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“But if I tell my father what Gates did, he’ll want me to go to the police. And what good would that do? Like I said before, it’s my word against his—only now, a full five years later.”
I hold her anxious gaze. “Here’s what I think, love. Go out there and tell your dad what happened, simply because he loves you and doesn’t fully understand you as an adult. From there, I admit, I don’t have the expertise to guide you. But you know who does? Leonard. Let’s set up a meeting. We’ll show him everything Henn found and ask his recommendation on next steps. Should you file a police report? A civil complaint? I have no idea. But I trust Leonard. I know he’ll be able to help us figure out what to do next.”
Tears moisten Georgina’s eyes. “Thank you. Yes. I’d love to talk to Leonard. I trust him, too.” Her face contorts, like she’s holding back the weight of the world. But only barely.
“Aw, baby. Come here.” I hug her to me, and, when I hear sniffling, my heart physically palpitates with love for her.
“Thank you,” she ekes out.
“You don’t have to thank me. Don’t you get it? I love you. Your pain is mine. Your happiness mine.” I pull back and meet her teary eyes. “The only thing I want is for my beautiful, colorful butterfly to be set free, and to get to see her flying loop-de-loops against a brilliant blue sky, the way she was meant to do.”
“Loop-de-loops?” She chuckles through tears. “Whatever happened to you wanting to capture your beautiful butterfly and pin her to paper and enclose her in an airtight frame?”
I brush the tear streaking down her cheek with my thumb. “Well, I guess that right there is the difference between lust... and love.”
Chapter 27
Reed
Music is blaring. Bright lights flashing. And I’m a little bit drunk. Not because I’m having fun at this stupid birthday party at my Las Vegas nightclub. But because I’m not. Because after the past six weeks of bliss with Georgina, I can’t stand being away from her. Because I’d rather be shitfaced than have to stand here, completely sober, wishing I were home with my baby. Because, as this five-day business trip has taught me, I’m now hopelessly incapable of being away from Georgina for even one night—let alone, five.
The Old Reed traipsed around the world for weeks at a time, without a care in the world. Not missing anyone. Fucking whoever. Never truly letting anyone get to know the man behind The Man with the Midas Touch. But now, it’s abundantly clear: The Old Reed is dead. And The New Reed is totally, madly, irrevocably in love with the siren, the bombshell, the fireball known as Georgina Ricci.
It’s been a productive trip, from a business standpoint. In San Francisco, Seattle, Phoenix, and Boise, I’ve scouted bands, checked out potential real estate investments, and attended meetings. All stuff I really needed to do, after six weeks of ignoring far too much work to hunker down in my house with Georgina. I’ve survived it all, but just barely, knowing it was all stuff I legitimately had to do for work. But, tonight, I’m losing my mind, since this party isn’t work related and I’d much rather be home with Georgina. I’m hosting a birthday party for an old fraternity brother named Alonso in my nightclub tonight, and, I swear, if it weren’t for an important meeting tomorrow with some business partners here in Vegas, I’d already have hopped a plane back to Georgina.
I tried to get her to come with me on this trip, but she said she had too much work to do. Her final artist interviews to polish. Her Gates article to finalize. Also, the one about me to edit. Plus, on top of all that, Georgina said she’s still trying her mighty best to get someone to talk to her, on the record, about Howard Devlin. It’s looking pretty unlikely she’s going to be able to pull that particular rabbit out of her hat, despite how hard she’s tried over the past six weeks. But, still, she’s not ready to give up. Which doesn’t surprise me. Georgina Ricci is nothing if not persistent.
Someone jostles my shoulder on their way to the dance floor, and I’m jolted back to my present surroundings. I’m standing near the dance floor with three of my old fraternity brothers—Henn, Luke, and the birthday boy, Alonso—plus, Ethan, an old friend from UCLA who wasn’t in my fraternity, but is friendly with that whole group, thanks to regular poker parties at my house the past several years.
I tune into the conversation happening around me and discover Ethan, a successful producer of indie flicks, is telling the group a “behind the scenes” story from one of the films he’s produced. Luke and Alonso are listening intently and laughing. But not Henn. He’s glued to his phone, looking anxious.
