Dylan and I both stare at the screen of his phone in momentary pause. Is the disconnect between generations—or half-generations; seriously she’s old enough to be our younger sister!—that wide? Or is she just that clueless?
“Suffice it to say…I’m rich. Filthy stinking rich. Not quite Bill Gates, but enough to leave your dad completely out of the picture.”
She deliberately takes her time mulling that over, even though Dylan surely noted the sudden gleam in her eye. I’d be willing to bet it isn’t even about the money. The fact that Dylan Sexton not only gave her his personal phone number but FaceTimed her has cachet in its own right.
What a time to be alive.
“Okay,” she finally says, that look of smug satisfaction on her face back again. I’ve never wanted to slap a look off someone else so badly.
“Great, so who was it that paid you?” Dylan asks. Thank God he’s the calmer voice of reason here. I don’t think I could be this civil, especially after taking the blame and getting kicked out as president of the company I founded.
Kaylee, never one to miss an opportunity for dramatic flair, sits up straighter and shakes herself out before answering.
“Ginny Lawson.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Dylan
“Ginny Lawson?”
Even Kaylee starts in surprise at the way with which Vanessa and I repeat her name.
“Well…yes.”
I have questions. A lot of questions. But Vanessa beats me to the punch.
“So Ginny Lawson personally contacted you?”
Kaylee rolls her eyes. “Well, no, obviously. It was…one of her handlers or something. But it was Face Time, just like now, and she assured me it was Ginny who was making the demand.”
Vanessa falls back against the headboard, already seeming to accept what I’m thinking. It obviously wasn’t Ginny Lawson who put Kaylee up to this.
Kaylee seems to suddenly read the room on the other side of her phone. “I know what you’re thinking. That I’m some dumb girl, who was swindled or something by a conman who convinced me to say those things on my Instagram feed.”
“And get paid for it,” Vanessa adds in a slightly condescending tone. I can’t blame her, though I realize how unhelpful it is. We still need information here.
I work quickly to smooth it over. “Neither of us think that, Kaylee. It’s just…”
I let her fill in the blanks, which she’s happy to do now that she’s focused on the charming grin of yours truly.
“I eventually met with her mother. I recognized her from that People magazine feature a few years ago, where she talked about how hard it was to—”
“Okay, so you had the word of Ginny’s mom?” I interrupt, trying to get her back on track so we can ride this train to the Complete Picture station.
“Yes,” Kaylee says in an insistent voice, as though we’re both daft. “And she stated the same things Ginny said published in all those articles. That she was coerced into going to that party, she certainly didn’t expect to be photographed, and she definitely didn’t want those photos sent to the press.”
“I see,” I say, diplomatically. “But…why would you say it was Ginny Lawson who told you to put the blame on Vanessa?”
Kaylee wrinkles her brow in confusion as though she doesn’t understand how I could be so dense.
Okay then, spell it out for me, you mindless twit!
I control my anger, mostly for the sake of the truth, a truth that will at least give Vanessa some peace of mind. Mine will need a little more salvation, especially after that press conference I gave.
“Ginny Lawson was there, sitting right next to her the whole time. Like Vanessa is sitting next to you.”
“What?”
Once again, Vanessa and I have spoken in unison, sitting up a bit straighter on her bed.
This time, Kaylee is prepared for it. She’s quickly catching on to how clueless we are about all of the parties involved, and I wouldn’t put it past her to milk it for all it’s worth. Hell, if it wasn’t for her playing Vanessa so dirty, I’d almost admire it.
“What exactly did Ginny say?” Vanessa asks, leaning into the phone, as though she’d like to leap right through it and snatch each and every answer straight from Kaylee’s mouth.
“Well…not much. Nothing, really. She just kind of sat there. But it was her!” she finishes, making sure to give us a firm look of conviction.
Vanessa and I give each other sidelong glances.
“So…she didn’t say anything. It was just her mother talking?”
“Well…” Kaylee seems to consider that. I’m not sure if it’s the realization that Ginny not saying a word means something or the fact that she no longer has the upper hand in all of this that has her suddenly less smug. “No, she didn’t say anything, but why would she be there if she wasn’t in on it?”
“Was there anything else?” I ask, moving on.
“No,” she says hesitantly. “Just Ginny and her mom, telling me that Vanessa was the only photographer and that she approached Ginny after the fact with the photos, asking for money or she’d publish them and—”
“What?”
I’m not surprised when Vanessa shoots up in ager, homing in on that tasty little nugget of information.
Kaylee looks at her with suspicion. “Why do you think I said what I said when you called? About you knowing who was behind this? What do you expect when you blackmail someone?”
I turn to find Vanessa in a state that can only be labeled “shocked.” I know better than to extend this unofficial interrogation longer than necessary.
“Is there anything else you can think of, Kaylee?” I say, just for good measure.
“No. I mean, it was a short conversation. Just me, Ginny’s mom, and Ginny. And of course, the man who then paid me.”
“Okay, well, thank you for this.”
“Wait! What about my money! You said—”
“You’ll get it,” I say tersely, before hanging up.
After the silence, I’m still focused on Vanessa, trying to read her reaction to all of this. For me, it’s been a shock. I can’t even imagine the shockwave it’s been for Vanessa.
* * *
The very très bien dinner I had delivered—tuna caviar, scallop risotto, and a lemon curd tart for dessert—is here sitting on the table between Vanessa and me, practically drowning us in an ocean of savory delights. But it’s taken a very distant second seat to the revelations exposed by one disgraced Instagrammer.
“I still don’t understand why Ginny would do this,” Vanessa says, pushing the risotto around with her fork. “Do you think maybe she’s…jealous of me?”
“Jealous?” I repeat, wrinkling my brow in skepticism.
“Oh come on, Dylan. She’s young and impressionable. You come riding in to her defense like a knight in shining armor. And you’re not too terrible on the eyes. It makes total sense.”
I chuckle and shake my head. “I never got that vibe from her. Besides, she’s with Pete Marx.”
“Things can change. The whims of a twenty-one-year-old are unpredictable.”
“Here,” I say, getting uncomfortable with this line of inquiry. I didn’t want to ruin our “date” with it, but I think it’s time. “I’m going to try calling her again.”
Vanessa’s eyes widen with hope, which makes me think this is the right move.
I pull out my phone and pull up Ginny’s number yet again. I fully expect the same straight-to-voicemail situation I got last time, but I’m surprised when it’s answered on the second ring.
“Ginny?”
“No, not Ginny. And no need to introduce yourself, I know exactly who you are.”
I don’t recognize the voice, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that it’s Ginny’s mother. Apparently, her phone privileges have been taken away.
“You can just stop calling now. Ginny has nothing to say to you, you degenerate, nor will she ever. I think you’ve d
one quite enough damage and the less she has to do with you, the better. Goodbye.”
I blink when the call goes dead.
“What did she say?” Vanessa presses.
“It was her mother. I guess she’s confiscated her phone.”
“But she’s an adult,” Vanessa says in a scathing voice. “What the hell is going on over there?”
I shrug, feeling frustrated all over again. Right now, the only leverage we have is from a young woman who is even more unreliable than Ginny Lawson, and a lot less convincing. It wouldn’t be enough to salvage me, but that’s overshadowed by the headline of why Ginny would do all of this.
“You know what?” Vanessa says, capturing my attention. She stares back with a dazzling smile on her face. “We have the truth, and we can deal with it tomorrow. Let’s not focus on this anymore. After all, this is a date.”
I force a smile back to her. “You’re right. So what should we talk about?”
“Well, you do have a certain article coming out tomorrow, I believe?” she prompts.
I laugh and shake my head. “With all this mess, I’d completely forgotten about that article. I should have probably called them back to update it, but at this point, it’s probably for the best. People will read into it what they want to. Let them do with it what they will, I suppose.”
“It was still a good thing to do,” Vanessa insists. “You deserve to have your real story told, be the real you for once.”
“Complete with baggage.”
“Honestly, I don’t think the fallout will be as bad as you expect. I think, even with all of this Ginny Lawson stuff, you’ll come out looking, if not good, at least authentic.”
“Authentic. Now, that’s sexy.”
She laughs. “Honesty is the new sexy. Wouldn’t you rather be taken seriously than seen as this sexy party boy all the time?”
“Was that how people saw me?” I ask, suddenly finding the idea unappealing.
“Well…I know I didn’t think much of that man with two models straddling him. I’m much more impressed by the boy who clawed his way out of Detroit—yes by some less than ethical means, but who somehow managed to make something of himself that most boys can only dream of.”
“Not so sure I like the idea of being that kind of role model. Most of the things I did, I wouldn’t encourage anyone else to do.”
“And that came through in the interview. That your life isn’t all hot women and crazy parties. That there’s a downside to everything. At the very least, it’s out there. Like you said, let the world do with it what they will.”
“Famous last words,” I say with a grin.
Chapter Forty
Dylan
Dylan,
I know you’ve probably been inundated with men coming out of the woodwork claiming to be your father since the piece about you in Ideal Gentlemen came out. I suppose I may just be another voice lost in the void.
But the fact is, I’m 100% certain that I did know your mother, Mallory Serafin. I was in Detroit the summer you were conceived. And if my timeline is correct in my head, then there’s a good chance that I may be your father.
It was your last name (your real last name) that made me realize this. Serafin. It means angel.
Before you delete this message, just know that I don’t want anything from you. I’m a radiologist at a medical practice here in Chicago, and my wife is a pediatrician, so money really isn’t a concern for us. If you’re interested in knowing more, I’d be very interested in talking further with you. My contact information is included in the signature part of this message below.
I sincerely hope you do decide to get in touch. In case you’re wondering, I have a daughter—so, perhaps a half-sister of yours?
Robert Duncan.
That’s his name. It seems so…ordinary. He might as well be Joe Smith.
But it’s him. Something in my gut tells me he’s my father. Correction—sperm donor.
He sent the message to my soon-to-be-former email address as president of Sexton Enterprises. That’s just one more thing I’ll have to work out. Gene has already messaged me once, hinting that my letter of resignation should be coming “sooner rather than later.” I haven’t told him about Ginny Lawson, mostly because I still have no clue what’s going on there. But both issues are now pushed so far back in my mind, they might as well not exist.
I reread the paragraph about my last name.
That’s what sold me.
Contrary to what he wrote, there hasn’t been a lot of men trying to get in touch, claiming to be my father. Perhaps most conmen know how futile it would be to go after such a big fish, especially when it could be so easily proven wrong.
But this one seems certain.
As if to stress the point, the link he sent to his profile on the practice he works at pretty much adds the final period to that statement. The same green eyes I see in the mirror are staring back at me from the computer screen. At least now, I can be sure of which side of the family I inherited them from. There’s also something in the nose and chin that vaguely resembles mine.
“Robert Duncan. Doctor Duncan,” I mutter to myself. “Dylan Duncan.”
It makes me sound like some fucking mascot or poster boy for the well-known donut shop. I think I’ll stick with Sexton.
Not that I’ve made up my mind to meet the good doctor.
That’s probably the biggest surprise. A doctor? Nothing about what I know of my mother’s past would give any indication that she was involved with a doctor or even a medical student. When the hell would their paths have crossed? Long enough for sperm to meet egg.
I laugh softly to myself, realizing just how little it takes for such a connection to be made.
It puts a sour taste in my mouth.
“So where the fuck have you been for the past thirty-odd years?” I say to that smiling mug.
* * *
“Okay, that’s it, you’re going to at least call this guy,” Vanessa says, sitting across from me at the table.
I guiltily snap out of the daze I was in to find her giving me a pointed look.
We’re having a private dinner at my penthouse apartment in the city. Despite her assurances that she can handle the publicity, the last thing I need is that kind of distraction at this point.
“And don’t tell me you weren’t thinking of him—yet again. I can see it in your face. I’ve never seen you like this. Not when your board fired you, not when you were telling me your life story. This thing has its hooks in you and won’t let go until you do something about it.”
Vanessa has seen the email and agrees that there’s something about it that rings genuine. She’s also seen the man and definitely agreed there was a resemblance.
“What are you afraid of?”
I feel the scar on my chin begin to tingle. That same instinct from my days in Detroit to lash out whenever someone suggested I was a “pussy” or “bitch” or—now that I think about it, we were pretty damn sexist.
“I’m not—”
“Dylan,” she says patiently, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. “It’s okay to admit a little vulnerability, especially with me.”
I sit back in the seat, my hand slowly slipping away from underneath hers. My jaw tightens, and I look out at the view of New York visible from the large windows.
“I’m afraid I’ll hate him more than I already do,” I say without turning my attention to her.
“That’s understandable.”
My head comes back around to face her. “Is it?”
“Dylan, all you have is an introductory email and a tiny glimpse of a biography. What little there was, makes it seem like he was busy living like some fifties sitcom while you were living like…”
“The Wire?” I offer.
She smirks. “Okay, Thug Life.”
I laugh, but it only lasts a moment.
“The point still remains,” she continues. “If you don’t at least call, you’ll continue to resent him, an
d it will fester, just knowing he’s out there.”
“Is this some kind of get some closure talk?”
“No, it’s some kind of at least satisfy your curiosity talk. What’s the worst that can happen?”
“He does want something after all—and that’s the only reason he called.”
“And? So what? You say yes or no and realize that maybe your life turned out better without him in it after all.”
I feel a smirk come to my face. “You make it sound so easy.”
“I’m not trying to downplay your feelings, Dylan. I’m just trying to get you to do what you know in the back of your mind you’re already going to do.”
Chapter Forty-One
Dylan
“Prospect Radiology, this is Dr. Duncan’s line?”
I blink at the sound of a woman’s voice. I certainly can’t fault him for giving me nothing more than his work number and email address. We still don’t even know each other yet.
“I’m trying to get in touch with Robert Duncan.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Duncan is consulting with a patient at the moment. Would you like to leave a message or phone number he can call you back at?”
“Sure, just tell him Dylan called.” I give her my phone number.
“So, just Dylan or should I include a last name?” she hints.
“He’ll know who it is.”
“Okay,” she says in a chipper tone. “I’ll give him the message.”
It takes about half an hour for him to call me back, during which time, I’m surprisingly calm about it.
“Dylan? Dylan…Sexton?” he asks when I answer.
“That’s right. Dr. Duncan I presume.” Even I hear the slightly mocking tone with which I pronounce “Dr.”
There’s a breath on the other end before he continues, as though he knows he has some ‘splainin’ to do. “I take it that my message was convincing enough.”
Dylan: Ex-Bad Boy: An Ex-Club Romance Page 19
