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“Hannah, you already know our deal. I'm not going to repeat it for you,” I sniff. Was she always this bitchy? Is this a new development?
“Because the way I remember it, you were going to rehabilitate Emmet's reputation, by parading around with him and spinning some fairytale about your storybook romance. Is that a good summary?”
“The goodest summary ever.”
“Stop fucking around, Bella!”
I stand up straight, pulling the phone away from my ear for just a second to stare at Hannah's picture. There she is. My 16-year-old friend. Totally different than the jerk on the other end of the line right now. I need to remember the 16-year-old, the girl I adored. My friend. Maybe even my best friend, I don't know.
Right? That happened, right?
Reaching back, I'm sort of wondering if maybe she wasn’t my friend, not really. I mean, I was there when she was sick, but was she there when I was sick? I helped her to write her college essays, but when I needed help prepping for the ACT, she had a new boyfriend and always seemed to run out of time.
She's always been driven, much more than than I am. I suppose I'm just lucky to have a job about fifteen ladder rungs below hers. Her ambition obviously worked in her favor, while I'm stuck having to beg her for the chance to continue slaving away for her.
Hm. I'm going to have to give this a little more thought.
“Bella? What exactly happened last night?”
“What happened last night was that we had dinner in front of Buckingham Fountain. Wolfgang Puck is really nice in person. Rob Meagher likes to look at my tits. And then I went home with Dillon and Emmet and fucked the hell out of both of them.”
I hear her sputter on the other end of the line, but it is getting hard to care. I really, really want to shower. I feel myself being a little bit stickier than I normally would like.
“USA Today was stupid selection,” I continue. I’m on a roll now. “HuffPo was a good one, even though Melody has a stink of desperation on her. The way I figure it, you've got two more chances before the merger. You should get the New York Times since they’re actually interested in Riordan Publishing, and I've already spoken to Perez Hilton. That'll be all it takes.”
“Don't you presume to tell me —”
“No,” I interrupt her. “Don't you presume to tell me. I might be your pawn, Hannah, but I'm not your bitch.”
I hear her voice again, but it's too late. I'm already putting the phone on the counter, swiping left to disconnect the call. I feel crests of irritation coming at me like ocean waves, but now I’m on a mission. I'm about to take a shower and wash those all away, and spend the rest of the day feeling pretty damn good.
CHAPTER 12
Dillon
After I knock on the door three or four times it finally opens. Bella glares at me, then pokes her head outside, looking up and down the street furtively.
“Are you on the run? Looking for cops?”
“Just get inside!” she scowls, grabbing me by the arm and slamming the heavy wooden door behind me. The deadbolt turns with a heavy click.
Immediately she turns around and darts down the hallway. I’m not sure if she expects me to follow her or not, so I take a second to look around. It's the standard Chicago Greystone building: elegant entryway, stairs to the second floor on my left. Formal parlor on my right, with pocket doors and wide wood molding.
She's furnished it in a nice, simple mid-century modern style. There’s a vintage turquoise sofa and glass topped coffee table. A colorful abstract painting hangs over the fireplace and I cut across the room to look at it. It’s not signed, which makes me wonder if she did it. Maybe she has some artistic talent in their there too, in addition to her wordsmithing and her…
Hm. Well, let's just say she's very talented.
“I love your house!” I call out, polite as ever. People don't appreciate how fucking polite I am.
She reappears in a brightly framed doorway at the back of the house, where I presume there's a kitchen. The room between us is the dining room, with a spotless oval table and a beautiful Bohemian crystal chandelier.
“I mean, I love Chicago architecture. Classic.”
Her eyebrows arch. “Did you come here for an architectural tour?”
“You bet I did,” I parry. “Let’s start in the bedroom.”
She comes into the parlor, carrying two mugs and hands me one. I sniff at it. It's some kind of tea.
