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I shot Duffy a message informing her about what happened, then proceeded to the Brewtherhood. The good thing about this bar was that it opened at noon, which made getting trashed not only easy but legitimized.
I was well into my third drink when my phone buzzed with an incoming call. I fished it out of my pocket and frowned. Gretchen’s name flashed on the screen. I couldn’t ignore her for eternity, because maturity or something. Plus, I had a thing or two to say to her.
“Hey, Riggs!” She sounded like a bundle of sunshine, like we hadn’t parted ways with me being pushed to marry her assistant, who she then humiliated on their last day at the office. “How’ve you been, hon?”
“Did you have a personality implant last time you went for a lipo?” I leaned against the bar, squinting. “You sound—”
“Happy?” she chirped.
“Nice,” I corrected.
“Isn’t that a good thing?” It appeared like she was driving. Or, more likely, being driven.
“No.” I picked up my beer and brought it to my lips. “I enjoyed your wrath in bed and never stayed long enough for the conversation.”
She let out a shrill laugh. “I swear, the things that come out of your mouth.”
“The things that get into yours,” I retorted.
That made her laughter die. “Where are you?”
“My usual spot.” She knew about the Brewtherhood because, before she moved to DC, every time I was in New York, we had an arrangement. We’d meet here and then go to her apartment.
“Great. I’m on my way.” She hung up.
She was in New York? What happened to DC? Maybe POTUS had realized she had a radioactive personality and an attitude to match.
Ten minutes later, Gretchen was sitting next to me in the Brewtherhood, looking like the bombshell I’d enjoyed so much over the years. Interestingly enough, she did nothing for me now.
“I thought you were in DC,” I said, wondering if my dick was broken. Gretchen never failed to make me hard. There was something about her unapologetic ruthlessness and six HIIT workouts a week that spoke directly to my cock, which was an avid listener.
“I am.” She turned toward me, flashing some serious leg through her gray pencil skirt. She had that whole sexy-secretary look down to a T. “Aren’t you going to ask how working for the White House is?”
“How’s working for the White House?” My voice was so flat you could use it to cut a fucking salad.
“Great.” She leaned into my arm. “Wonderful. POTUS is a real gem. Such a lovely man.Somild. And he sings my praises.”
There was no nice way of telling her I didn’t give a crap if POTUS was going to divorce his wife and marry her, so instead, I steered the conversation to where it mattered. “So what brings you to New York?”
“Meetings, back to back.” She wiped invisible sweat from her brow. “One of my meetups got canceled, so I thought we’d catch up. We haven’t spoken in weeks! Why is that, remind me?”
“Because you’re a bitch?” I offered, remembering how she’d treated Poppins. “Also, because we only speak when one of us is in town and wants to screw the other.”
She nodded, motioning toward her body with her hands. “And here I am.”
I blinked at her before throwing my head back and laughing. It took me two full minutes to calm down. And in those minutes, she sat there and stared at me, wearing an expression of confusion and annoyance.
“You wanna fuck?” I asked, finally.
She pressed her lips together. “Don’t act like we haven’t been doing it for years, Bates.”
“We had.” I took a swig of my beer. “But aren’t you forgetting a teeny, tiny detail?”
She tilted an eyebrow up. “Enlighten me?”
“I’mmarried.”
“Married!” Now it was her turn to laugh. “Please, Riggs. We’re both married by name only.”
