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Trig uses his palm to cover his face, which is stupid because I have the blackout shades drawn in my living room. They came with a remote and, seeing as sometimes my female company and I don’t make it as far as my bedroom, are the best investment ever.
Sitting on my couch, every so often, Trig’s eyes dart over to me. His chest rumbles and the corners of his lips turn up into a smirk. Sound comes out of his nose, he snorts, and a cycle of rolling laughter begins anew.
“You’re an asshole.” I chuck the hard pillow that came with my furniture at him. Those things suck as much as my buddy.
“Me? I’m not the one caught with his pants down.” He throws it back. The rough fabric grates like sandpaper across my bare stomach and knee. The pillow falls to the carpet. I don’t bother picking it up. Instead, I slide in my athletic shorts onto the throne behind my drum set and lean against the stool’s padded backrest.
“My pants weren’t down. You make it sound like I was fucking her when he walked in on us.”
Thanks to the Google Alert that Trig set up for my name, he’s blessed me with his company before I can flick the switch on the coffee pot.
“Don’t you have better things to do? The wife…” Irat-tat-tatthe stick on the symbol to agitate Trig. “…the kids. I could’ve sworn the two of you were procreating faster than rabbits.”
It’s a low blow. Trig and his wife Kimber, who was once a headliner at Sweet Caroline’s and then myformer-former manager before Holly, are the parents of three ankle biters. After Kimber gave birth to their first kid together, I’d lucked out. She came back to work and kept everyone in line. On occasion, everyone included me. They had problems conceiving their infant twins. Problems I could have continued to cash in on if Kimber hadn’t up and quit when she got pregnant the second time.
“Better, yes. As entertaining? No.” Trig answers.
Five hours post stuffing a slurring Paisley in a cab, it’s apparent she and I are at the center of a local social media shitstorm. Thank fuck, there are no compromising pictures of our kiss, but Brighton woke up to news of the runaway bride and her deviant lover.
This is why I’m never getting married. All those guests were there to support Paisley and Dr. Douche. Yet, one of them set this ball into motion. A bitter cousin. A jealous bridesmaid. I spend my days around gorgeous, albeit often catty, women. I don’t put it past them. Then again, it could have been a dumbass on the groom’s side of the aisle thinking he was sticking up for what’s-his-face and instead made things worse. What it comes down to is someone aired Paisley and her former fiancé’s dirty laundry.
Normally, I’d eat this shit with a spoon. I’m goddamn iconic at pushing the coats out of the way and finding the skeletons lurking at the back of a closet. I’ve made a habit out of cashing in on the secrets that interest me and turning others’ misfortune to my benefit. A guy has to do something to stop the spark from dulling. And really, the only people I’m hurting are the people who intentionally hurt someone else.
Okay, or sometimes not. Casualties happen.
It’s good for my ego when the citizens of Brighton whisper Jake Ballentine is someone to watch out for. But this go-around I’m not thrilled with them tweeting my name. That’s going to make it harder for me to bank on the next guy who slips up when I get wind of it.
I don’t know why Paisley hadn’t registered on my radar before last night. Her shop’s bags litter my dancer’s dressing area and every business owner downtown is fair game. Since Trig barged in here, I also haven’t decided if I’d have blackmailed Paisley over the affair the rumor mill says we’re having. There’s always the chance that I’d have Trig use his backchannels to hack her online bookkeeping account for a peek at anything out of sorts with the boutique’s finances.
But because of that kiss, I have something on Paisley now that’s valuable to me. Although when I hit the hay, I hadn’t bothered to consider how our negotiations would play out.
“Give it to me straight. How long has this thing been going on between the two of you?” he asks.
“Long enough that she ditched Dr. Douche before the ‘I do’s’.”
Ba dum dum. The symbol crashes.
“Come on, Jake. Are you serious about this girl, or did you tell her lies and screw up her life for fun? She was marrying a heart surgeon. That’s like the gold standard, brass ring of husbandship. Unless the guy was abusive, why would Paisley back out when she did?”
“Why would I lie to my girlfriend?” I ditch the sticks, feigning offense.
Trig shoots me the “you’re kidding” look “I’ve lost count of thee-hem,ladies you’ve taken home.” He points to the front door. “I could go check the club’s footage if you want a rough estimate for the last month. You’re not dating Paisley Cooper. So the fuck are you doing to her?”
“According to the very colorful post you showed me on her shop’s social media account, I very clearly am fucking Paisley Cooper.”
“Prove it. Call your girlfriend to make sure she’s okay. I’m sure the negative press has her pretty upset.”
Shit, I don’t have her number. “That’s not the sort of relationship we have. Seeing as how Paisley was otherwise engaged, it’s not as if I could text whenever I wanted.”
“Yeah, yeah, it must’ve been tough keeping the fact that you weren’t seeing his fiancéeat allfrom the guy Paisley lived with. And while we’re at it, why have you nicknamed Laughton, Dr. Douche? That’s you, my friend. If I checked your phone records, I bet there won’t be a single one for Paisley Cooper.”
“You are exactly right. How do you think we kept it a secret this long? By not sending up any red flags to anyone. Whenever we met we set up the next time we’d see each other. Paisley’s not used to me hovering,” I lie.
“Uh-huh.” Trig still doesn’t believe me.
I don’t blame him. The story I’m concocting is bad even by my standards.
“Listen, last night took a lot of guts on Paisley’s part. She asked me to give her a few days to do damage control and I want to respect that.”
