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Novah’s eyes widened. “Oh no, Faith…” she whispered and reached out to take my hand. “She didn’t like your notes?”
I let out a sardonic laugh. “Liked? She fucking crucified them, Nove. Hung, drawn, and quartered and sent to the edges of New York to warn other writers not to be so shit.”
I stared unseeing at the carpet beneath my feet. I thought of Maître, his muscled body and his gentle hands, his French accent, which was so suave it made snakes of my clothes—with his words alone he could charm them right off. But more importantly, I thought of the aftercare, when he held me close. When he huffed reluctant laughs at my breathless jokes.
And Sally wanted me to destroy him.
Anonymity is everything, mon petit chaton…I heard his voice in my ear. Sally wanted me to rip right through that anonymity. Expose him and, no doubt, destroy his club and all he’d worked for. The thought of doing that to him…
My desk phone rang and I answered it robotically. “Yes?”
“Get your ass down to the rec center. Michael has food poisoning and can’t cover the charity event that’s taking place. So you’re covering it, serving your fucking penance for disappointing me with that shit you brought into my office. One thousand words by tomorrow afternoon about what the charity does and all that sad crap that will make our readers weep. And get there now!” Sally slammed the phone down and I winced.
“Faith?” Novah said.
“I have to go cover a story at a rec center.” An email with the address and notes came through from Carla. I printed it off, grabbed my jacket and purse, and tucked my useless notes away in my drawer.
Novah reached out and grabbed my hand. “It’ll be okay, I promise.” I gave her a tight smile and high-tailed it out of the building, caught a cab, and handed the driver the address. Of course, when it’s a warm, sunny day, a cab stops immediately. As I stared out at bustling New York, I thought of exposing Maître, who he was, what he did, his face…and I felt sick.
I took a deep breath. Faith, you’ve known the guy for a handful of weeks. Yes, it has been a pretty fucking intense handful of weeks, but that’s all it’s been. It’s a sex club. You are just another siren in a mask. But I wasn’t. Bunny had told me so. As had Maître himself. He didn’t take sirens. But he had taken me.
“Fuck my life!” I shouted.
“You say something, miss?” the old cab driver asked.
“No, sorry.” The cab pulled to a halt, and I climbed out onto the sidewalk. It took me a moment to realize we were in Hell’s Kitchen. I walked to the rec center I’d come to as a kid, and some of the heaviness in my chest was lifted. My parents lived only two blocks away. I smiled up at the sky. Papa always said that when you were in a bad place, God always delivered to you exactly what you needed to be lifted back up again. As I looked at the rec center, a place that had helped mold who I was today, I wondered if this was it.
As I pushed through the doors, the musty smell of sweating teenagers slapped me in the face. Some things never changed; they were the steadily balanced constants you needed so life didn’t get too dizzy.
I heard noises coming from the back gym. As I passed the office, I heard, “Well if it isn’t the troublemaker Faith Parisi herself.” Instantly smiling, I found Mr. Caprio walking around the desk, the baker boy cap he always wore still firmly attached to his head.
“Mr. Caprio,” I said and was immediately wrapped up in a bear hug.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“I’m here to cover the event today. The fundraiser for…” I looked down at my notepad. “Children’s bereavement.” My heart fractured at the topic, and I hated myself for not reading the brief on the way here.
“It’s more an activity day. The new artificial turf football field has just been opened, and it’s the first day the children from the charity have played on it.” I nodded as he led me through the familiar hallways that led to the back gym. “The Charity CEO is through here.”
We entered the back gym and noise of the highest decibels greeted me. Children were running everywhere, sports of every kind happening on every inch of space.
“Mr. Caprio,” I said. “Where’s the artificial field?”
“Near the east entrance. But the photographers have already been. We’re taking all the press in here now.” I nodded but found it strange that the new field would be closed when all of this was for its opening.
“Faith, this is Susan Shaw, the CEO of”—he quickly checked his notes— “Vie.” Who was Vie? Was she the woman the charity was named after?
