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What the fuck, Greyson?
But I’m already texting her: Tomorrow. I want you there.
—Oh yeah?
I want you everywhere. But there is good. For now.
—Call me. Now.
“Finally. I must’ve hit every red light in the city,” Nolan grumbles, oblivious.
My hands clench as my erection throbs. Fuck me. We’re here.
Nolan’s already halfway out of the car. “You coming?”
No way am I admitting what just happened to him.
“Yep,” I say, leaving the car, and shooting off a final text: Can’t. Sorry. See you tomorrow.
Inside, The Reginald is ready to see me, while Nolan starts chatting up his admittedly hot secretary. Jenny’s got a good figure, but this time for some reason, it appeals to me less than usual. I mean, compared to Harley…
Focus, Greyson.
“Greyson, wonderful to see you,” Reginald booms, both freckly tanned hands coming to clasp and shake mine. “Sorry we had to see each other last time under such… unfortunate circumstances.”
He’s talking about the funeral, which was a convoluted media and family affair so stupefying that I barely had time to be sad, let alone get my wits about me.
“I am too,” I say. “It is a great loss, but we’re doing the best we can.”
“Of course, of course.” Reginald bobs his salt and caramel haired head, then opens the door and gestures inside. “After you.”
Huh. I’d forgotten how wood-filled his office is. Even smells like wood. Wood and competence, that is.
Reginald goes over to sit on his army green embossed chair, his small too-light eyes taking me in. “Storm Inc. hasn’t had it easy lately.”
I try to smile blandly. This chair I’m sitting on is too comfortable. I need to stay on edge, on my A game. “That’s one way of putting it.”
Reginald barks out a laugh. “Your dad’s tax evasion, the debacle of your first TV crew in Costa Rica—that’s the only way of putting it.”
“OK.”
“OK.” He assesses me with cruelly amused eyes. “Well, you’re no idiot, Greyson. I suppose you know why you’re here.”
“My brother thinks I could use your advice.”
“Damn right he does, and damn right you can. You’ve handled the tax evasion coming to light beautifully, so I’ve no advice for you there. As for the other… issue, I understand that you may not want to take my advice, but at least hear me out. I think there’s some information you’re better off knowing.”
I fold my hands together. “I’m listening.”
“How much do you know about that new fling of yours, Harley Davis?”
“She’s not a fling,” I growl before I can stop myself.
His eyebrows fly up. “Oh. So, then you must know quite a bit about her.”
“I know some.”
Another infuriating head bob. I don’t know why I’m so pissed off right now.
“Of course. Then what I’m about to show you should come as no surprise.”
Reginald opens a yellow file folder, then slides a sheet of paper in front of me. I gape at the face that’s eyeing me mockingly.
It’s a mugshot of Harley. That ironic glint to her eyes, a fuck-you kissy face, it’s her alright. There’s no mistaking it.
“I assume you’re going to tell me what this is for?” I ask him.
“Nothing that serious, admittedly,” Reginald says lightly, although judging by his expression, he thinks differently. “She was arrested for protesting in college. Apparently, she was quite the radical.”
I slide the sheet of paper back to him. “OK. Now I know. That it?”
“No, actually.”
“OK. What else?”
“I don’t suppose I need to point out that right now Storm Inc.’s public image is shaky at best.”
“I’m aware.”
“And that any new misstep could undo all your hard work. Could make it look like your latest talk was just bullshit.”
“Just say it.”
“If your relationship with Ms. Davis came to light, it would look very, very bad. And if she gave even the slightest hint that you made some sort of power-play to make it happen—”
“That’s not what happened.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Reginald’s voice is quiet, forceful. “Doesn’t make one iota of a difference, to be honest. If that girl gets it into her head that she wants to screw you and Storm Inc. over, she has all the power to do so right now. That’s the climate post-#MeToo. People are actually believing women now.”
“But—”
“I’m not finished. Even if that doesn’t happen, it seems like your team didn’t do their due diligence when it came to a background check on Ms. Davis.”
I shuffle in my chair. Truth is, my staff didn’t have any time to do any ‘diligence’ at all for the background checks. We even had a real live paranoid schizophrenic in for an interview before we realized what was going on.
“Go on,” I tell him.
“Harley Davis was charged with tax evasion two years ago.”
“No,” I say.
It doesn’t make any sense. Maybe she pushes the envelope of the law when it comes to minor stuff, like pot and protesting. But actual tax evasion? That’s not her.
