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But what she thinks doesn’t matter, and neither does my hypocrisy.
Protecting her from any sneak attacks is sacrosanct.
“You have to understand, this isn’t easy. I’m dealing with a sociopath.”
“And I’m dealing with a control freak,” she throws back.
I grit my teeth. “Jenn, I’m leaving either way, but this control freak would rather do it knowing you’re on my side. Don’t fight me.”
I move in to kiss her, but she whips around, blocking me.
I’m stranded, waiting in freezing silence too much like my nightmare until she turns.
For a second, she looks at me harshly. Then her eyes soften.
“When have I not been on your side?”
I smile. “I’d rather do this knowing we’re okay.”
“I want to be, Miles.” She sighs, and her lip quivers. “Except... I don’t think we are.”
But this time when I bring my lips to hers, she lets me kiss her.
She doesn’t fight when I deepen it.
Her soft arms wind around my neck and cling tightly.
I break away so reluctantly my bones hurt, drawing a frayed breath.
“I’m going to miss this.”
“Take me with you,” she counters.
“Against the wall?”
She slaps my chest. “To Seattle, you donkey.”
At least she’s smiling again, and so am I.
Somehow, I have a feeling it’ll be the last time I do that for a good long while.
“Can’t do that, kitten. I need a favor from you.”
She raises a brow. “I’m not sure you’re in good enough graces for that.”
“Just keep your head down. Stay here as much as possible,” I growl. “If anything gets weird, you call me.”
“Don’t tell me you’re that worried about Ace? God, Miles, if that’s why you’re asking—”
“Paul Bunyan hadn’t crossed my mind,” I say, cutting her off. “This is serious, woman. I don’t want you to be a sitting duck for every sneaky little shit with a camera, if Simone decides to make my problems yours. If you need anything else, tell Benson.”
Her lips thin.
“I really don’t understand.”
And I don’t elaborate with more that will only stress her to hell and back.
She throws her head back and stares at the ceiling, worry and frustration mingling on her face. “For the record, I don’t need a babysitter. I’ve lived alone for years. I’ll watch your house, but don’t be a dickhead.”
I grab her then.
She tries to squirm away, but I hold her so tight until she stops. Like I’m wishing my heart wasn’t a weathered boulder, and I could believe laying out the truth would only do us good.
With Simone, I know better.
“Dickhead or not, you haven’t been on Simone’s radar before. Let me go, trust me, and you never will be again.”
Reviewing the old personnel files on the flight to Seattle doesn’t help me wrap my mind around any of this fuckery.
I wish something added up.
Both women coming after my father had stellar records with the company and never filed a complaint about anything. During their employment, they were both married.
Which makes this shit even more gut-wrenching if there’s the tiniest rice grain of truth.
When he still had his mind, Dad was a principled man.
I go through his old records for good measure, looking for a whiff of any complaint.
Nothing.
But if you were strong-armed into unimaginable favors by your CEO, you wouldn’t report it in those days.
If you were the CEO doing the strong-arming, you could hush it up all too easily.
The lack of intel in the files doesn’t offer any answers.
It fucking hurts.
I’m not just looking for proof that my old man was a quiet monster, a snake in the grass—but evidence that my entire family, everything I thought I knew, was nothing but an epic lie.
Still, I know women who are being abused have to be believed to come forward.
I can’t let drag on without turning over every rock.
When I get to headquarters, the first thing I do is go straight to Bradley’s office.
“You really did come right away.” He sits up in his seat, blinking at the clock.
“Yeah.”
A quick glance at his desk shows he’s got both women’s files open. “Frankly, sir, I’m inclined to dismiss this all as a fabricated lie.”
“Because you liked my dad?”
He purses his lips. “Because there’s zero evidence in either personnel file to support their allegations. I’ve contacted Judith in HR. She’s running reports now to see if there were any anonymous complaints during the time they worked here. Your father was responsible for that anonymous tip box on the main floor before everything went digital.”
I didn’t even think about anonymous complaints, but he’s right.
Dad rolled out the incognito complaint system in the mid-nineties after a friend’s daughter drove to our house one night and asked how to advise a friend who was being sexually harassed by her manager. Then she admitted the manager worked for him, and she was the friend.
Dad was her godfather, though, and he was happy to step in. Most of the women who worked for Cromwell-Narada didn’t have that kind of backing.
