Reveal

by Bromberg, K.

  I press my fingers to the bridge of my nose and close my eyes. Sure, I could threaten him with the pictures again, but would that do any good? Underage girls would probably get overlooked by other politicians and be buried by the news cycle within days.

  “You don’t have a leg to stand on, Vaughn,” I murmur to myself as I shake my head, a little dazed and a lot tired, on the front porch and realize I have no position of power when it comes to Carter Preston.

  None.

  I jump when my cell rings again. The same number. The same asshole.

  My same cowardice.

  Each ring only adds fuel to the fire of my temper.

  My spirits wilt when he’s finally pushed to voice mail. Ten seconds pass before his number lights up my screen again like a stalker.

  His audacity unnerves me. His refusal to give up even more so.

  This is all because of Ryker.

  Tears sting hotly with a mixture of anger and hurt as I shove my phone into my bag and stare at the flowers and chocolates in front of me.

  Another attempt by Ryker to show me how sorry he is for putting everything I’ve worked for at risk. And for breaking my heart.

  The rage I’ve been waiting to feel finally hits me. The emptiness sparks into a riot of temper as I snatch up the flowers and chocolates and push my way into the house.

  I toss my purse on the floor and grab the closest box I can find. It’s a file box that’s filled with bills, and I dump them on the table without a thought to the disorganization it will cause and begin rushing around my house. Anything and everything that Ryker has ever sent me or Lucy I shove in the box. All the stuffed animals, the chocolates, the deflated balloons—even the flowers.

  And only when I shove the lid on it and the wretched sound of the tape gun fills my house as I seal it shut do I allow myself to process everything. Allow myself the huge, heaving sobs I’ve resisted shedding. Allow myself to admit to the loneliness I feel without Ryker.

  Seconds turn to minutes. Minutes turn into an hour. The salt of my tears dries on my cheeks. The hitching of my lungs begins to abate. The fogginess from the hurt begins to settle.

  I’ve finally allowed myself to feel, to grieve, to be sorry for myself, and now I know I can move on. One weak blip on my radar does not define me. No. It makes me stronger.

  I keep repeating those words through my shower and bedtime routine. I feel stronger. More resolved. Less wishy-washy. I know what I want, and it’s not someone who hurts me like he has. It’s not someone who would use me for his own personal gain.

  It’s only when I close my eyes and attempt to succumb to the exhaustion of the day and the moment that I ask myself the one question I’m choosing to ignore.

  If you’re done with Ryker, then why in the hell did you keep a few of the cards he’s sent you, like letters from a lover you’re longing for?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Vaughn

  “Whewee, girl, you look like hell in a handbasket.” Archer waves a hand in front of his face as he crinkles up his nose before waltzing past me and into my house.

  At least I have my blinds open today. Sunlight is the first step toward believing everything is going to be all right.

  “Gee. Thanks. You’re not looking too refreshed yourself,” I say as I study him. His hair is matted to his forehead, his clothes may be expensive but look like they’ve been slept in, and his eyes have a lovely shade of bloodshot to them.

  “Maybe not refreshed, but I’m sure as hell revived. I’m going on thirty-six hours without sleep, love. Give a man a break.”

  “Sounds like you already have.” I raise my eyebrows in jest. “He that good?”

  “You have no idea,” he murmurs with a knowing smile as he walks around my place and judges me without judging. “I’d give you details, but, uh . . . I’m not one to kiss and tell.”

  My laugh is automatic. “You’re such a liar. You’re more the take-out-a-front-page-ad type. But please, spare me the details.” I follow him as he picks up a picture of Lucy and then sets it down before moving on to the next item and doing the same. “Arch?”

  “Hmm?” He doesn’t look my way.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Just visiting.” He sets another tchotchke down.

  “You never just visit.”

  “The last time I saw you was too short, and not enough was shared,” he says, bringing my thoughts to the Hamptons, where Ryker and I ran into him at the lobster roll place. The pang is still as sharp as ever, thinking of him.

  “Hmm.” I eye him, crossing my arms over my chest and leaning against the wall, wondering what in the hell he’s doing here. A house call from Archer Collins is a rarity these days. “You always seem to be busy nowadays.”

  “Pft.” He waves a hand, always one to play down to me his ridiculously busy party-boy, playboy social life. “You’re one to talk. Business good?” He picks up a photo of Lucy.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Lola’s interesting.”

  “Lola?” I ask, and then I remember my most requested girl met him in a club not too long ago.

  “Yeah.” He looks back toward me and lifts his eyebrows before looking around the room again. “Comes on a little strong, but I can see why men like her . . . if, say, I were into women.”

  “Archer.”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “You are not one to drop in just to say hi without having a motive or endgame or whatever the hell you want to call it. What gives?”

  “Am I interrupting big plans or something?” he asks and then emits a dramatic huff before plopping onto my couch and resting his head against its back.

  “Very big plans indeed,” I lie, nowhere near in the mood to entertain him while he comes down from whatever his high was last night. Men. Alcohol. Ecstasy. Who knows?

  His chuckle rumbles around the room. “Big plans? Like what? Watching paint dry? Paying your bills? Because we both know you’re not shaving your legs or pussy for a man.”

  “How would you know if I’m shaving or not? And why would you even care?” I ask as Archer side-eyes me from the couch. “What?”

  “What? That’s all you’re going to say is what, Vaughn?”

  “I’m not in the mood.”

  “Good thing. I’m not in the mood either.” He winks at me. “But you look like shit—bags under your eyes, way too much of your roots showing, and I bet you a hundred dollars that your lady bits look like a jungle. Add to that the rumors that flew like wildfire around the Hamptons after you left. What’s it been? A week?” He lifts his eyebrows.

  “More like two.”

  “Ah, the bags and hairy legs make sense now.”

  “Rumors?” I ask, ignoring his sarcasm.

  “You left the party where you were the main guest. Of course everyone noticed. And then Ryker went looking for you and left abruptly when he couldn’t find you.” He pats the cushion next to him for me to sit down, but I don’t budge. “So I’ll ask your same question back at you: What gives?”

  “Nothing,” I lie. “I’m just not looking for something that serious, and . . . you know me—I’m not good with men.”

  “And I think you’re full of shit. Successful. Handsome. Loaded. Good in bed—or so one can assume,” he says when my eyes narrow at him. “Just like me.”

  “I’m so glad you’re modest.”

  “No one in their right mind would pass up a good catch like Ryker Lockhart, so why are you?”

  “I don’t need a good catch. I need no one. Nothing.”

  “Your nose is growing, Pinocchio.”

  “Do you know him?” I ask rather assertively as I take a few steps toward Archer.

  “Of him.”

  “And?” I prompt.

  Archer studies me, those dark eyes seeing so much more than I want him to. “And I think you’re nursing a heartbreak. I think you’re scared and trying to justify a reason to keep your distance when a part of you is dying inside to figure out why.”

&nb
sp; I blink away the tears that come, because while I know he’s partially right, he also has no idea what Ryker did to me. And I’m almost too ashamed to tell him.

  How screwed up is that? Even while hating Ryker, I’m protecting him by not telling others what he did to me.

  “Don’t cry, love,” Archer says as he rises and pulls me into a hug. I accept the comfort and the warmth, all the while realizing how much I miss this feeling. How much I grew accustomed to Ryker’s strong arms and instant reassurance whenever I needed it.

  He is bad for you, Vaughn. He makes you needy. Remember that.

  “Hey?” Archer asks, stepping back and lifting my chin so I’m forced to look into his eyes.

  “Hmm?”

  “You need to get out.”

  “I’m fine. I just need some time to sort through shit.”

  Archer laughs. “Which is code for I want to hide away in my bubble and be lost to the world. Well, guess what? As one of your closest friends, I’m not going to allow that.”

  “I’m fine,” I groan.

  “Look, I have a thing—”

  “Aha! I knew there was a reason you stopped by.”

  “I need a date for it.”

  “Then take Mr. Thirty-Six Hours with you.”

  “Ha. That’s funny. His time is already up. Besides,” he says and nudges me, “my dad will be there. You know I need to tame the flame when he’s around.”

  I roll my eyes and snort, my first smile finally turning up one corner of my mouth. “No way am I going to be used as a pacifier between you and your father. Been there and done that before.”

  “It’s not like that.” He waves his hand in indifference. “It’s a fund-raiser.”

  My sigh is exaggerated. The last thing I want to do is get dressed up for something that is fancy and formal, and if Archer is going, then that’s exactly what this is. “Arch—”

  “Come on.” He reaches for my hand and swings it. “It’ll be fun. We’ll get you out of the house. We’ll get those roots done. And we’ll raise a shit ton of money for Lucy.”

  “What?” My head snaps in his direction.

  His smile is wide and his expression smug. “Oh, did I forget to tell you? It’s for DSAF,” he says, so casually referring to the Down Syndrome Advocacy Foundation.

  “Dammit, Archer.”

  “I knew that would get you,” Archer says and smacks a loud kiss to the side of my cheek. “So . . . it’s a date, then?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Ryker

  “Bianca . . . I get your frustration, but I can’t force your husband’s hand.”

  “Your reputation is at stake here, Mr. Lockhart.”

  My chuckle is anything but amused at the senator’s wife threatening me. “I told you I’d get whatever you needed, but it’s going to take time.”

  And this is why I don’t take on women as clients. Because they are irrational and demanding and expect results in a day’s time.

  “Time?”

  “Yes, time.” I shift the phone from one ear to the other.

  “You said you had audio of your conversation. I’d love to hear it.”

  I think of the recording on my phone. The conversation I can’t even listen to myself.

  “It’ll never hold up in court,” I lie, knowing it could damn well be used as a bargaining chip but not wanting to share it. It implicates Vaughn, even identifies her by name. What the fuck was I thinking? “Besides, he never offers to pay the escort for sex. That’s what we need.”

  “Mmm.” It’s all she says, and for any guy that’s the worst sound in the world. “I’d still like to hear it.”

  “No.”

  “No?” She laughs the word out in disbelief. The same disbelief I have over this entire bullshit situation right now.

  I think of Carter’s threat. Of how badly I want to say fuck it and his threats of outing Roxanne and me. It would make all of this so much easier. Give Bianca what she wants, file the papers for the goddamn divorce, and wash my hands of this dysfunctional couple. I couldn’t give a shit less about me, but I know he wouldn’t stop at just Rox. Hell no. He’s bound and determined to fuck with Vaughn, too, and I can’t bring any more on her than I already have.

  Regardless of the fact that I’ve written her off. That I know we were a bad idea from the beginning.

  See? That’s called growth, Lockhart. The selfish man is still looking out for her, nonetheless.

  “No?” she repeats. “I don’t think that’s the word you were wanting to say. I believe the words should have been Yes, Bianca. Here’s the recording for you to listen to.”

  I scrub a hand over my jaw. “Look, I’m digging. I’m trying to get you info, catch him in a trap, you name it. I attempted to do what you asked. To get your husband to commit to paying for sex . . . but this time around it didn’t pan out. I assure you it will.”

  “How do you know it will?”

  “Because I’m damn good at my job, or else you wouldn’t have come seeking my representation.” I force myself to unclench my fist on the desk. “Right?”

  Tension fills the silence, followed by another one of her murmured Mmms.

  “This type of thing doesn’t happen overnight, and it sure as hell doesn’t happen when you tell your husband that I’m representing you.” I rise from my desk and move about my office to abate my restlessness. “You just made my job ten times harder.”

  “I thought you said you were damn good at your job, Counselor.”

  Why do I feel like she’s toying with me?

  “This is supposed to be a mutually beneficial relationship here. I help you, and you in turn get out of your marriage as painlessly as possible and with you being awarded a majority of your assets.”

  “At least we can agree on that.” She sighs. “Has your private investigator been able to find anything else on him that we can use?”

  “If he’s doing anything else shady, all I have are rumors. He’s smart. There’s no trail, no one willing to talk, nothing. Maybe it’s just dirty politics that’s sparked the gossip.”

  “And maybe where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

  I nod, more than agreeing with her but keeping the comment to myself. “As I told you last time we spoke and the time before that, I still need your finance and asset breakdown.”

  “And as I told you, he manages the finances and bank accounts. It’s not exactly as easy as you make it out to be.”

  “It’s not as if he doesn’t know you’re going to file. Would you rather him beat you to the punch?” I ask, trying to figure out where the hesitancy is coming from. Is she getting cold feet? Did she suddenly fall back in love with Carter and now is uncertain if she wants to go through with it?

  “It’s the nomination, Ryker.” There’s a softness to her tone that’s unexpected. “I may not exactly like him, but I don’t want to take that off the table for him if it’s in his future.”

  “If it’s in his future or if it’s in your future?”

  Good ol’ Bianca. Proving to me exactly why women and their motives are always in question. Just when I was starting to go soft, she showed me why I shouldn’t be.

  “That’s a shitty accusation to make.”

  “Why? I need to know where your head is on this. Are we filing if he doesn’t get the nomination and holding off if he does? Are you just holding on to see if you get the title and the posh move over to Number One Observatory Circle?” I ask, referring to the vice president’s residence. “Is that why you seem to be playing a game with me?”

  “I don’t play games, Mr. Lockhart.”

  “Then what the hell is going on here? Am I just wasting my time?” Exasperation comes on the heels of my inability to get a good night’s sleep as of late.

  “Does it matter? I’m paying you for the time.”

  “Then I need your assets and finances. Without that, you’re making it hard to know what it is we’re going after unless you want to split it all fifty-fifty down the middle.”
/>   “I’m paying for you to do better than that.”

  Fuck this.

  “Are we good here?” I ask, done with the conversation and whatever game it is she’s playing me with that I can’t quite put my finger on. I’m not going to force her to talk, and I sure as hell am not going to sit by and take her shit when she won’t.

  “Yes.”

  “Great.”

  I end the call, not caring if I just pissed her off. I can handle a woman who likes to play hardball—shit, look at Vaughn—but there’s something here I can’t quite place, and I’m hating being on the outside when I shouldn’t be.

  But fuck, isn’t that where I am with Vaughn too? The outside?

  It doesn’t matter, Lockhart. Not the ache in your chest. Not the sore muscles that you pounded into oblivion at the gym. Not how fucked up your mind is.

  None of it does.

  This is why you’ve always used escorts.

  But I did.

  I used one, and look where that got me.

  “Mr. Lockhart?” My intercom buzzes.

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a big box of something that just arrived for you.”

  “Who’s it from?”

  “A Vaughn Sanders.” She says the name like it’s foreign to her, but I know damn well Bella is wondering just what the boss’s “lover” has sent him.

  “Send it in.”

  I pretend to be busy when the door opens. “Just put it on the chair. Thanks, Bella.” I wait for her to leave before standing and going to it. It’s a legal-size file box with my name and business address written in Vaughn’s clean penmanship. I grab scissors and cut the tape around the lid to open the box.

  The first item I see sitting on the top is a stuffed princess doll I had sent for Lucy.

  “You’re fucking kidding me,” I murmur to my own ego as I shove the lid on and hold back the need to kick the damn box off the chair.

  I told myself I didn’t need Vaughn. That there’s a reason I don’t get close to anyone—too complicated, too much drama, too much feeling—but the sight of what I can assume is all of the shit I’ve sent her being returned only serves to reinforce that assumption.