by Holly Hart
“Then they can’t prove you knew. So you hang it on Nagler, on his mistress, his kid. Say you blackmailed him with that, and he folded, and you walked off with a fortune. It’s illegal, but blackmail’s a minor felony. And it was ten years ago. They probably can’t prosecute, and even if they can, you won’t serve much time.”
“That doesn’t—”
“I’m not done!” I snatch his pants and toss them over the other side of the bed. Let him walk out on me now! “Ten years went by. You thought you got away with it. But now... Now Magnus and Erik are out of control. They’ll do anything for a quick buck. And they’re using what you did to keep you quiet... But you can’t do it any more. Can’t look the other way on this.”
Jack lifts a brow, but he sits back down. “I’m not sure I’d get away with that. And wouldn’t it look worse if I lied and got caught?”
Fuck. Fuck. “So you don’t! I’ll do it—or, Countess BeeBee will. Billionaire Blackmailer Brouhaha—it’ll get ten thousand hits in five minutes. Even if they take it down, the Internet’s forever. It’ll be out there.” Jack shifts again, and I clutch his thigh. “Please. Let me try.”
“There’s some evidence I’d need to destroy,” he says. “And you can’t use the wifi here. It’d lead them right to us.”
“So I’ll write it here, and you’ll do the rest. Give me your phone.”
He leans over the bed to grab his pants. “If this doesn’t work out—if I get caught...promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ll say I made you do it.” Jack presses his phone into my palm, closing his hand over mine. “Our baby can’t be born in prison. Promise me.”
“On my honor.”
This is going to work out. If there’s one thing I can do, it’s lie.
Chapter Forty-Four
Jack
Beefy-Ass Billionaire Blackmailer Brouhaha!
“Beefy-ass?” There’s not much to do but read over her shoulder. I have a feeling I’m going to regret this.
“Need as many hits as possible in a short time. Sex sells.” She’s already typing again. Words trip off her fingers like musical notes.
Sweethearts, let me make you a promise: you DON’T know what BeeBee did last summer! Gold shots off the Gold Coast? Moroccan margaritas? Curaçaos on, well, Curaçao? No, no, and, sadly...no. :-(
Darlings, I’ve been DEEP undercover in billionaire Jack Brightman’s high-society harem, and boy, have I—
“You’re going to admit to that?”
A brief scowl furrows her brow. “Got to be as honest as possible. This’ll all be investigated. Verified. The more it checks out, the more they’ll be likely to believe.”
“But they’re going to find out who you are. Everyone is. What about your book, the real one—about your childhood, coming to America—” I duck as she swats at my head.
“Peeping Tom fuck!” She’s after me now. I turn my head to avoid another smack, and catch a good one around the ear. “I knew Starkey was looking, but you? That was private!”
“So all those publishers in your browser history, those were...what? So no one would ever see—hey, quit it! I’m just saying....” I cover my head, but she’s got a pillow now. The blows rain down hard and fast. “Don’t you have some blogging to do?”
“Fine.” Stella ditches the pillow. “But go sit over there. You’re distracting me. I’ll call you over when I’m done.”
I watch her thumbs fly over the screen. I’ll give her one thing: she’s fast. I’d pictured her pecking away in the tub, sipping wine as she mulled over the perfect phrasing, but she types like a demon. Barely fifteen minutes in, she beckons me over. “Tell me if anything’s off.”
I skim what she’s written. There’s a frankly embarrassing section on my, uh, high-society harem, complete with outtakes from the contract. Makeup, birth control; signatory shall not, at any time, present herself in any public or semi-public venue in a condition of fatigue or disarray.... “Jesus. It really says that?”
“You didn’t know?”
“Guess I forgot. It has been ten years.” My face feels hot. I’m actually blushing. “Shit. I sound like a pig.”
“Keep reading.”
Darlings, I kid you not, those inspections were REAL! Every Sunday, Brightman’s goon would ROUT me from my beauty sleep and turn my suite upside down! Nothing escaped his rummaging fingers. Under each individual color in my eyeshadow palette—what do you even call those? Cakes? Discs? Shadow pies?—check! The inside of my toilet? Check! Tampons, creams, and, ahhhhhh, personal massagers? Nothing was sacred! But no goon’s a match for your crafty Countess....
I scroll down. I put her through that. She covers Starkey’s assault in the Hamptons—that, I force myself to read. It’s shocking. Brutal—I didn’t know he choked her. Didn’t know he humiliated her. By the time I get to the main attraction, there’s a lump in my throat.
“Nagler—you really want to name and shame a dead man?”
Stella’s stretched out on her back, staring at the ceiling. “No. But no Nagler, no story.” A car backfires, and she flinches. “I left out the kid’s name. They’ll probably dig it up. Or his wife will, if she really doesn’t know. I never believed that, though. How could she not?”
She’s not wrong. “Wives always know.”
The Countess finishes with a flourish: and to quote the man himself, it’s SO much worse than I thought!—a scandal for the ages! The warmongering-for-profit scheme hatched by Gunnarsson and Moss is as REAL as those inspections, and TWICE as offensive! With Brightman in hiding, following Nagler’s assassination, I can’t sit and wait for him to do the right thing, assuming he’s even alive! So here it is, sweethearts: spread it far; spread it wide! Show those beefy-ass billionaires there’s no quarter for traitors!
Wow. “Y’know, threatening no quarter’s technically a war crime, as well.”
“Only when you’re at war, darling.” She tips me a ridiculous wink.
“Ugh. Don’t do that—don’t talk like her.” I drop my phone into my pocket and lie down beside her one last time. “You really want to do this? Last chance to back out.”
“I should be asking you that. You’ll still get in trouble. For not coming forward.”
“I deserve it.” Her hair’s spread out over the pillow, those glorious black curls I’ve admired from the start. Fun to play with, the way they spring back when pulled. I twirl one around my finger. “Whatever you do, don’t leave this room. I’ll be back for you—or someone will. When it’s safe.”
She turns her head my way, just enough for a sweet, chaste kiss. “I’ll be waiting. No matter what.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Stella
There’s not a lot to do with Jack gone. With the mildew smell showered out of my hair, half the snacks filched from the minibar, and an infomercial playing on TV, I find myself at a loss. I dig through the pockets of my stolen coat, hoping for an iPod, maybe a fidget spinner, but there’s nothing more interesting than a coupon for Gold Bond. An expired one, no less.
I flick over to the news, but the Nagler story’s not on. Nothing about Jack, either, but it’s only been an hour. Forty-nine minutes.
There’s a weird feeling in my stomach, somewhere between hunger and nausea. Wasabi cashews and Dr. Pepper might not have been the greatest dinner. Comfort food would be nice: chicken soup, Greek salad, mashed potatoes. Plain yogurt and crackers. A nice, fresh apple. I curl under the covers and wait for the news to get interesting. Ten minutes later, it does.
“Breaking news on the Nagler shooting: we now have reason to believe this was not an isolated incident. A second former Blakemoor employee, John Starkey Jr., was treated for minor gunshot injuries at NewYork-Presbyterian/Queens, and released earlier this evening. His injuries were consistent with a long-distance ballistic impact.”
A shot of a much younger Starkey, clean-cut in his army uniform, pops up on the screen.
“Mr. Starkey is also a twenty-yea
r army veteran, honorably discharged following injury in the line of duty. He was gunned down while attempting to catch a flight out of JFK.” The announcer glances at her co-anchor, flashing an insincere smile. “No word on whether he’ll be reattempting that vacation, but it sure sounds like he deserves it!”
I click the TV off. My stomach’s really starting to hurt, a low, cramping pain that’s spreading to my back. Curling up tighter doesn’t help. I roll onto my belly, but there’s no relief to be had. A thin tendril of panic twines around my heart. This could be bad. Or it could be indigestion. If I leave here, and it’s nothing, Jack’ll have a fit.
If I don’t, and it’s something, I won’t forgive myself.
I bundle myself back into Starkey’s jacket, and the puffy coat over the top. I look like the Michelin man—barely recognizable. Just to be safe, I flip up the hood and pull the drawstring tight. A quick note to Jack, left prominently in the middle of the bed, and I’m ready to go.
This’ll be fine. I’ll probably wait half the night in emergency. By the time I’m seen and ready to go, it’ll all be over.
Chapter Forty-Six
Jack
They’re watching the penthouse. It doesn’t matter. I’ll go in through the garage. If I don’t make it out....
I’ll make it. I have to. I key in the gate code and nose my stubby red hatchback through the opening. It might handle like shit, but this car’s the perfect camouflage. Not only is it embarrassing, but I barely fit: my knees are wedged tight under the wheel, and it wouldn’t take much of a speedbump to bounce my head into the ceiling. I ease into someone else’s parking space and whip out my phone. Signal, check. And...Safari, Wordpress, drafts, and...publish.
Feels anticlimactic. The button doesn’t even make a clicky sound. It just loads for a moment, and returns me to the edit screen.
Right. Time to do this. Grab the evidence, torch the evidence, and—
Thunder booms overhead, huge and deafening. The ground vibrates. Tiny cracks web the drywall, and the fluorescents sway overhead. Not thunder. Explosives—I lift my hand, signaling Ferris straight....
Not Ferris. I’m here, not there, and this isn’t the time for...for....
I blink, confused. It matches—then and now, here and there, one and the same. I blink again, and he’s still with me: Erik, large as life, slowing down as he spots me. The smell of smoke—no. Exhaust. It’s exhaust: I’m in a garage. And he’s pulling a gun—a handgun, not a rifle, and...”Shit!”
I dive between two vehicles. He doesn’t fire. I can hear his boots on the concrete. Coming closer. I drop down, scoot under someone’s minivan, and pop out the other side. Need to get one of those reinforced columns between me and him. Lure him close and knock him out. Can’t linger. Can’t fuck up.
“I’m not going to shoot you.”
Sounds like he’s sobered up, at least. I edge toward the open, keeping my head below window level.
“That was your place, just now. Whatever evidence you had, it’s history. Up in smoke.” Asshole’s right: my safe was a blastproof model, but not temperature-proof. That hard drive’ll be melted to shit. Which...kind of suits my purposes.
I gauge the distance between me and the nearest column. Eight feet. A quick drop and roll, one good jump....
“Just give me your word, and I’ll let you go. That you won’t come after us.”
He’s lying. I can feel it.
“I mean, fuck—we were brothers. Still are. I never wanted this. Just, that bitch of yours, digging around like a—”
I make my play for the pillar. Erik cocks his gun. I press my back to the concrete, making myself as small as possible.
“You goddamn marines—you’re all the same. Semper I, fuck the other guy. Isn’t that it?”
I bristle. He’s calling me selfish? I resist the urge to lob one back at him. Plenty of shit I could say....
“I mean, it’s fine for you. You got your...your malls, your skyscrapers, your waterfront whatever-the-fuck. You can’t let us have this one thing?” He’s stalking me, circling the column. I tense, ready to move. “We agreed—or did you forget? Blakemoor’s ours!”
I can’t let that one go. “We also agreed to shut down the black ops. Or did you forget?” I sidle around, keeping a foot of concrete between me and him.
“That was ten years ago! Shit’s changed—all the bad press; ten times the competition. You’d know, if you—”
“Stop right there.”
Starkey? Fuck’s he doing here?
Erik squeezes off a shot. There’s cursing and scuffling—and sirens, fast approaching. I abandon cover, breaking for the exit.
“Halt!” Starkey’s got a rifle on Erik and a grim look on his face. His jaw’s set in a hard line and his eyes are blazing. It’s me he’s looking at, over Erik’s shoulder. “It’s still going on?”
Erik shakes his head, like he didn’t just admit it.
“Did you know?” He’s still talking to me.
“On my mother’s grave, I just found out.” I chance another step back. Time’s running out. “Look, I can prove it—I’ve done something about it. Do you have your phone?”
Starkey scowls at that. The barrel of his rifle’s swinging between us. Can’t be sure who he’s aiming at. His lip curls.
“I swear, this is over! I’ve—”
“Enough!” He drops his shoulder, gearing up to fire. I want to run, but I can’t look away. His eyes narrow, still locked on mine. His face twists into something hellish, barely human. “You. You’re a disgrace—to your uniform. Your country. Your service. To everything I stand for!” The muzzle roars.
Erik goes down like a sack of potatoes, flat on his back with a hole in his chest.
“Starkey, what...what the...?”
He turns his rifle on me. “Is she alive?”
Is she.... “Stella?”
“Is she alive?”
I nod, hands in the air. “She’s fine. In a safe place.”
“You said you did something. What was it?”
“I—I....” Erik’s head’s canted at a broken-doll angle, sightless eyes staring through me. He’s dead. Dead, in the here and now.
“Eyes front, soldier! I said, what did you do?”
I drag my attention back to Starkey. He’s not looking great. He’s gripping his rifle fit to break it, swallowing like he might throw up.
“Stella’s blog. The Countess BeeBee thing. I... She did a story. Everything—it’s all out there now. Posted ten minutes ago. It’s over—or it will be. You’re....” Free doesn’t seem like the right word. Maybe there isn’t one.
Starkey lowers his rifle, scrubbing at his mouth.
“John, are you—”
“Go.” He jerks his head toward the stairs. “Slip out with the evacuees. I’m....”
“Starkey?”
“Just get back to her. She’s... Well, I’ll let her tell you.”
He knows? Knew before I did? How the...?
“Get out!”
With great effort, I get my feet moving. He’s right: there’s no time to loiter. The sirens are closing in. This is my window: a big crowd to block lines of sight; first responders still getting organized.
Slip away; make sure I’m alone; get back to Stella.
After that...the fallout.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Stella
“This your first child?” The doctor’s an older man, white-haired and jocular. Reminds me of my great-grandfather, a little.
“First, yeah.” My teeth are chattering—it’s cold in here, and the hospital gown isn’t helping. Neither’s the ultrasound wand—what’d he do, dip it in ice?—to say nothing of my jangling nerves. It’s all catching up to me, at the worst possible moment, and I need to get a grip.
“The first’s always an adventure. I’ve got six, myself. Can’t count the times me and the wife wound up right where you are now—and I’m a doctor.” He moves the wand into position. “There we go. That’s the worst over
with.”
The worst, right. Unless it’s bad news. I force a watery smile of my own, but I’m one huge knot of nerves, shivering and exposed. At least there wasn’t much of a line: apart from some old guy cradling a wailing toddler, I walked into an empty ER.
“And there’s your baby.” He nods at the monitor. “About six, seven weeks; everything looks great so far. Got a heartbeat, right...there.”
It doesn’t look like much, but I can make out the pulse, tiny and regular, thumping away. “And it’s fine? No problem, no... It’s really fine?”
“Looks like a healthy pregnancy.” He nods, peering at the screen. “A little cramping’s normal in the first trimester. Your insides have to do some rearranging, to accommodate that baby—that can definitely cramp a little. Plus, you mentioned some caffeine?”
I flush, embarrassed. “A Dr. Pepper, yeah.” My own heartbeat’s finally slowing. “I think it might’ve been that. All the water you had me drinking for the ultrasound, it actually kind of helped. Barely hurts anymore.”
“Well. There you go. Might want to take it easy for a day or two, but this is a good start.”
He drones on, but I’m hardly listening. I can breathe again. My eyes sting, and I laugh out loud as the relief bubbles up in my chest. It finally feels real, all of it, and I’ve never wanted anything more.
“Hey, it’s all right—you’re both fine. There’s a lot of surprises with the first one, but don’t worry: most of them are good.”
“I’ve never been big on surprises.” I rearrange my gown over my thighs and sit up. “Thank you, though. I’m glad I came in. Needed to see that.” Jack would’ve appreciated it, too, nosy bastard that he is. He’d have jumped at the chance to peek inside me. A gleam of anticipation sparks to life at the thought: he’ll be here for the next one. And every milestone after that, if all goes according to plan.
By the time I’m dressed and on my way, loaded down with pamphlets and prenatal vitamins, I feel like myself again. I’ve survived my first new-mother crisis, and with any luck, Jack’ll be waiting when I get back. He’ll be pleased to hear the baby’s healthy, strong as a horse in there.
