The Stopover

by Swan, T L

  The other end stays deathly silent, and I screw up my face in pain.

  “I love you,” I whisper. The beep sounds, and I am cut off. I throw the phone onto the lounge and begin to cry.

  What the hell is happening?

  With my heart in my throat, I walk into the Miles Media building. It’s eight thirty in the morning, and I’m coming to work.

  Jay didn’t call me back last night, and I can’t say that I blame him.

  I cried myself to sleep . . . well, I didn’t really sleep, so I don’t think it counts. I’ve got this sick lead ball in my stomach, and it won’t go away.

  I have no one to blame for this fucking mess but myself. I lied to my love, and it backfired, and now he thinks the worst. So I’m here today to do the best job that I can of making it up to him.

  He’s hurt . . . I know he is.

  My poor man seemingly has the whole world against him, and I’m so worried about him. How much stress can a man take before he cracks?

  I get into the elevator and swipe my security card to the top floors, and a red light comes up. I frown. No. I swipe it again, and the red light flickers again.

  “No, Jay . . . don’t do this,” I whisper through tears. “Don’t you fucking lock me out.”

  I swipe it again; the red light flickers once more. “You son of a bitch,” I whisper angrily. I hit the fortieth-floor button, and the green light appears. My heart begins to hammer hard in my chest. He’s blocked my access to his floor.

  I take out my phone and text him.

  Are you serious?

  You can’t even talk to me?

  The elevator doors open, and I stride out onto my floor as I try to calm my anger down.

  I know he’s got a lot going on, but he knows this is hurting me, and he doesn’t seem to care.

  Is this how he works? He’s just going to cut me from his life without even letting me explain? I sit at my desk and stare into space. My leg bounces in anger . . . what do I do? How do I make him understand that this is all a misunderstanding if he won’t even talk to me?

  A group of girls walk out of the elevator and begin to walk down the corridor, and then they all stop on the spot when they see me, as if shocked. I stare at them, and they exchange looks and then smirk to each other. “Hi.” One of them fakes a smile.

  “Hi,” I reply. I turn and switch on my computer. Great. Now I’m the office gossip as well—can this fucking situation get any worse?

  “Yay, you’re here,” Molly’s familiar voice sounds from behind me.

  I swing in my chair toward her, and her face falls when she sees mine. “Oh, baby,” she whispers as she puts her arms around me. “Are you all right?”

  “He’s blocked my access to his floor,” I whisper against her shoulder.

  “What?” she whispers as she fixes my hair. “He’s just . . .” She hesitates. “God, I don’t even know what to say, Em.”

  I stare sadly at my computer.

  “Let’s just get our work done, and we can brainstorm over lunch.” She smiles as she rubs my shoulder.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  Over the next half hour, I watch on as everyone arrives for their day, sees me, and then proceeds to whisper to the person next to them.

  I’m not only the office gossip; I’m the office slut. The idiot who played upon the CEO with the company douche . . . I’m embarrassed, I’m ashamed, and this is appalling.

  It’s four o’clock, and Jameson hasn’t answered any of my calls. I think I’m losing my mind.

  Aaron thinks I should give him time. Molly thinks I should be dropped onto his floor by a helicopter . . . either that or bomb the whole floor.

  Me . . . I just want to crawl under a rock and hide.

  Molly returns from the photocopy room and smiles sweetly over at me.

  “What?”

  “Say, ‘Thank you, Molly. You’re a lifesaver.’” She smirks.

  I frown.

  She passes me over a security card, and I stare at it in my hand. “What’s this?”

  “It’s Melissa’s card to get to the top floors. I stole it.”

  My eyes widen. “You stole her card?” I whisper as I look around guiltily.

  “How else are you going to get to see the stupid fuck?” she murmurs.

  I smile at her perfect choice of words. “Thanks.” I go to the bathroom and stare at my reflection in the mirror.

  I look like shit. I drop my shoulders and inhale deeply as I steel myself. Let’s do this.

  I take the elevator to the top floor, with my heart hammering hard in my chest. I have no idea what’s going to be awaiting me, but bring it the fuck on, because I’m getting angry now.

  How dare he not even let me explain?

  The elevator opens, and Sammia’s face drops as she sees me. “Emily,” she stammers as she stands. “Mr. Miles isn’t here.”

  I storm past her and down the hall and open his door in a rush . . . and there he sits behind his desk, his cold, calm persona firmly in place.

  Elliot is sitting with him, and his eyes snap up. “How did you get up here?”

  My eyes find Jameson’s across the room, and I can see the hurt from here. “Can you give us a moment, please?” I ask.

  “No,” Elliot snaps. “Leave now.”

  My anger bubbles. “With all due respect, this is none of your business,” I snap.

  Elliot narrows his eyes and stands. “How dare you—this is entirely my business!”

  “Oh, I dare all right,” I fire back.

  Jameson clenches his jaw, and Tristan comes into the office. His step falters when he sees me. “Emily.” He frowns as he looks between the three of us.

  “Tristan, I need a moment with Jameson, please,” I ask him hopefully.

  “Of course.” He forces a weak smile. “Out, Elliot.”

  Elliot glares at me.

  “Now,” Tristan repeats.

  Elliot and Tristan leave the office, and we are left alone. Jameson stands and goes to the window, turning his back to me.

  Oh God, how do I fix this? “Jay,” I whisper as I walk toward him. “Baby, I didn’t do this . . . you have to believe me. I know how this looks.”

  He remains silent.

  “He kissed me, and I slapped him, and I had no idea that someone took a photo,” I stammer.

  Silence. I see his jaw clench from the side as he stares out over New York.

  “Are you at least going to talk to me?” I cry. “Why did you block my access to this floor?”

  He turns, angered. “Because I don’t trust you.”

  I step back, shocked. “What?”

  “You heard me. I don’t trust you. Get out.”

  My face falls. “Jameson, I know you’re under a lot of pressure.”

  “This has nothing to do with the fucking pressure I’m under!” he screams.

  I wither. “You can trust me, I promise you.”

  “Where did you tell me you were on Monday night, Emily?” he sneers.

  I stare at him through tears. “I was trying to find out information.”

  “By lying to me?”

  I nod. “I know it sounds like . . .”

  “Like I can’t trust you.” He turns his back and lifts his chin skyward in defiance. “I have more to worry about at the moment than dealing with a deceitful girlfriend.”

  “Jameson,” I whisper.

  “We have nothing to further talk about, Emily . . . get out,” he says calmly.

  “No,” I plead. “I’m not leaving. I love you.”

  He turns, and his cold eyes hold mine. “Did you practice that speech?”

  My heart drops . . . oh, he’s so hurt.

  “Jay . . .”

  “If you won’t leave . . . I will.” He strides toward the door, and it closes quietly behind him.

  I close my eyes in the silence and inhale through my shaking chest.

  Did he just end us?

  This can’t be happening.

  It’s six
o’clock, and I’m sitting at the café across the street from Miles Media. I’m watching the media circus gather as they wait for Jameson to leave the building.

  This embezzlement scandal is news . . . big news, and while the rest of the world is hanging on to the story, I’ve been on the edge of tears all day.

  I don’t know what to do or how to reach him. He’s put his defenses up, and with everything else going on for him at the moment, I don’t know how hard I can push without him completely losing it.

  I don’t want to stress him out further, but he needs me more than ever at the moment. I put my head into my hands. Why the hell did I go and meet Jake?

  What the fuck was I thinking? How was that ever a good idea?

  I go over that night in my head, and I can hear myself lying straight out to Jameson when I got home . . . why? At the time, I thought I was protecting him. I know better now. This is one big mess, and I have no idea how to fix it. My mind goes to the money that has been stolen from the accounts. They all think it’s Ferrara, but why would Ferrara, a man who already makes billions of dollars a year, risk it all to take down a competitor? It just doesn’t make sense to me.

  In my eyes, the person who has stolen the millions needs the millions.

  But who is it, and how the hell did they get access to Jameson’s banking details?

  There’s more to this case than meets the eye.

  Molly, Aaron, and I are having a crisis breakfast meeting tomorrow, and hopefully together we can brainstorm a plan of action. I hear a flurry of excitement, and I look up to see Jameson walk from the building, flanked by security as the reporters clamber around him, shouting his name and clicking photos. He keeps his head down and doesn’t comment and then climbs into the back of his limo.

  It pulls out from the curb and whisks him away into the night . . . and further away from me.

  An overwhelming sadness seeps into my bones.

  How can I help him?

  “Okay, so here are the facts,” Molly states. We’re at breakfast trying to dissect my mess of a life. I’m more zombie than human, having not slept for two nights. I’m on my second coffee, and it’s seven o’clock. “You lied to Jameson about where you were going and went out to dinner with Jake,” Molly says.

  I roll my eyes.

  “You got home and then lied again to Jameson about where you had been.”

  I blow out a deep breath. “Correct.”

  “Now,” she continues, “Jameson’s whole life is falling apart, and he is being accused of a crime that he didn’t do.”

  “Yes,” I snap before I sip my coffee.

  “The entire world is watching, and you are public enemy number one.”

  “How is this fucking helping me?” I stammer.

  Aaron and Molly make eye contact across the table. “This doesn’t look good,” Aaron says.

  “I know.” I put my head into my hands. “I don’t know how to help him. I’ve completely screwed everything up. I’m the villain in this story, and I want to be the hero.”

  Silence falls across the table as we sip our coffees.

  Aarons eyes light up. “I’ve got it.”

  “Huh?”

  “I know how you could be the hero.”

  I roll my eyes. “How?”

  “Solve the case . . . you’re a reporter; you’ve done this shit before.”

  I sit up, suddenly interested.

  “Those private investigators are obviously fucking useless; they are doing nothing.”

  “That’s true.” I frown. “But I don’t know anything about computers. Where would I even start trying to track those transfers?”

  “I don’t know, but finding out where that money has gone yourself does seem like the only way you are getting Jameson out of this.” Molly shrugs. “We could help?”

  I think about it for a moment. Why couldn’t I do this myself? I’ve cracked cases before—big cases too.

  “You know what—you’re right.” I feel a fire start in my stomach. “I am going to find out who’s doing this.”

  Molly and Aaron smile.

  “And when I do”—I punch my hand into my fist—“they will wish they were fucking dead for messing with my man.”

  “Attagirl.” Molly smiles. She and Aaron high-five each other.

  I smile as I sip my coffee, and for the first time in days, I feel hopeful. I hold my coffee cup up, and we all clink cups. “To Operation Hero.”

  Jameson

  I run down the street as fast as I can, my mind a clouded fog. With every step that I run . . . the better I feel. It’s been three days since I’ve seen her . . . three days incarcerated in hell.

  I can’t see her. I can’t put myself in that position ever again.

  Nobody is worth feeling this bad for . . . nobody.

  I turn the corner and run past a row of restaurants and get to a park, and I see a person up ahead in the darkness.

  Their stance seems familiar, and I squint my eyes to try and see.

  As I run, a cold sense of realization hits me as to who it is. Gabriel Ferrara. He’s on the phone and smoking a cigar as he leans on his black Ferrari. He hasn’t seen me.

  I stop running and pant as I approach him. Fucking dog.

  I’m furious that he put that photo of Emily on the front page of his paper. It was a direct attack on me . . . and it hit the target.

  Turning, he sees me, and his face falls. “I’ve got to go.” He hangs up his call.

  “Look what crawled out of the gutter,” I pant.

  He smirks as he inhales on his cigar. “Miles.”

  I glare at him.

  “How’s that girl of yours?” he asks with a wink. “You should put her on a leash.”

  I glare at him.

  He flicks his cigar at me; my fury begins to bubble.

  I step forward.

  “You know she made a move on me. Seems like you’ve lost your edge with everything: the company, the bank accounts. Sex. How does it feel to have your woman search for someone who can satisfy her needs?”

  All I can see is red . . . blinding anger.

  I lose control and punch him hard in the face, and then I hit him again and again in quick succession.

  He falls to the ground beside his car, and I hear someone yell, “Call the police!”

  “Fuck . . .” I look down to his slumped body and the blood pouring from his nose.

  What have I done?

  I turn and sprint as hard as I can into the darkness. I run down a block and cut through a park as I hear a police siren in the distance.

  Fuck.

  I run across the street, and a car comes out of nowhere.

  Bright lights, car horn, blurred vision.

  It hits me, and I go flying into the air.

  Darkness . . . nothing.

  Chapter 22

  Emily

  On my laptop, I scroll through the information that I’ve collected today. I have nothing to go on other than Hayden. He’s the only the person who has a shady past and the only person I can think of who would double-cross Miles Media.

  But selling shitty stories is a far cry from stealing millions of dollars from a global company. I don’t think he’s capable of something like this.

  So why is my gut telling me that he is somehow involved?

  I check my phone . . . no messages.

  Please call me.

  I get a vision of my Jameson all alone in his big apartment, and my heart aches. I’ve decided that I’m going over there tomorrow night and knocking the door down.

  I can’t give him the space that he needs . . . I need him.

  The door buzzes, and I jump up, excited. Jameson. I run to the telecom to see two police officers on the screen. I push the button. “Hello?”

  “Is that Emily Foster?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can we come up, please?”

  “What’s wrong?” I whisper. Oh my God, what’s happened?

  “We need to talk to you.”


  “Has something happened?” I stammer.

  “Let us in, please.”

  “Okay.” I push the button with my heart pumping hard.

  Moments later they knock on the door, and I open it in a rush. “Hello.”

  Two solemn-looking police officers force a smile. “Are you Emily Foster?”

  “Yes.” My heart begins to race.

  “Can we talk to you for a moment, please?”

  I stand back. “Yes, please come in.”

  “We would like to talk to Jameson Miles, please.” They look around my apartment and then turn their attention back to me. “Is he here?”

  “No, he isn’t.” I feel my heart begin to pump harder in my chest. “What’s this about?”

  “He’s wanted for questioning in regards to an assault earlier this evening.”

  “What?” I frown.

  “Gabriel Ferrara was attacked tonight outside a restaurant by Mr. Miles. A warrant has been issued for his arrest.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “Mr. Ferrara has significant facial injuries and has been taken to the hospital.”

  I put my hand over my mouth in horror.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “Mr. Ferrara was getting into a car when Mr. Miles approached him in the dark. A fight broke out, and Mr. Miles assaulted him.”

  “Where was this?”

  “Out the front of Bryant Park, opposite Lucina’s.”

  “Oh my God,” I whisper. “Is Jameson all right?”

  “Witnesses say he ran off through the park.”

  I close my eyes in relief . . . thank God.

  “You have the wrong person,” I stammer. “Jameson would never attack someone. He’s the CEO of a company, not a pub brawler.” That’s a complete lie; I know Jameson would love to beat Ferrara to a pulp . . . “I don’t know where he is,” I assert with renewed determination.

  “Can we search your apartment?” the policeman asks.