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“Not really,” I say quietly.
Of course, I have more than enough ‘private’ material to put in the article, if I really wanted to. But no way would I betray Nolan like that.
“Big shot like that,” Maurice insists. “He must’ve been a jerk to someone, done something horrible.”
“Why are you so sure it would be something horrible?” I ask.
“Just—instinct,” he says in an odd tone. “These big-shot guys, they’re all the same. Besides, Nolan Storm, he’s a tool, he—”
“Are you wanting me to write an article about him, or an article bashing him?” I say, cutting to the chase. “Because it’s really starting to feel like the latter.”
“It’s just an angle,” Maurice protests. “I have to sell this thing, you know. If nobody cares, I can’t sell it.”
“So, if I were to mention how he wants to build an educational center to help military and ex-military people, then—”
“Bo-ring,” he interrupts. “Now, if you had evidence that he was collecting money for this center, then spending it on his gambling addiction, then we might have something.”
I pause.
Part of me has been avoiding this conversation instinctively, I realize. Ever since Maurice and I first met in that cat cafe.
“I’m not going to take that angle,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not an angle.” Now Maurice sounds downright livid. “It’s the truth. Nolan Storm is a scheming, lying asshole who takes what he wants when he wants with no concern for consequences, let alone anyone else.”
If I were holding something, I’m pretty sure I would’ve just dropped it. “What?”
“You heard me”—he’s all but snarling, now—“if you can’t find any dirt on him, then you’re lying.”
“I’m sorry,” I say firmly. “But I won’t do the kind of article you’re asking me for right now. And that’s final.”
“So, what—you take my money and run, is that it?” he sneers.
“No. You’ve paid me a quarter of the agreed-upon price. You can have the work I completed for that, and we’ll call it even.”
“A bunch of unusable shit, great.”
“Hey,” I snap. “If you wanted this type of article, then you should’ve mentioned it up front. You have no one to blame but yourself.”
His response is the beep of him hanging up.
I stand there in my kitchen for a few seconds.
Horatio trots along the floor, his too-long nails clacking on the linoleum. I make a mental note to give them a chop.
I sit down on a kitchen chair, exhaling a breath that I didn’t realize I was holding in.
There.
It’s done.
Despite the fact that I basically just lost $8,000, it feels like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. For the past few weeks, I’ve known this wasn’t right.
Even if Nolan was an ass about the fake engagement, that still doesn’t make this right.
Later that day, after cutting Horatio’s nails, I stop by Mom’s to help her pick out a place to move into for the next few months. I’m met with a shitty surprise when her robin’s egg-blue door opens.
“Oh.” Peyton’s forehead creases. “It’s you.”
“Great to see you too,” I chime in, striding in past her before my hatred of her overrules all else. Yes, Mom didn’t mention that she’d be here, and yes, it was probably deliberate, but right now, the most important thing is making sure that Mom finds a nice new place. “Let’s just get through today, for Mom.”
“That’s what I was going to say,” she says prissily, just as Mom sweeps into the room.
“Isn’t this nice!” she declares. “All of us here together.”
Despite Mom’s determined smile, I can see that she’s on edge. She’s wearing her big pale pink angora sweater, her self-proclaimed ‘comfort sweater’.
Underneath the mandarin air freshener, there’s still a hint of smoke smell here in the house.
“First, we’re getting fuel,” Peyton proclaims, already heading out the door with her hot pink heels clacking across the wood floor.
Guess that answers the question of who’s going to be in charge today. Not that I had any doubt as soon as I saw my dear big sister.
I turn to Mom, trying not sigh.
“Don’t,” she says tersely, hitching her patent black purse up her shoulder. “I just need both my daughters here with me today.
“Yes, Mom,” I say dutifully, with a nod. “Anything you need.”
“Well.” Mom heads to the car, with a small smile. “Peyton might be right. Some coffee would be nice.”
We get to Dunkin’ Donuts a few minutes later. Once we walk in through the door, I’m in for another surprise.
“You,” I say, coming to a stop when I see who’s leaving.
Nolan stops, looking as surprised as I probably do, holding his bag of donuts as if he’s just been caught committing a crime. “You?”
All of a sudden, Peyton gets all fluttery and grin-y, the way she gets around any attractive man. Forget that she has a fiance. “Who’s this?”
“This is Nolan, my…” I shoot Nolan a warning glare—Bring up the fake engagement, and you’ll live to regret it.
