The Stopover

by Swan, T L

  Silence.

  “Where is she?” I look around to see my clothes folded on the coffee table and notice that hers . . . are gone.

  “Emily?” I call as I do a 360 of my apartment. “Emily?”

  I clench my jaw as my anger begins to escalate. I dial her number as a shade of red clouds my vision. I hear my furious heartbeat in my ears as adrenaline fills my bloodstream.

  “Hello,” she answers.

  “Where the fuck are you?” I sneer.

  Chapter 8

  Jameson

  “I had to go,” she stammers.

  “Why?”

  “I needed to be at work early.”

  “You didn’t think to wake me?” I snap. “You piss me off.”

  “Don’t start your righteous shit with me. I’ll leave when I fucking want to.” The phone goes dead.

  I inhale sharply; nobody hangs up on me.

  Nobody.

  I clench my jaw and throw my phone onto the couch. This woman is fucking infuriating.

  I walk into my office, open my laptop, and log in to my security footage. I take a seat as I wait for it to load. An image of my front door comes up, and I hit rewind and watch as it goes back in fast-forward. I catch sight of her leaving, and I stop the film. What time was it?

  It was 3:58 a.m. She had to go to work early? Bullshit.

  She waited for me to fall asleep and then immediately left. I sit back in my chair as my anger escalates.

  “I don’t know what the fuck you’re playing at, Emily Foster, but I won’t have it. If you’re with me, you’re with me. And you’ll do as I fucking say.”

  I slam my computer shut and storm upstairs.

  She’s looking for a fight. She just found one.

  An hour later, I walk through the foyer of my building and out to my car. “Good morning, Mr. Miles.” Alan smiles as he opens the door of my limo.

  “Morning,” I say as I get in.

  The usual pile of newspapers is on the seat, along with my coffee, and I begin my morning ritual. It takes us forty minutes to drive the thirteen miles to my building, so I use this time to keep track of our competitors. I flick through the pile and pick up the Gazette, our closest competitor, and I scan the front page.

  “Their formatting is appalling,” I mutter under my breath as I flick it open. I read page one and two, and then I get to page three.

  Breaking News

  The NYPD has closed in on a top-secret investigation.

  The murder was originally attributed to a man police had nicknamed Stoneface, who has been linked to more than 85 burglaries in Brooklyn, New York.

  But with DNA evidence, investigators now believe the crimes were committed by the same suspect that has been called the Red Ribbon Killer in other parts of the state.

  “With this filing, we have officially linked Stoneface to an individual known as the Red Ribbon Killer,” said Matthew Price, Brooklyn County district attorney.

  Stoneface, an auto mechanic, is wanted after police tracked him down by matching his DNA with a genealogy website.

  He has been accused of killing 5 and raping 45 people in what police are describing as a premeditated crime spree.

  He was nicknamed the Red Ribbon Killer because the victims had a red ribbon tied around their neck after they were murdered.

  Police have tracked his whereabouts, and an arrest is expected today.

  “Fuck.” It’s Emily’s story, just worded differently. I take out my phone and call Tristan as my blood pressure rises to boiling point.

  “Hey,” he answers.

  “Page three of the Gazette,” I snap.

  “You’re joking?”

  “Nope.”

  “Fucking hell.” He sighs. “See you soon.”

  I hang up, and my phone vibrates. The name Chloe lights up the screen; I hit decline.

  I sip my coffee and stare out the window as contempt drips from my every pore. It’s one thing to be deceived, but to be sold out by one of our own staff members is a whole new level of betrayal.

  When I get my hands on whoever is responsible for this, there will be fucking hell to pay.

  Half an hour later, I walk into my office and find three of my favorite people inside. My brothers.

  “Hello.” I smirk. “Jesus, you’ve both got uglier since I last saw you. I didn’t think it was possible.”

  They chuckle, and we hug. I miss my brothers. Their role in the company requires them to live in the UK; they work out of the London office. I only get to see them once a month when I travel over there, Tristan the same. Although he gets to stay longer, so he gets more time with them.

  I slap the Gazette onto my desk. “What the hell is this?”

  “Fucking hell,” Tristan whispers as they all take a seat around the board table.

  “What’s going on?” Elliot snaps. “I don’t believe this.”

  I exhale heavily. “We got a new staff member, Emily Foster.”

  Tristan smirks, and I roll my eyes. “And?” Christopher interrupts.

  “She ran a story on her second day and wasn’t sure of the name of the suspect, so she made one up on the spot and planned on changing it when she got back to the office.”

  They frown as they listen.

  “Only she forgot.”

  “Jesus.” Elliot rolls his eyes. “Useless.”

  “No,” Tristan says. “Diabolical. The exact same story ran in the Gazette the next day . . . with the bogus name.”

  Elliot and Christopher frown as they listen.

  “How do you know this?” Christopher asks.

  “I know the reporter. We met a while ago.” I pause, not wanting to elaborate.

  “You know who she is?” Tristan smirks.

  “Who?” Elliot’s eyes flick between us.

  “Remember ages ago Jay got a motherfucking huge hickey?”

  Their faces fall. “No.”

  Elliot pinches the bridge of his nose. “Please . . . don’t tell me.” He laughs out loud. “What did you call it? Stopover shame.”

  “I had to wear a fucking turtleneck for two weeks.” I sigh in disgust.

  “Remember the black-tie dinner for Mom’s charity?” Tristan throws his head back and laughs. “And you had the hugest hickey anyone had ever seen.” He chuckles at the memory. “And you had to hide from Mom all night and wear cover-up on your neck. That was fucking hilarious, man.”

  “Mortifying.” I shiver as I think back. “Anyway, back to the story.” I glare at Tristan for bringing it up. “Emily—that’s her name—unbeknownst to me got a job here. She started three weeks ago, and then this mishap with the name happened. She came to me with suspicions that something fishy was going on. A fake name that she made up on the spot was no coincidence.” I look around at my brothers. “Our stories are being sold on the black market.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” Elliot snaps.

  “Our share prices are dropping because we are no longer breaking news.”

  Elliot shakes his head in disgust.

  “Because the reporters that we are paying for are working for our competition,” Tristan snaps.

  “We tested the theory this week. We got Emily to write a bogus story and submit it through the regular channels, and look.” I hit the paper with the backs of my fingers. “Here it is, page three of the Gazette.”

  They all stare at the paper in front of us, deep in thought.

  “So . . . what do we do?”

  “Firing everyone works for me,” I snap.

  “No, we have to do this properly. There are a hundred people on that floor. Not to mention IT and the mailroom.”

  The boys break into chatter as they discuss our options.

  I push my intercom. “Can we get Richard from legal up here, please?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Should Emily write another story so we can track it more closely?” Elliot asks.

  “No,” I snap. “I don’t want her involved again. I don’t want her up here at all.
”

  Tristan smirks.

  “I’m going to wipe that stupid smirk off your face in a minute,” I snap.

  “Scared she’s going to give you another hickey?” Elliot jokes. “Must have some pretty good suction going on.”

  They all laugh.

  I glare at him. “Cut the shit. I’m not in the fucking mood for this today.”

  There is a knock on the door. “Come in,” I call. Richard comes into view. “Please take a seat.”

  “How can I help you?” He smiles.

  “We have reason to believe that someone on the news floor is selling our stories to a competitor. How do we legally handle this?”

  Richard frowns as he looks between us. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well.” He exhales as he thinks. “You would hire a corporate investigation firm.”

  “What do they do?” I ask.

  “They are business-centric and can involve verifying the legitimacy of a business partner or deal, looking into loss or theft of proprietary information, identifying the potential of a damaged reputation, things like that.”

  “No,” I say as I stand. “I don’t want a stranger in here sniffing around. What if the story breaks? It will do more damage to our reputation.”

  “With all due respect, Jameson, I don’t see how you have any other choice,” Richard says.

  “Do you know any?” Tristan asks.

  “No. But I can find out who to use.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “They’re professionals. They deal with things like this all the time. You won’t even know they are in the building,” Richard continues.

  “How does it work?”

  “They usually come in undercover, act as one of the workers while they watch and trace.”

  I roll my eyes in disgust. “How ridiculous. This isn’t a fucking MacGyver episode.”

  I stare at my brothers, and I know I’ve been forced into a corner. There is no other way around this, and I know I must concede. “Fine.”

  Emily

  An hour earlier

  I power walk up the street among the crowd. I’ll never get used to these busy New York sidewalks no matter how long I live here. I’m exhausted. I was up half the night having sex, and I haven’t been back to sleep since I left Jameson’s at four o’clock. God, what a nightmare this whole situation is. And who the fuck is Chloe?

  I order my iced coffee, and as I wait, I buy the Gazette at the newsstand. I’ll read it at lunch. I wonder if they have any jobs available. I’m probably going to need one soon. With a heavy heart, my mind goes to Jameson. Damn it, why does something always have to go wrong with the men I like? If only he were just a normal guy—with a normal shitty apartment and a shitty car and no women texting him—he would be perfect. In every way.

  I get a vision of us last night as we made love and kissed for hours, and sadness sweeps over me.

  I hate that we connect so deeply on a physical level.

  It’s just sex, you idiot. Bone-shattering, awesome, toe-curling sex.

  I imagine Jameson Miles would have that with every woman he’s with. He’s that kind of guy with that kind of a dick.

  Ugh. I take my coffee and make the depressing walk to the office. I’m not thinking about him today, and I’m most definitely not telling him that I know about Chloe.

  Whoever Chloe is.

  All I know is that if she’s texting him with where-are-you messages in the middle of the night, something’s going on, and he’s all hers. She can have him.

  I may be a lot of things, but a man stealer I’m not.

  Douchebag. How dare he use me for sex? The bitter taste of betrayal lines my mouth; I can act brave all I want, but the truth is I’m upset. Last night was perfect—more than perfect—and then he had to go and wreck it.

  I thought I spent the night with Jim, but instead I got the sleazebag Jameson Miles version. How didn’t I see it?

  I trudge into the building and up to my floor, and I fall into my seat in disgust. “Hi,” I say.

  “Hey.” Aaron spins on his chair toward me. “How did it go?”

  I glance up at the camera above. Is he watching? “Good,” I lie. “I’ll tell you about it tonight. We are drinking.”

  “Drinking?”

  “Everything we see.”

  His face falls. “Oh . . . it went that kind of good.”

  “Precisely,” I mutter flatly.

  “What’s going on around here today?” Aaron whispers.

  “What do you mean?” I look up from my computer.

  “Tristan is buzzing around, and Jameson has been down to the floor already.”

  “What time is it?” I glance at my watch. “It’s only eight forty-five. They are never down here at this hour, if at all.”

  “I know.”

  “Hmm.” I watch Tristan as he talks to the floor manager, and he seems to have a stern face on. “Do you think something’s wrong?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. Did you piss Mr. J off last night?”

  I smirk.

  “Maybe he’s upstairs throwing a tantrum.”

  “I’m probably about to get fired.” I smile happily as I open my computer. Good, I hope he’s pissed.

  Two hours later, I glance up and see two men I haven’t seen before. “Who are they?” I whisper.

  Molly looks up, and her face falls. “Oh Lord have mercy . . . thank you, God.”

  “Huh?” I frown.

  “That’s Elliot and Christopher Miles. They’ve flown in from the UK. Must be a board meeting or something going on this week.”

  My eyes widen. “Jameson’s brothers?”

  She smiles dreamily as she watches them. “Uh-huh.” She looks over to Aaron, who is also openly staring. “I call Elliot.”

  “Good, because I call Christopher,” he whispers right back.

  “Can you please set us up on a brother date?” she whispers.

  “Yes, and we need to swing,” Aaron replies. “Because I want all four. I can’t choose.”

  “Can you imagine?” Molly murmurs. “Makes me blush just thinking of it.” She fans her face with her manila folder as her eyes stay glued to the brothers. “Imagine all of them in bed together . . . taking turns with your body.”

  I roll my eyes in disgust. “The Miles brothers are overrated, if you ask me.”

  They’re not, though. I’m lying through my teeth. All with dark hair, tall, and built . . . square jaws in their designer playboy suits. Everything about the four of them screams power and gorgeousness. Assholes.

  Jameson hasn’t been to see me today. I haven’t heard from him, and if the truth be known, he’s probably upstairs making out on his office couch with Chloe as we speak.

  Ugh. I’m off all men. How could I have been so stupid?

  4:30 p.m.

  “Oh my God, did you see the story in the Gazette?” Molly says.

  “No, what?”

  “The Red Ribbon Killer. I don’t even feel safe on the subway tonight.”

  My eyes flick to her. “What?”

  “Yeah, it’s one of their lead stories today. I was reading it online just now.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I click onto their website and search for the story, and sure enough, the story comes up, almost word for word . . . my words.

  I put my hand over my mouth in horror as I read it.

  Oh my God. That’s why they’re all here today; they’re in damage control.

  I stare at the story on my computer. It’s there in black and white, but I can’t actually believe it. I look at all the people in the office acting calm and professional. Who is it?

  Thieving bastard.

  “I’ve got to go and see someone. Back in a minute.” I practically run to the elevator and take it to the top floor. Why didn’t he say anything to me?

  “Hello,” I say as I brush through reception.

  “Excuse me, Emily,” the receptionist calls. “He’s not taking visitors ri
ght now.”

  “Whatever.” I storm through to Jameson’s office, and I knock on the door.

  “Yes?” he barks.

  I open the door to find him sitting behind his large desk; blue eyes rise to meet mine. “What is it?” he asks coldly.

  I walk in and close the door behind me. “I saw the story.”

  “And?”

  “Well . . . why didn’t you tell me? It was my story. I thought you would have at least told me.”

  “Ms. Foster.” He clenches his jaw as if I’m a huge annoyance. “I don’t have time to play your juvenile games.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I’m very busy.” He goes back to typing.

  I stare at him for a moment. What?

  “Close the door on your way out, please.”

  The fucking nerve of this man. He sleeps with me while he’s seeing someone else and then has the audacity to treat me like this. Something snaps deep inside me. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “Here we go,” he mutters under his breath.

  “What?” I cry. “Here we go? Are you fucking serious?”

  He rests his chin on his hand as he glares at me.

  “What was last night? Huh?” I cry. Alarm bells start screaming around me. This is the worst thing I could possibly do, but I’ve lost all control. “You’re seeing someone else?” I stammer. “Who’s Chloe, Jameson?”

  His eyebrow rises, and he stands and walks toward the door. “Out.”

  “What?” I snap in disbelief. “You’re kicking me out?”

  “What I’m doing is being professional. I suggest you do the same thing.” He stands over me.

  “You know what?” I whisper up at him through tears of rage. “You can go fuck yourself.”

  He glares at me. “Not that it’s any of your business, but Chloe is my masseuse. I had an appointment with her last night that I wasn’t home for. Those text messages came through hours after she sent them.”

  I stare at him as my heart hammers in my chest.

  “Do not check my fucking phone ever again.” He sneers as he turns his back on me and goes and sits back at his desk.

  I stare at him through tears. I feel . . . used. “I thought we had something.”

  “So did I.” His cold eyes hold mine. “But you fucked that up this morning when you left like a two-year-old.” He turns back to his computer.