I wanted to tell you—”
“But you didn’t. You got backed into a corner and then regretted not telling me when it should have been the first words out of your mouth.”
I stilled, the tension in my shoulders easing, dropping them. “You’re right. About all of it. I think you know I’m on your side—you’ve read what I wrote. I’m not out to get you, Stella. But I lied to you, and I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry because you got caught.”
“No,” I insisted. “I was sorry from the start. After the circus, when we got to your place, I tried to walk away. Do you remember? I should have walked away—you were always going to find out, and when you did, it was going to hurt us both. But I couldn’t help myself. I can’t, not when it comes to you. So I kept a secret from you, a big secret, because I’m selfish. And I hate that you found out like this.”
Something shifted behind her eyes, softening her face. Indecision.
I chanced a step closer. “My job is to tell the truth about what I write, to give people a window to all the things you love about the Bright Young Things. I don’t want to ruin them. I’m not here to dismantle what’s been built, what you’re a part of. All I want is to give people a taste of what I’ve come to love about these parties, this group.” Another step closer. She didn’t take a step back. “I’m sorry, Stella. But I’d never turn on you. I would never hurt anything you love. It’s on me to preserve it.”
I was close enough to smell her perfume, my fingers lifting to trail her jaw, clasp her chin, tilt it to lock our gazes.
“Tell me you know that,” I begged softly.
“I do,” she admitted. “But … I …” She shook her head.
“How can I make it up to you? How can I earn your trust again? Tell me. Tell me, and I’ll do it.”
“Why do you care?” she asked without heat, only curiosity. “You’re leaving. This? You and me? It’s temporary. How am I supposed to believe that you’re doing this for me and not your story?”
“I don’t have an answer for that,” I admitted. “Only my word. I know it doesn’t mean much. But the truth is, I don’t want to walk away from this. From you. Even if it’s temporary.”
Her eyes cast down, her lashes long and feathery against flushed cheeks.
I lifted her chin again. “What if I give you every article to edit before anyone else sees it?”
The offer brightened her eyes.
“You can be my partner. Make sure it lands just where you want it.”
“Absolute power?”
I smiled. “Absolute power. And I might not be able to stop them from publishing on time without risking my job, but they can’t publish anything I haven’t signed off on. No chance for it to get twisted.”
“Why would you do that?”
I held her face in my hands, fell into the depths of her eyes. “Because you can trust me, just like I trust you, and I’m going to prove it. No more secrets, Stella. I promise.”
A shadow passed over her face. “No more secrets,” she echoed with an edge to her voice. I didn’t know her well enough yet to decipher its meaning.
But I was too relieved to consider it as I pulled her into my chest, my body uncoiling and my ribs free to breathe for the first time in days.
I was the luckiest motherfucker in the world to have dodged the bullet.
And I fucking knew it.
16
Throw the Wrench
STELLA
I am such a sucker.
A shaft of early morning light slanted across my bed, illuminating the white comforter with an almost blinding glow. The fluffy down affair lay bunched at Levi’s waist, leaving his impressive torso on display. He was a map made of ridges of muscles, discs of his pecs, the fanning of those curious thews high on his ribs and around to his back as he breathed that slow, unbothered rhythm of sleep.
I lay on my side, head propped in my palm, watching him with the promise to get up and make coffee after just one more minute. Just another minute to admire every curve of his stature. Of the strong column of his neck and the knot of his Adam’s apple. His dusky jaw, the line made sharper by the shadow of his short beard. The curious planes of his lips, the swell and the flat that beckoned, even in sleep. His utterly masculine nose, the notch above the bridge, the line of his brow.
He was beautiful in a rugged, untamed way, a wild species of man I’d never encountered before. Nothing about him was soft, not at a glance, at least. But I’d seen his eyes shift to molten heat, felt the tender demand of his lips on my body, been privileged to know the sweetness of a caress by hands meant for a forge.
Such a sucker.
And I was. A sucker and a fool, a glutton for punishment for giving myself the luxury of being with him. Because he was a lying liar who’d lied. A lying liar who was leaving.
This is fine, I reminded myself. Really, it’s fine. Better than fine. It’s fun and it feels good, and now he’s given me an in—I can control the tone and content of his articles. I can protect what I’ve built and have a goddamn excellent time while I’m doing it.
With a smile, I sighed. I believed him, and I trusted him—a flaw highlighted by my friends on the regular. I wanted to fight the feeling, and in some ways, I did—there was no way forward without my guard up—but I’d felt the truth of his intention and the relief from the burden of his secret.
Last night, he’d sworn he’d been planning on coming clean, and I didn’t doubt him for a second, not after spending the majority of yesterday wondering what he wanted to talk about. His fury at his editors’ move to publish yesterday had been plain to see, mostly from the proportion of his use of the word fuck to the rest of them. That, and the look in his eyes.
As much as I hated to admit it, he’d been right to keep it from me—if I hadn’t gotten into this with him, I would have shut him down from day one. I would have missed all of this, and what a tragedy that would have been.
So we were moving on. He’d told me the truth—including his actual last name—and I would get the final say on what he wrote for the magazine. We both won—he got to keep his story, and I got to control it. And we got to hang on to each other for a little while longer.
No more secrets, he’d said.
My stomach twisted at the memory. But there was one secret he couldn’t know. If he found out, if anyone discovered he knew, he could ransom my identity for enough money to retire on.
Especially if he took it straight to Warren.
He wouldn’t do that, I told myself. But I still wasn’t going to tell him.
I might have been a sucker, but I wasn’t stupid.
His chest expanded, his breath loud through his nose as he woke, his big hand appearing from the other side of him to rest on his abs. Sleepy eyes blinked open, his lips smiling when he saw me.
&nb
sp; “Mornin’,” he said with a gravelly voice.
“Morning,” I echoed. “Sleep okay?”
He rolled over, sliding his hand over the curve of my hip. “Best night’s sleep I’ve had in weeks.” A brief kiss before he mirrored my pose.
“Insomnia?”
“Guiltomnia. I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you who I was. I didn’t think you’d forgive me.”
“Me neither,” I said on a laugh. “Has anyone told you you’re incredibly convincing?”
“It’s been said. And despite my track record, I’m notoriously honest.”
“How does that work anyway? Don’t you have, like … a code of ethics or something? Am I a conflict of interest?”
“If I were a newspaper journalist, the answer would be yes. But I’m writing a literary opinion piece. Literary journalism is pretty much the Wild West when it comes to the rules. I have my terrible alias, which isn’t at all clever, but it gets me where I need to be so I can get the inside look at a forbidden place. If I told you it was the only thing I ever lied about, would you believe me?”
I sighed. “Only because I’m notoriously gullible.”
“Wait—I thought I was just incredibly convincing.”
“That too. What made you decide to be a journalist?”
For a second, he said nothing, seemingly lost in thought. “A girl I ran with in high school dropped out to start hooking. Safer than living with her dad,” he added, noting the upset on my face. “I’d always gone places I wasn’t supposed to, hung out with vagrants sometimes, bought them a meal with my allowance and listened to their stories. That sort of thing, maybe out of some curiosity about my parents and the world that swallowed them up. But when she ran off, I made it a point to find her. And when I did, when I saw her truth, I had to write it down. It was too much feeling to speak. It was the only thing I could do for her—there’s no saving someone who doesn’t want saving. Her story was the first piece I wrote, and I knew. I didn’t just give her a voice. I found mine.”