Indecent Proposal (Boys of Bishop)

by Molly O'Keefe

  “What? I like her.”

  “You have a serious thing for inaccessible women.”

  “Wait … why do you think she’s inaccessible? I could totally—”

  “Goodbye, Wallace.”

  “Wait, wait—Jill down at Headquarters said a guy from Homeland Security came looking for you.”

  “For me?”

  “Yeah. Is there a terrorist part of the résumé you forget to tell me about?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Harrison,” Noelle whispered. “We really need to get inside.”

  Harrison said goodbye to Wallace, tucked his phone in his pocket, and turned back toward Noelle, who stood there with her clipboards and her two phones and the pencil tucked in the bun of blond hair at the back of her head. She was an impenetrable wall of efficiency.

  “Lead the way.” Harrison’s attempt at charm was met with blinking pale gray eyes.

  “Your mother would like me to remind you not to bring up the education scandal,” Noelle said as they walked back into the mansion. The first floor was a showcase used primarily for entertaining and tours. All the furnishings were a part of a historical federal collection and were hugely uncomfortable. Upstairs were his parents’ quarters, and they were only slightly less formal. But they did have a couch that wasn’t made out of horsehair, and the chairs when he sat on them didn’t creak.

  “Education reform is a major part of my platform because of the Atlanta corruption.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “It looks bad on your father.”

  “It is bad on my father.”

  Noelle pushed her glasses up farther on her nose, her gray eyes steely, and he wondered, briefly, if there wasn’t more to his mother’s loyal pet. “There are other things to talk about.”

  They turned into the living room, where Mom and Dad, dressed in carefully calculated casual clothes, were sitting with the Southern Living staff. There was the writer, the photographer, and a videographer, because apparently there was going to be some special bonus material on the website. As well as a lighting guy and a sound guy.

  And all of them turned to look at him when he walked in.

  “Son!” Dad said, coming to his feet, his wide smile revealing the dimples Harrison had inherited. A former high school football star, Ted was still a big, strong man, with a barrel chest, who carried himself well. Harrison was the exact same height but without the football player build.

  Ted’s years of alcoholism were physically obvious only in the broken blood vessels around his nose and eyes. All of which were now carefully powdered over.

  His blond hair was growing silver, his shoulders just slightly rounded. His blue eyes were still sharp.

  There were times it was eerie looking at his father, times when the physical resemblance between them was so strong. So unbelievably real that Harrison lost himself for a moment.

  That is exactly how I will look in thirty years, he thought for perhaps the thousandth time.

  It was nearly surreal.

  As a boy, watching crowds cheer for his father, men line up just to shake his hand, women press newborn babies into his arms so he could kiss them—it had only solidified his perception of his father as a hero. A god.

  A man to emulate in all things.

  And that’s what he’d done. He’d emulated his father’s overblown wealthy-white-man sense of privilege. His sense of destiny and entitlement. Of course he should get what he wanted. Of course he deserved the best. He was Ted Montgomery’s son, after all.

  And then he turned twenty-two and his father ran for Vice-President, and there had been Heidi and the car crash.

  And Harrison found out who his father really was. Who all of them really were.

  The memory of it, of finding out about it and feeling part of himself, his identity, his plans and goals to be just like his fucking father, shattering—it stopped his blood. Even years later, he looked at his father, remembered Heidi, and stepped away from Ted’s outstretched hand.

  “Harrison,” Mom said, also coming to her feet, smiling so wide to cover the cold silence between the two men in her life. “We’re so glad you could take a break from your busy campaign schedule to join us. I was just telling everyone about your work at VetAid.”

  Right. He would play the Montgomery game. Like he always did. Because it was a means to an end, a way into Congress and beyond that, the White House.

  “I’m glad to be here, Mom. Are we ready to eat?” he asked, rubbing his hands together. “I’m starving.”

  By three o’clock in the afternoon they still hadn’t eaten and Harrison was getting ready to end a ridiculous discussion on Montgomery holiday traditions, when Dad’s head of security walked into the sunny room.

  “Is there a problem, Jeff?” Dad asked.

  “There’s a man downstairs,” Jeff said. “Says—”

  In the hallway, someone yelled and another voice answered back, just as the door behind Jeff opened up and a stranger burst in.

  “I didn’t feel like waiting,” the man said to Jeff, flashing a malicious grin behind a trimmed beard.

  They all jumped to their feet, but Mom was the first one to speak.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “No. Actually,” the man said, and pointed to Harrison, “I’m here to talk to your son.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until we’re done,” Mom said.

  “I’m guessing you didn’t see my badge. Let me give you a good look.” From the back pocket of his black jeans, the man pulled out a badge and held it out toward the family.

  DHS. Homeland Security.

  The guy wore jeans and a tee shirt. Beat-up boots. He didn’t look like any agent Harrison had ever seen. What the hell is going on here?

  “I don’t care what your badge says; you can’t come in here and harass my son,” Patty said.

  The bearded man shot Harrison a pointed look that somehow managed to call him out. You let your mom fight your battles for you, you miserable boy—that’s what that look said.

  “Please excuse me,” Harrison said to the Southern Living staff before stepping to the door. “Let’s talk outside, Mr.—”

  “My name is Wes Kaminksi,” the man said, glancing at the cameras and the witnesses before staring at Harrison, something unholy and bright in his eyes. “My sister is Ryan Kaminski.”

  Chapter 8

  The name detonated in his chest.

  And he stopped for just a moment, halfway across the room.

  Wes saw his hesitation and grinned.

  “Ah, so you do remember.”

  “Is she all right?” He imagined something awful. Something catastrophic. Something that would bring her brother, a DHS agent, to his door.

  Wes blinked and then grinned, like the asshole had him by the short hairs. “If you do the right thing she will be.”

  Do the right thing?

  Harrison inferred the only thing he could.

  And a reality he wanted desperately to deny sucker-punched him, driving all the air from his lungs.

  His savior that night had figured out who he was and was looking for her payout.

  It was Heidi all over again.

  “Outside.” Harrison smiled with all his teeth and led Wes out the door, past security and the assistants.

  Fuck. Camera crews. Journalists. There was a good chance someone in that room was getting on Google to figure out who Ryan Kaminski was. And within three hours there would be people camped out in front of her house, demanding to know how she knew Harrison Montgomery.

  Normally, no one would care, but his sister was all over the news these days.

  His heart pounding in his hands and behind his eyes, he opened the door to an old bedroom filled with boxes of holiday decorations.

  “After you,” he said to Wes, who eyed him warily as he walked in. Harrison slammed the door shut behind them so hard, a plastic elf carrying wrapped gifts toppled
to the floor.

  “How much?” Harrison asked through his teeth.

  “What?” Wes asked. The man was full of a hot, manic energy, and in its presence Harrison only got colder.

  “How much money do you want? I assume she took pictures somehow? Maybe while I was sleeping?”

  “You think I’m here for money?”

  “A sex scandal is hardly original. But I’ll give your sister credit; she really had me fooled—”

  Wes charged at Harrison, but Harrison grabbed him by the neck of his shirt and turned, pushing him into the wall. Feeling out of control. Violent.

  Good.

  It felt so good that he put more of his weight against the thinner man, pushing his knuckles into his chest until he felt bone.

  “Yeah, you know what you need?” Wes sneered. “To beat up a DHS agent. That will make the shit storm of bad press about to rain down on your head better.”

  “What do you want?” Harrison bit out.

  “Ryan is pregnant.”

  Harrison laughed, though the solid ground tilted beneath his feet. That night, that perfect, beautiful night, was being torn to pieces, ripped to shreds, and he wanted to walk away from the mess that was being made of those memories. He didn’t want to say these things. He didn’t even want to think them.

  “You’re pretty fucking silent for a guy who talks for a living.”

  “What makes you think it’s mine?” he asked. If Heidi had taught him one thing, it was that you couldn’t hold on to perception because you wanted to. Because it was easier.

  “Because she says it is.”

  “My guess is the other men she’s slept with recently don’t have as much money as I do.”

  “Fuck you, asshole.” Wes slammed his fist up under Harrison’s jaw and Harrison reeled back, but he didn’t let go of Wes’s shirt.

  “She didn’t know my last name,” Harrison said. “She didn’t even ask. You’ll excuse me if I doubt her purity.”

  Wes growled and pushed Harrison back against the other wall. They kicked aside a box, and red and gold snakes of garland spilled across the carpet.

  “I should make you eat those words,” Wes sneered into his face, doing a pretty good job of cutting off his air supply. “She didn’t want to tell you because she was scared it would fuck with your campaign. She doesn’t want anything from you. Not one thing. She’s sick, she’s broke, and she’s alone, but she didn’t want shit from you. But I came down here anyway, because,” he laughed. “Because I thought you might do right by her. Because there’s no way my sister would spend the night with a man unless she’d seen something worthwhile in him. But my mistake. My fucking mistake.”

  Harrison shoved Wes back, breathing hard.

  “Never mind,” Wes said, jabbing a finger in Harrison’s face. “Stay away from my sister.”

  Wes took a deep breath, wiped the sweat from his face with the edge of his shirt, and left the room, slamming the door so hard another box toppled. A Christmas star fell out at Harrison’s feet.

  He braced his hand against the wall. And then both hands. His forehead.

  A baby?

  All his work, everything he’d done since he was twenty-two years old, was in ruins.

  Because I am just like my father.

  Unable to give that poisonous seed the space it needed to grow, he took a deep breath, pushed away from the wall, and straightened his tie.

  Think, Harrison. Think.

  Damage control. That’s what he needed right now, because fucking Wes Kaminski with his badge had barged into a room filled with cameras and journalists and said the one name that could potentially bring down everything.

  He grabbed his phone out of his pocket, nearly ripping the fabric in his haste and fury.

  “Are you calling to ask me if I want leftovers?” Wallace asked. “Because I do. I really—”

  “Listen to me,” Harrison said. “I need you to find me everything you can on Wes Kaminski—he’s a Homeland Security agent—and his sister Ryan. She’s a bartender at the bar in the The Cobalt Hotel in Manhattan.”

  “What … why?”

  “Just do it, Wallace. I’ll explain later.” He hung up. Finally, when he was calm, when he could wear the mask of dutiful son again, he went back out and joined the Montgomery Family Charade, feeling every moment like the worst of himself had been exposed.

  Eight hours later

  Ryan kept her eyes on the sidewalk in front of her as she walked from the corner store back to her apartment. The carton of milk—chocolate this time, because a girl needed a thrill now and then—was heavy in her hand. Far heavier than a gallon of milk should be, but that was the joy of pregnancy for her. A constant head butt against her new limitations.

  But she was feeling better, thanks to the Compazine prescription the doctor had given her.

  She could use a latte or ten, but the Internet seemed fairly divided on caffeine, so she was trying to err on the side of caution. For the first time in her life.

  The summer night was thick and humid, and the streets were crowded with groups of Dominican girls in their summer clothes pretending to ignore the Dominican boys who were practicing their leers. Ryan smiled, remembering what it was like to be so young on a young summer night.

  Best feeling in the world.

  Even at ten o’clock at night, apartment windows were thrown open, letting out all kinds of music and the sounds of babies crying and moms yelling at kids and dads yelling that they couldn’t hear the game over all the yelling.

  She loved her neighborhood. It reminded her of her family, of where she grew up before everything went bad. When they were loud and rowdy and loving. Always loving.

  It had cooled off with the sunset and the Korean barbecue place on the corner pumped out the sweet and meaty smell of bulgogi, which used to make her mouth water but now made her queasy.

  She missed being hungry.

  Missed loving food.

  Missed coffee.

  On the plus side, she wasn’t throwing up anymore. And she was outside on a gorgeous summer night. So all in all, things were looking good for Ryan Kaminski.

  Fantasizing about all the lattes she couldn’t have, she didn’t see the guy on the sidewalk in front of her building until she nearly tripped over him.

  “Excuse me,” she said, noticing the guy’s big camera. Maybe her neighbor in 3B finally made good on the threats she’d been making at high volume for over a year to kill her no-good cheating asshole husband.

  “You Ryan Kaminski?” he asked. His breath smelled like coffee and potato chips and he had crumbs in his mustache.

  “Who wants to know?” she shot back, which made the guy grin knowingly.

  “How do you know Harrison Montgomery?” He lifted the big camera around his neck to take her picture, blinding her with the flash.

  Oh. Shit.

  “I … I … don’t,” she said, stumbling up the path, glitter in the corner of her eyes.

  She opened the lobby door and once inside, turned back around to see the photographer take out his phone and make a call.

  “What the hell?” she breathed.

  “Paparazzi,” a guy said, and she turned to see a beautiful tall black man in a bad tie. He seemed vaguely familiar to her, but that was the life of a bartender. At some point it seemed she’d served everyone in the five boroughs a beer.

  But so scathing was his gaze, she felt the need to pull the carton of milk to her chest, an extra layer between her and the hate he clearly felt for her.

  “It will probably get worse,” he said.

  “Who the hell are you?” she demanded.

  “Wallace Jones. I’d like to say I’m the man here to make your life hell, but I think that guy is waiting for you in your apartment.”

  In a great rush she realized why he seemed so familiar: in the footage of Harrison she’d been relentlessly watching for the last few days, this guy was almost always in the background. Looking nervous.

  As she watched,
he pulled a roll of antacids out of his pocket and thumbed one into his mouth. “Go,” he said. “It’s kind of making me sick looking at you.”

  “Listen, asshole,” she snapped. “I haven’t done anything!”

  “You might not have done anything,” Wallace interrupted, his dark eyes pulling her apart piece by piece. “But your brother sure has.”

  Her stomach fell to her feet. “Wes?”

  “Bearded guy? Definition of a loose cannon? Paid a little visit.”

  She didn’t stick around to hear the rest of the “How Wes Thought He Was Doing the Right Thing but Actually Managed to Screw Up My Life Even More” story. She bypassed the extremely slow elevator and went up two flights of stairs, pausing at the landing to get her breath back.

  Once upon a time she used to run a six-minute mile, her body strong and fueled.

  Now her ass was kicked by a flight of stairs.

  The hallway in front of her apartment was eerily quiet, like a scene in some horror film in which she was the dummy too stupid to realize she should just leave. Vanish into the night instead of reaching out with a slightly shaking hand for that doorknob.

  The door opened at her touch.

  These days she was pretty much a stripped wire, exposed to every element, every emotional whim, and despite her efforts to prepare herself for seeing Harry … Harrison again, she was wasted at the sight of him.

  He stood in front of her dark windows, the city a bruised landscape behind him. He seemed bigger in his suit than he had in that Bulldogs tee shirt. Or maybe it was because he was Harrison Montgomery now and not Harry, and that came with its own weight. An extra few inches.

  At the sound of the door opening he turned to face her and she thought she remembered how handsome he was, how appealing his gravitas, but she hadn’t remembered the half of it.

  The lamplight gilded him in his tailored gray suit and his rich brown shoes, all of which cost at least four months’ rent. Gone was Harry’s grief and anger. This man was all cold and stony displeasure, his face carved in hard, unforgiving lines.

  “Ryan,” he said, and even his voice was different. Still laced with sweet tea and peaches, but there was an iron bar down the middle of it.