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I’m sure. This fit the script as if Shannon had written it herself… But fuck. It wasn’t like that. This woman, all her life? “She’s never done press?”
“Hardly ever,” Kim clipped out. “You were the cherry on top for the show last week, but the real headline was her. She only came out because of the cause. Obviously, violence in any form hits close to home for her.” She leaned forward, her sharp eyes never leaving my face, and she tapped again on her phone screen. “This is a problem for the team. This is a problem for you.”
That opinion might’ve explained why I had two missed calls from my agent and three from my manager. “It really wasn’t the way it seems.”
She nodded. “I talked to someone at the station. They said you seemed friendly with Willow Harm.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You knew the video was bullshit and you dragged me in anyway?”
“Fuck yeah, I did. You’ve got a reputation in the NFL world. You will support any and all charities. You do your job, almost like you hate quarterbacks and it’s your mission to rid the world of them. Though thank you for always doing clean hits when you take them down. And the other reputation you have? Don’t push you on anything that’s not explicitly in the contract. I’m telling you as a woman, you’re hot, you’re quiet, and you’re dangerous.”
I frowned. “Speaking professionally here?”
“Yes.” She leaned forward in her seat, her arms crossed over her chest. “My opinion as a woman matters. I got a call from the higher-ups, and they want this shit squashed immediately. I have no clue how to get in touch with Willow Harm. I’ve been told there was an email address the show used to contact her. That was it. No phone. Nothing else, and that email is gone.”
“Gone?”
“Like it never existed.” Her eyes were hard. “So riddle me this, Brett Broudou. You were friendly with her when you went back into the station after running into those dipshits. What happened between then and now? I need to stress this for you. Very little is known about Willow Harm—how she was found, how she helped the police apprehend the Midwest Butcher. It’s like that by her design, and I’m guessing with the help of some people who sit seriously high up in the FBI. Again, she is protected, and not just by the American people, who love her. They watched videos of her being carried out of that house, covered in blood. She looked half starved. Why she was there for a playdate, who the fuck knows? Details weren’t released because she was a child.”
She was still looking at me as if I’d manhandled Willow Harm. “Fuck. I didn’t grab her. I’m not like that.”
“I know, but I need to know if anything happened between you two.” At my pause, she added, “The station said Miss Harm had a vehicle in their parking ramp but chose to get into the car with you. Did you fuck her?”
This bitch. My fury was building, but I clamped it down. “Because she’s like that?” I said through gritted teeth. “That’s what you’re saying?”
She relented, a little. “Again, you’re hot, you’re quiet, and you’re dangerous. You’re also a goddamn professional athlete, and you’re rich. Yes. Even girls like Willow Harm might, on occasion, decide to throw caution to the wind and hike up their skirt for a guy like you.”
“Shit, Kim. I’m blushing.” I was boiling under the surface, and she knew it.
Her smile turned cold. “Did you fuck her? In this world we live in, it’s a very reasonable question to ask.”
“No. I asked her for coffee and changed my mind on the drive.”
She went quiet, scrutinizing me. “Why? What’d you do?”
“I did nothing.”
“I highly doubt Willow Harm suddenly turned stark raving crazy on a car ride. What happened?”
“I’m not giving you shit for details. You just need to know what I said. I asked her to coffee. We were going for coffee. She was talking, nothing stark raving crazy, though she has a thing for chickens, and I changed my mind.”
Kim’s head lowered. “Chickens?”
“She’s got a thing for Sylvia Rivera.”
“The drag queen?”
I frowned. “A female activist.”
Kim flicked her eyes up. “Yes, I know who Sylvia Rivera is. Willow Harm is a fan?”
“She named her favorite chicken after her.”
“…Miss Sylvia Rivera. She has no nickname. It’s the full name. You either commit to it or you just call her Hen One. It’s the rule around the flock.”
She’d been protective of the name, of the chicken, of the activist. She cared.
Shit.
