Reveal

by Bromberg, K.

  All of it is troubling.

  Then I think of my day planner on my desk. Of my thoughts a few weeks before that someone had been going through my office.

  You’re drawing conclusions out of fear, Vaughn. Get a grip.

  With my head in my hands and a deep sigh, I look up when I get a new email.

  “It’s almost as if she knew,” I murmur to myself when I look at the message I just received from Ella. Yet another check-in to see if I’m ready and willing to discuss selling my book of business to her.

  I stare at the screen until my eyes blur. Tell her yes. Tell her no. Financial security versus insecurity. Keeping myself vulnerable to the illegalities of this business versus stepping away from the constant worry of being caught.

  I sigh with a shake of my head. The offer to sell is so tempting, but the price she’d pay for my book of clients isn’t nearly enough to cover my outlying debts. The plan was to sell in a year’s time. To build and bolster and grow my reputation so this is all worth more.

  If I sell now, I won’t completely pay off my debts. Will paying off a large chunk be enough for Priscilla? Because the tips at Apropos simply aren’t enough to live off while repaying the remaining balances.

  But selling it would make you safer. It would give you a chance to have a future where you’re not constantly looking over your shoulder.

  For the first time since she began contacting me, I reply back with a message other than no.

  Hi Ella,

  Thank you for your message and persistence. I think I’m closer to talking than I’ve ever been. I need to figure out a few details and have a bit of time to wrap my head around it all, though. I’ll be in touch in the next few weeks to set up a meeting with you.

  Thank you.

  Vee

  I stare at my response for the longest time and then hit send before I lose the courage.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Ryker

  I eye the man who walks into my office. His eyes never stop glancing around—judging, measuring, assessing—until they land on me.

  “Can I help you, Officer?” I ask.

  He’s in plain clothes. Light hair. Dark eyes. And he more than takes his time responding.

  “You having a good day?”

  What the fuck do you want?

  Instead of asking the question I really want to, I smile. “Your badge, please?” He looks surprised when I hold out my hand to see it. “You’ve been sitting down in my lobby for the past day or so. You know my name—it only seems fair that I know yours.”

  He fights the twitch of a smile at being made and reaches in his pocket for his badge. I look at it for a beat: Dan Brower, detective with the NYPD.

  Detective.

  I hand it back to him, but not before I try to memorize his badge number.

  “I can write down the number so you don’t forget it,” he says, that twitch turning into an I-know-your-type smile.

  “No need,” I bluff. “And your recorder?” I motion to his pocket. “Is that on too?”

  “No.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and levels me with a stare that’s less than amicable. “Thanks for reminding me, though.”

  “Just want to make sure you get this all down the first time, seeing as I’m certain both you and I are busy and have better things to do than talk about whatever it is you’re here to talk about.”

  “How generous of you.” Sarcasm of a seasoned detective edges his tone.

  “You set?” I ask like an overeager schoolboy.

  “Yes.”

  “What can I do for you, Detective Brower?”

  “We had a complaint filed by—”

  “Oh, you forgot to say who I was. You know, for your records. You might want to say who it is you’re speaking to.”

  He clenches his jaw. “Yes. This is Detective Brower speaking with one Mr. Ryker Lockhart in regards to case number”—he looks at something on his notepad—“4657894.”

  “Great. Thanks. You can ask your question now.” I motion to the list of things on his pad.

  He eyes me again, frustration in his expression and defensiveness in his posture. “Can you let me run this now? You good with that?”

  “Sure. Shall we?”

  “As I was saying. We had a complaint filed by one Brian Vaden.”

  I nod. “And you’re following up on it why? Run out of beat cops today?”

  “As I said, Mr. Vaden filed a complaint.”

  “Through your office? Through social services? Where did he go exactly to file the complaint?”

  “You’re being difficult, Mr. Lockhart, and I haven’t even asked my question yet.”

  “Not difficult. Just trying to get the lay of the land to figure out why a detective is wasting his time coming to my office to ask about a man he probably never even spoke to personally.”

  I can play cat and mouse all day, fucker. Bring it on. I need this. Someone to play this game with.

  “Brian Vaden,” he says. “Do you know him?”

  “Briefly.”

  “Care to expand?”

  “Was this a high Brian or a sober Brian?” I ask, laying the groundwork.

  “Excuse me?” He picks up a paperweight on my desk without asking and measures its weight in his hand before looking back at me.

  “Was he sober, or was he high?”

  “That question leads me to believe that you know him.”

  “And your response leads me to believe I was right—you’ve never met him face-to-face. You’ve never seen him twitching from his need for more blow or smack or whatever the fuck it is he’s always high on.”

  “I’m not quite sure what this has to do with anything.”

  “It has to do with everything.” I smile broadly.

  “Again, I’ll ask you to expand if you so desire.”

  “Well, a high Brian will come and lie to you about how I threatened his life and then punched him for nothing more than showing up at my girlfriend’s doorstep close to midnight. How we chatted about the nice weather we’re having, and then when he told me he loved the Yankees, I chose to punch him, since I’m a die-hard Red Sox fan.”

  “So you did punch him?”

  “A sober Brian,” I continue without missing a beat, “would inform you how he showed up to my girlfriend’s house in an attempt to extort money from her. And then when he found me there instead, after assessing the watch on my wrist, tried to extort even more money from me. How he asked me to pay an exorbitant amount for him not to protest the adoption of his daughter to his sister-in-law, a.k.a. my girlfriend. He’d tell you he’s just looking for some more cash to fund that nasty habit he has that makes him unfit to parent said daughter as well. He’d tell you that as much as I would have loved to plow my fist into his nose, I didn’t. Instead, after he made a more than vulgar comment about my girlfriend that had me fearing for her safety, I took a step toward him, and he promptly turned to run like a chicken. How he tripped over his own feet and fell face-first into the little retaining wall she has around a raised flower bed.” I shove my hands in my pockets and lean back against the desk behind me and shrug. “He might even tell you that if you head over to her house, you’ll probably see a small spot of his blood on the edge of said wall where his cheek cut open when he hit it. I can guess which person you talked to, though.”

  “Who’s that?” he leads me when he has no clue I’m pulling him by the reins exactly where I want him to go.

  “I don’t think sober Brian has seen the light of day for some time now. Maybe he cleans it up when he has an appointment with social services, but he’s at the point where he needs drugs just to maintain his normal. But no, sober Brian hasn’t been around for some time. Not since way before his girlfriend committed suicide because the drugs he continually fed her were too much for her to break the chains from so she could be a good mother. On a scale of one to being a stellar individual, I think you can see where he stands.”

  “I didn’t ask any of that, Mr. L
ockhart.”

  “Just doing my civil service, Detective, and giving you the whole picture. Sometimes it’s important to get a feel for the person who filed the complaint before you go out and question the person he’s pointing the finger at.”

  That and saying it places all the shit he’s done on a permanent record. Something I can corroborate in court if need be. Documentation a judge won’t be able to overlook if it comes down to a custody battle between Vaughn and Brian over Lucy after social services decides who should be her legal guardian.

  “Let’s get back on task here.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s a habit of mine to paint a picture in opening arguments.”

  The detective shifts on his feet. I’m driving him crazy. Good. That was my plan.

  He glances back down to his notepad to remember where we were before I distracted him. “So your story is that he cut his face when he fell and hit a wall?”

  Wide, blinking eyes. Slowly shaking head. “Yes, but you don’t have to take my word for it. I’m sure he gets beat up regularly. You hang with a nasty crowd, you run the risk of getting the shit beat out of you when you don’t pay up. At least that’s what I’ve seen time and again in my line of work.”

  He eyes me, and I don’t give a flying fuck if he believes me or not. “You’re a divorce lawyer, correct?”

  I nod and point to my business card on the desk with a cheesy grin.

  “Don’t think you see many beat-up druggies from missed supplier payments in your line of work, now do you?”

  I chuckle and cross my arms over my chest, never breaking eye contact. “It’s amazing the things people will do when money is on the line and love has been broken.”

  He twists his lips as we just stare at each other in the silence of my office. A challenge is given. An acknowledgment that I am enjoying talking in circles.

  “Is there anything else you’d like to add?” he asks.

  “You tell me.”

  “Mr. Lockhart, I don’t play games.”

  “Believe me, neither do I.”

  “Then we’re done here?” he asks.

  “You’re the one who came to me. Did you get what you needed, Detective?”

  “You live in New York long, Mr. Lockhart?”

  His question does what it’s intended to do—throwing me momentarily. “You already know the answer to that question.” I change my tone from amused to cut-the-bullshit. “Now why would you ask something like that?”

  “Ever heard of the High Line?”

  My smile is automatic. Is he really going to nail me for trespassing right now?

  “Of course I have. I’m a New Yorker through and through,” I say.

  “Except for that Red Sox part.”

  “Except for that.” I laugh.

  And when he leaves, I sit back in my chair and run the conversation over in my head.

  Again and again.

  If anything, I’ve started the ball rolling to try to lay the groundwork of just who Brian Vaden is. It’s not solving all Vaughn’s problems, but it’s a start.

  Carter is still an unknown, as is how to fix his fascination with Vaughn. She’s at least told me what she has on him, but fuck if I have any clue what a call log would be about.

  I can at least be thankful that he’s been on a congressional envoy overseas for the past few weeks. His radio silence has been needed.

  But it won’t last.

  Then there are the Dillingers. Seven days and counting until I stand face-to-face with the pedophile James. I’ll let him know exactly how he will be contacting the prosecuting attorney in Greenwich and telling him how he wants Vaughn’s warrant recalled. And I might have a whole lot of fun letting him know the leverage I have over him if he ever so much as breathes in Vaughn’s direction again.

  With the warrant gone, Carter’s main threat will be nonexistent.

  But then I’ll have to explain to Vaughn that I invaded her privacy and why.

  When I told her I wanted to take care of her, I meant it.

  Now there’s just one more thing I need to do.

  I look down at the printout in my hands. At the balances lining the right side of the spreadsheet.

  Fuck it.

  I push the number on my phone. He picks up on the third ring.

  “What’s up?”

  “Pull the trigger, Stu.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t touching that part of her life. That it was off limits.”

  “Yeah, well, I changed my mind.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Vaughn

  I watch the news halfheartedly. The only reason it caught my attention was the mention of Carter Preston’s name. Is it sad that I sigh in relief when they mention his name in connection with meetings top congressional persons are having in Europe on a two-week tour?

  Will I ever know what it’s like not to have to look over my shoulder at every turn? Will I be able to get my teaching credential without anything from my past rearing its ugly head and ruining any background check that might take place? I press my fingers to my temples and close my eyes, the latest round of bill paying just the icing on the cake to a rather shitty week.

  When my phone rings, I half expect it to be Priscilla on the other end of the line but am surprised to see Ryker’s name.

  Every part of me sags in elation at the sight of it.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi.” His voice. Sigh. “It’s okay for you to pick up the phone and call me sometimes, you know.” His chuckle rumbles through the line.

  “I know.”

  “Do you?” His tone is playful.

  “I do.”

  “Good, because I was worried you were over there sitting behind your desk convincing yourself of every reason we shouldn’t be together instead of every reason that we should be. I vote for the glass-half-full approach.”

  “I prefer it half-empty.”

  And isn’t that the two of us in a nutshell? My whole life I’ve been left hoping for more while dealing with less. And then there’s Ryker, who has had access to everything, and yet he allows himself only so little.

  “You need to change your outlook.”

  “I do?”

  “Mmm. Like one where you look up and see me standing in your doorway because I missed you and wanted to see you,” he says, and I immediately turn around to look at my front door, half expecting him to be there and being slightly disappointed when he’s not.

  “You’re not standing here, though.”

  “You haven’t invited me to be.”

  I laugh. “You’ve never been one to wait for an invitation.”

  “Now. Tomorrow. I need to see you,” he says, and the raw emotion in his voice hits me deep in my core.

  “Seeing you scares me.” My unexpected confession takes me by surprise.

  “What?” His voice is part amused, part leery, while I fill the line with nervous laughter.

  “Everything has been calm. Quiet. Uneventful. I bet you a hundred bucks that if we see each other, the crazy will somehow reveal itself once again.”

  “Stop thinking that way.”

  “You know I’m right. Brian. Carter. A meteor strike. Who knows?”

  It’s his turn to chuckle now as he realizes I’m right. “True enough.”

  I pick at my nail polish as I weigh what to say next. “Yes. But . . .”

  “Outside influences shouldn’t matter.”

  “It seems these days everything matters.” I sigh.

  “Just let us be us, Vee. We’ll figure the rest out.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “It’s the truth,” he says matter-of-factly.

  “How do you know this, though?”

  “Because I’m fucking miserable sitting here not knowing when I get to see you next. Because you and I are better when we’re together, even if a meteor might strike. Because why would we let us be anything else?”

  “A work in progress,” I say to cut him off.

&nb
sp; “Exactly.” His laugh makes me smile. “So do I get to see you again?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  I hesitate to answer, even though every part of me is screaming yes.

  What I’m fighting against I’m not quite sure.

  My battle against needing someone? My fear that he’s bad for me and therefore I don’t need him? Or is it my fear that he just might be that fairytale ending that Lucy always watches? The one that’s never happily ever after until you turn to the very last page?

  Maybe I’m just trying to see what chapter we’re on so I know how much more there is to our story until we can turn to that ride-off-into-the-sunset page.

  “When?” I finally respond.

  “Yes, when?”

  “The next few days.”

  “Should I pick you—”

  “I’ll come to you.” I draw in a shaky breath, suddenly nervous. “Good night, Ryker.”

  “Good night.”

  And when I end the call and hold my cell to my chest, the smile on my lips just might reflect a glass half-full.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Vaughn

  “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” Exhaustion etches the lines of his face, but his expression is one of pure surprise when he sees me standing out front of his office building.

  “Truth be told, I was debating whether to come in and see you.”

  “Yes. The answer is always yes.” He says the words but doesn’t make a move toward me.

  We stand and stare at each other like two awkward teenagers for a few moments as the world buzzes on around us. People are leaving for a night out after work. Some are rushing home.

  But it’s just Ryker in his sleek suit, a little rumpled, a lot sexy, and me in my exercise clothes with a bag under my arm that holds my uniform for work.

  “You’re leaving early today.” I take a step closer, knowing he typically leaves the office long after rush hour, and reach out to run a hand down his cheek. “You look exhausted.”

  When I go to pull my hand away, he reaches out and keeps it where it is with his hand over mine before turning his face toward it and kissing my palm. It’s such an unexpected action that it takes me a moment to process his public display of affection.