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Jesus, he doesn’t fight fair. And I can’t believe I ever lusted after her, let alone so openly.
Carmen’s ass is everywhere, I fling back. You could’ve heard that anywhere.
Roland: I heard it from the donkey’s mouth—yours.
Nick: Dickhead. Fuck off.
Roland: As soon as you give me a statement for the court of public opinion, I will.
Nick: I’m not giving you a damn quote. Why don’t you use this as an opportunity to break into real news?
Roland: Easy answer—I make too much money talking about you.
If this idiot were here and not just words on a screen, I’d break his nose.
Happy to be of service, I send back, ready to end this.
Roland: Okay. Since you won’t give me a statement, I’ll just use Miss Seraphina’s. She’s open to constructive talks.
I hope like hell he’s bluffing. Carmen hates this prick almost as much as I do. As much as any public persona with something to lose does.
I won’t play ball.
Besides shooting myself in the face, it’s just another reason for her to ambush me with thrown champagne and a blistering slap to my face. Surely, she’s had enough run-ins with bloggers, influencers, and the media to know not to say anything.
Leave her alone, too, I send, clenching my jaw.
Roland: One last question. Who was that darling little date with you the night Carmen lost her cool? No one could ever tag her properly.
Fuck. No wonder Reese is still pissed.
She’s probably still trending on Instagram as her hashtag-alias—Miss Literally Who.
Leave her out of this. If The Chicago Tea ever mentions her name, I promise you I’ll send every attorney in this city who’s worth anything charging up your ass.
I slam the phone facedown just as it pings. I hate how quickly I look at the screen, my blood like lava.
Oh, Nicholas. I’ve always loved your empty threats. Besides being the dumb one, you’re also the hothead. Grandma Brandt would not be proud.
He just had to go there, huh?
I could dismember him.
I just hope to God there are no other copies of that video floating around.
Of course, if Carmen would just move the hell on, the story would die. In a fair world, the night she tore into me and ruined any chance I ever had with Reese should’ve been the end of it.
But if Change is an ass kicker, then Karma is a screaming bitch.
Internet memes die hard when you’re a Brandt who’s still single, so...this ordeal never ends.
I need a fucking drink.
A car honks, just outside the thick glass doors in the lobby. I jump and drop my phone.
By the time I pick it up, I realize Reese is waiting.
* * *
She leaves the privacy screen down, but I don’t prod her this time.
The hate-texts with Roland Birdshit make it obvious why she’s still pissed all these months later.
She’s right to be.
I’m not even sure anger is the right word. Playing with me left burn marks. Scars.
And why should a woman like her ever care to play with fire?
“Mr. Brandt, I have to stop at the gas station. I’m sorry.”
Her voice catches my attention, and I meet her eyes. Her jaw looks clenched. Her face is tight and a deep line furrows in the center of her forehead.
“Of course, but...are you okay?” I frown.
“I’m fine.” The words are clipped and rushed. Not just her usual anger.
“You’re certain?”
“We just...we need gas,” she sputters, stabbing a finger at her phone attached to its holder on the dash.
It pings and vibrates nonstop. We’re in four lanes of traffic.
She pulls the Lincoln across three lanes without ever checking the mirror, darting into a dilapidated gas station and stopping next to a pump.
What the hell? Also, I could’ve sworn the tank was on the other side, but I’m not in the car for fill-ups often, so maybe I’m wrong.
The driver door opens and she leaps out. The car beeps because the keys are still in the ignition.
“This is Reese Halle!” she yells.
I lean up and glance out of the open door.
She’s on the phone. Frantic. Caller unknown.
I relax back into the seat and turn to stare out the window, giving her some privacy. I appreciate the fact that she pulled over to take a call that’s clearly killing her.
I just wish I knew why.
“Yes,” she says. “Are you sure?” She’s quiet for a minute. “What about Millie?” She pauses. “Her...her daughter.” That’s followed by a soft, sad, “Oh. Okay.”
A pale Reese falls back into the driver’s seat and slumps over the steering wheel, hitting the horn. The car screams across the parking lot. Someone gets out of a car across from us and flips us the bird, gesturing angrily at their ears.
Reese realizes she’s on the horn after ten long seconds and backs off.
What the fuck gives?
I’ve never seen her this pale, this miserable, not since that night..and other than easing off the horn, she’s still not moving.
