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I silence her with a kiss.
“I have time for one more.”
“One more what?” she asks, batting her eyelashes with mock innocence.
“Oh, you need instructions? Let me show you,” I murmur as I split her legs open with my hands, burying myself in a place where the past doesn’t exist.
And where her pleasure is my present.
Chapter 11
“Don’t try to bullshit me, Drew. I know exactly what you were doing yesterday when you cornered Blaine Maisri and punched him. Convenient there’s no video.” Harry’s voice drops to a deadly whisper. We’re in his home office, Anya quietly leaving us alone with a reminder that Harry has a call with the party chairman in ten minutes.
It’s 7:02 a.m.
“If that’s all you’d done, we wouldn’t be in this meeting. But you dragged my innocent daughter into it, damn it. Made her faint from the stress. Just when we had our first success with reputation rehabilitation.”
I can taste his innocent daughter on my tonsils.
“Now there’s a video clip of her pointing through an open Exit door, eyes wide and fearful like Bambi after his mother was shot, complete with a fainting spell. If we don’t spin this carefully, the media’s going to resurrect her scandal.”
I bite my tongue. And inner lip. And curl my fingers into fists.
“We’re covered,” I assure him.
“I didn’t ask whether we were covered.” His look is designed to make me cower. It fails. “I am telling you that you fucked up.”
I just look at him.
“I know why you punched him, Drew.”
Wasn’t expecting that.
“You acknowledge what he’s done? You know he’s one of Lindsay’s rapists?” I can’t keep the shock out of my response.
Harry ages ten years in two seconds.
“Jesus, Drew. You’re sure?” He looks away. His shoulders sag.
This isn’t the first time he’s been told this bit of information. I can tell.
“Absolutely sure. I was there,” I say through gritted teeth.
“They told me...” He weakens, grabbing the edge of his desk for support. “They said it was possible. Not a certainty.”
“‘They’ who?”
“The video analysts. Other advisors.” Like who, I wonder. Marshall? Victoria? Those “LB Incident” people from the meeting with Lindsay?
He gives me a bleak-eyed look. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why didn’t you ask?”
“Ask you?”
“Ask Lindsay, for starters. And yes, me. We’re the victims.” I hate that word. A flash of the psychologist who helped me after the attacks hits my brain like a missile strike. I shove the image away.
Victims.
