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“I have a life, you know. Friends. A father. My business. I know you’re mad at me about the photos, but I really need to be out there taking pictures for myself.” She’s nearly pleading, and guilt flares. I’m mad about the photos, yes, but nothing she’s doing for me now will absolve her. She thinks she’s working off a debt, when in reality, she’s a pawn.
As it should be. She deserves this. I force myself not to back down. Instead I just stare, coldly, and say, “Better get moving, then.”
She stomps off, and I follow, just minutes later. I don’t need to tail her. I know where Dylan lives. She’ll go there first.
* * *
When I get downstairs, just minutes behind Callie, I settle in to the waiting car, grunt a hello at my driver, Lou, and prepare myself for a long night. Lou parks near Dylan’s apartment, and Callie arrives twenty minutes later. Dylan lives in a townhouse in Tribeca. It’s gut-renovated and modern, with a basement pool. I know because I’ve seen it. Before. I once wanted an apartment just like it. Now mine is infinitely superior.
Callie settles in across the street, on the steps of another townhouse, plopping on to them like she belongs. She takes out her phone, flicking through it occasionally, and sneaking surreptitious glances at the townhouse. She’s good. And now that I can watch her in private, I can see just how good. The way she rests her chin on her hand says bored college student, but her camera is on her lap, hidden under a massive black scarf. Remember, she’s done the same to you.
She pulls her coat closer. It’s cold tonight. She must be freezing. Let her freeze. It’s what she deserves. There was another article this morning about Christine, using photos Callie Thompson undoubtedly sold to Green Media. After I told her to stop. So let her fucking freeze.
Every car that comes down the tiny street makes her head jerk. She must be cataloging the make and model like I am. Dylan wants new and fancy only. So when a white Mercedes slows, we both straighten up.
His head appears first, sandy blonde hair gelled back. My hand is on the handle of my door before I even realize it, and I force myself to relax. Dylan’s slender frame emerges after, clad in a long wool coat and black gloves. He’s slightly paunchy. Going soft, I note with vicious satisfaction. Callie is already halfway across the street, camera snapping.
He sees her and he preens, he actually fucking preens. He smiles. I hate it. I crack my window in time to hear her say, “Mr. Green. A quote? I’m from the New York Star.”
“You’re too pretty to be a reporter.” He leers at her, and my hand drops to the door handle again. Mine. He’s encroaching on what’s mine.
"What do you know about Jonah Crown?”
His face falls. “Jonah Crown? Fuck that guy.” He turns on his heel and strides back into the townhouse. I slump back on the seat.
No recognition. Nothing. He doesn’t know Callie and she doesn’t know him. Maybe she’s not as bad as I think she is. I watch her tuck her camera away and bury her chin in her scarf, and I steel myself.
I can’t be making excuses for her. This is how she’ll worm her way in. Cupcakes, those bright smiles, and the next thing I know I’ll be spilling company secrets.
So instead of offering her a ride back to the office, I send her a text noting she better get her ass back to work after the assignment or I’ll fire her on the spot.
She reads it, gives her phone the finger, and makes a frustrated sound. I laugh into the car’s silent interior.
Game on, Thompson.
16
Callie
When I get back to the office on Thursday night, Jonah is still there. His shirtsleeves are rolled up and his tie is off. His hair is even mussed from him running his hands through it, or so I assume. It could have been from him brutally murdering an employee and hiding the body. It looks like sex hair, my traitorous brain reminds me.
He greets me with, “Anything?”
“No,” I say shortly, shucking my coat. “Dylan wasn’t happy to see me, and I don’t know what you expected me to get. He lives in a beautiful townhouse, and he’s just as creepy as I thought he was from his photos.” My skin feels slimy from his leering, and I shudder.
“Creepy how?” Jonah’s brows draw down. “Did he make a move?”
“Like you care.” I snort. “Unless you need fodder for a lawsuit? Here. Grab my arm.” I walk closer to Jonah, who freezes. “I’ll never tell them it was you who hurt me.”
“I’m not a monster,” he says quietly. I just watch him, too irritated to respond. He treats me like his servant, he doesn’t pay me, and he doesn’t let me work to take photos I can use. I hate you, Jonah Crown.
“Creepy. How?” he repeats. His voice is hard.
“Just the look on his face. It unsettled me.” Jonah doesn’t respond, and I shake my head. “You know what, never mind. I don’t want to get into this and have you dismiss me. Men always do.”
His jaw works. “I wouldn’t,” he says with quiet intensity. “I wouldn’t dismiss it.”
I don’t know what to say to that. It sounds a hell of a lot like a peace offering, and I know that’s not the case. So instead I say, “What did you need me for? Do you want me to continue the dossier? I’m going to email LexisNexis to see what searches I can run on there. We can get public records. Unless your lawyers have a subscription we can use?”
