Fall (VIP #3)(44)

For a second, I gape at him. “Did you just quote Jane Austen?”

Scottie snorts. “Mate, you had a copy of Pride and Prejudice tucked under your mattress that first road trip we took.”

“I was trying to impress women!”

“Right. That’s why it was dog-eared and falling apart.”

“It was Brenna’s old copy,” I protest, but then shrug. “Darcy was all right. But it always bothered me that Elizabeth only started to change her opinion of him when she saw Pemberley.”

“She was falling before that; she simply refused to acknowledge it. You’re a cynic for thinking otherwise.” Scottie pulls out his phone to text for his car. The man never walks around the city if he doesn’t have to. “Which won’t work with Ms. Grey; that woman is a romantic.”

I would ask how he knows, but Scottie knows everything about everyone. No use getting annoyed about that. And he’s right.

Frowning, I look out over the park. The gray sky hangs heavy and full over the rolling green grass. Rain is about to fall and people are heading for cover. Scottie and I head for Columbus Avenue, where his driver will be waiting.

“What do I do?” I blurt out.

Scottie gives me a sidelong look. “Invest in a good set of kneepads. I predict a lot of groveling in your future.”

“If I could only spend time with her without worrying about anything else,” I mutter.

“That would be ideal.” Scottie appears to think that’s impossible. Then again, the lucky bastard was working with Sophie when they met. She had to be around his prickly arse.

A nebulous idea begins to form, tickling the edges of my desperate brain.

“Besides,” Scottie says, interrupting my thoughts, “we have bigger problems right now.”

The sinking feeling in my gut returns with a vengeance. “You talked to the women?” The list I’d given him was embarrassingly vague, but his staff keeps track of everyone who comes to our meet-and-greets or visits our VIP rooms, which helped a lot, considering that my usual hookups are with women attending Kill John functions.

“Yes,” he says slowly. “We also located the source. A young woman named Karen—”

“Karen. Right, that was her name.”

Scottie shoots me an annoyed look. “Apparently, Karen had also been friendly with Dave North.”

Dave North, the lead Singer for Infinite Sorrow. I rub the back of my neck. “Dave know he’s at risk?”

“He does now.” Scottie lets out an aggrieved sigh. “I swear, I should teach you lot a course …”

“Anyway,” I cut in before he can get going, “why do I have bigger problems?”

“Eventually this story is going to break. We cannot contain it.”

“I gathered as much.” Rain begins to fall in slow, soft drops, dotting the backs of my arms. “No help for it, is there?”

Scottie pulls a compact umbrella out of his briefcase before calling the car. “No. But we need to form a plan for damage control. Your image here is key. We have to make it golden.”

The rain comes on harder now, hitting my cheeks with cold splatters. “Scottie, mate, I live like a monk now. And, frankly, I don’t give a shit if they eviscerate me.” Not exactly true. It will hurt, whether I want it to or not. “Don’t worry about me any more than you have to. I’ll be fine.”

Ice-cold eyes level on me, seeing too much. “I used to isolate myself. Look out for others but never myself. It’s a lonely way to live.”

Don’t I know it. Success, failure—those are transient states. Fear can throw you for a loop. But loneliness digs its claws in like nothing else. You can be surrounded by friends and still sink into loneliness. It’s fucking awful.

“Sophie teach you that?” I quip, ignoring the dark abyss of that emotion.

Scottie’s lips curl slightly. “No, mate. You did.”





Chapter Eleven





Stella



* * *



An inevitable truth about New York City cabs: if it rains, they disappear. Like magic. Another law of rain and the city? It will hit when you’re as far away from a subway station as possible. I’m fairly certain the city wants you to get wet.

Well, I’m wet all right. Soaked to the bone as I trudge up the steps to my building. It’s a spring rainstorm, cold and relentless, hammering my skull with a rat-ta-tat-tat.

Since I went out in a T-shirt and little skirt, I’m fucking freezing. Goddamn it, Mrs. Goldman had been right; I should’ve worn a jacket.

I’d be all right if I could just get warm again. But I cannot get into my fuckety-fuckface building. My hands shake as I tap in the alarm code to the front door. Again.

And again, I get an angry flash of a red: “Access Denied.”

“Come on,” I mutter, a lump rising in my throat. “Let me in.”

If I can’t deactivate the alarm, the key won’t turn. It’s a simple yet maddening security measure that I used to appreciate. I hate it now. The keypad numbers swim in front of my face. I know I’m getting it wrong. I didn’t write the code down, yet these are the numbers I remember. My memory is solid as stone. How can I be getting it wrong? But I know how.