Kiss and Tell (Scions of Sin Book 2)

by Taylor Holloway

  “Exactly,” I said with a rueful smile, “he may be up on his high horse right now since he’s a ‘real journalist’ and I work for an ‘awful trashy tabloid’ but at least people actually buy tabloids. The same cannot be said for newspapers.”

  “He can always go into the gossip business,” Nathan suggested.

  I shook my head.

  “Actually, he can’t,” I said cruelly, “part of working for a publication like JuicyNews is the look of the correspondents. We have to fit in among our subjects to some extent. Can you imagine Phil interviewing Angelica Hunt? She wouldn’t give him a moment’s respect, let alone have him hanging around with her in public. At the end of the day, I’m a lot more employable in the twenty-first century news economy than a lot of people like Phil since I’m twenty-four, female, and not-hideous.”

  “You’re a lot more than just not-hideous, you’re absolutely beautiful.” Nathan said to me, and I smiled at the compliment.

  “Thanks,” I said to him, feeling myself blushing, “I just wish my job prospects were based on my journalistic skills, not my face. Or my ass.”

  Nathan nodded sympathetically.

  “You’ll find something eventually,” he said, and I brightened.

  “I know,” I replied, “actually my friend Nika’s husband works as an editor for the Tallahassee Picayune. He said they’re hiring and I sent in an application. I don’t really want to move again, but hey, it’s a real job. And this time, I actually have a shot at getting it. I’m hoping to get a call for an interview any day.”

  Nathan’s smile froze on his face.

  “Tallahassee… the capital of Florida?” He asked, as if searching his brain for a town in Pennsylvania called Tallahassee.

  “That’s the one,” I said, feeling sad to think that I’d have to move across the country when I just met Nathan. I really liked him. But I couldn’t spend my life pretending that working for JuicyNews wasn’t slowly eroding my soul. Unless I wanted to work in retail or hospitality, getting a real job as a journalist was my only option.

  The waiter finally arrived then with our drinks (wine for him, water for me), and to take our order. The entire menu was in French, so I just pointed to an entrée and hoped for the best. Nathan raised an eyebrow at my selection, but the waiter smiled and nodded like it was a good choice.

  “I have no idea what I just ordered,” I confessed to Nathan once the waiter left, “I don’t know any French and I kind of panicked.”

  Nathan chuckled and then stopped at my frightened expression.

  “You’ve never eaten escargot before?” He asked me, raising his eyebrows.

  I shook my head, “It’s not a frog or a snake or an alligator is it? I don’t want to eat a reptile.”

  “No, not a reptile,” Nathan replied carefully, “the good news is that you didn’t order anything like that. The bad news is that you did order a bunch of mollusks.”

  “Oh, I like clams and oysters and stuff like that,” I said confidently. That was just fine with me. I’m from the land of sea food.

  “Um, they’re not clams, or oysters. They’re… snails,” was his reply. He was clearly trying not to smile at me, but the corners of his generous mouth pulled upward anyway.

  “I just ordered snails?!” I exclaimed, trying to keep my voice down but fighting a small panic.

  “You just ordered snails,” Nathan confirmed with a smile, “Do you want me to flag the waiter, so you can change it?”

  “No,” I replied thoughtfully, “I’m gonna go ahead and try it. This is a nice place, right? How bad can it be?”

  Nathan grinned at me. I think he was proud of me.

  “That’s the spirit,” he replied, “I’ll make a snail-eating, space-flying girl out of you yet.”

  “Don’t hold your breath. What did you get?” I asked.

  “A salad,” he said virtuously, “and I’ll swap you if you hate the escargot.”

  “You’re a real gentleman,” I said to him, smiling broadly, “but I hate salad. I’d rather eat an entire bucket of snails than nibble on rabbit food.”

  25

  Nathan

  Zoey ate those Escargots à la Bourguignonne like a champ. When they showed up all dead and buttery and still very much in their shells, I didn’t think there was a chance that she would put them in her mouth. I was dead wrong.

  I’m not sure if she actually liked them at first, or if she pretended she liked them in order to mess with me, but they clearly won her over and she ate every last bite. Personally, I was glad I didn’t have to switch my dish with hers. I’d grown up eating fancy French food of all sorts given my family history, but I was not a huge fan of escargots.

  “Dessert?” The waiter asked, setting a second set of menus in front of us as our empty entrees were taken away.

  “What do you think of the mille-feuille?” I asked Zoey once the waiter had walked off to give us time to discuss.

  “What is that?” She asked, frowning, “I don’t read French like some people at this table. If it’s the sweet version of snails, the answer is no thanks.”

  I grinned. Zoey was clearly under the impression that I actually spoke and read French. As a second-generation French immigrant, I could confirm that this was very much not the case, but I let it slide. Speaking French would make me look sexy and exotic, right?

  “It’s a cake,” I replied, “made out of lots and lots of puff pastry, and pastry crème filling. No snails.”

  “That sounds good,” she said, smiling, “although you know I’m on team pie.”

  “Trust me,” I promised, “this is not your average cake.”

  “What about the Tarte Tropézienne?” She said, butchering the pronunciation a bit, “what is that?”

  “It’s sort of a donut filled with custard,” I answered, “that’s probably good, too.”

  “And the last one? The chocolate mousse?” Zoey asked, “Is that just what I expect it to be?”

  “It’s probably better than you expect it to be,” I said honestly, “that’s the one my brother said we should get.”

  “Well now I don’t know what to get,” she said, smiling, “you’ll have to choose for us.”

  Fearing that I would choose wrong and disappoint her, when the waiter returned I ordered all three, surprising her. Zoey laughed in delight when they arrived, an enormous amount of food for two people who’d already eaten, but we did our best. By the time we were done we’d barely made a dent in it, but I was just happy to see her happy.

  As the evening wore on, we ended up back on the topic of the test launch Friday and the data breach.

  “I’ve been thinking about it,” Zoey said seriously as she took a last bite of the chocolate mousse, “and I’m wondering why someone would want to steal the launch programming. What good would that even be?”

  I nodded. I’d been grappling with that same question.

  “It really doesn’t make a lot of sense,” I replied, shaking my head in disbelief, “my only thought is that they thought they were getting something better. The launch code is all but useless without the actual Starflier module.”

  “Did you ever figure out who took it?” She asked.

  “No,” I answered, “unfortunately we may never know. All we know is that whoever turned off the cameras was probably Russian. Everything else is a total unknown.”

  At the mention of Russia, Zoey’s eyes widened. She set down her spoon with a little clink.

  “You know,” she said carefully, “Angelica’s tennis coach, Marcus, who Tara said was Portuguese, is actually Russian. I heard him talking about you today in Russian while I was taking pictures of Angelica.”

  That gave me pause.

  “Are you sure?” I asked, “Do you speak Russian?”

  “No. Not at all,” she replied, “but I’m pretty sure that’s what it was. It definitely wasn’t Portuguese. I had roommate in college from Brazil, so I know what Portuguese sounds like. He speaks English with a sort-of Portuguese accent,
but he was definitely speaking Russian today when he thought no one was around. He was saying your name, too. A lot.”

  I tried to make sense of that scenario in my mind but came up short. Angelica Hunt’s tennis coach and boyfriend? How could he possibly be involved?

  “Was he with you on the VIP platform during the launch?” I asked.

  “No,” Zoey said, as if remembering something important, “actually he disappeared from the VIP area sometime before the launch on Monday. I remember Tara saying she was worried about Angelica noticing he was missing. She never did, though.”

  “Zoey, do you know Marcus’ last name?” I asked, trying not to get too enthusiastic, “It might be a good idea to find out more about this guy. The pieces don’t seem to quite add up.”

  I was hesitant about accusing someone again without being sure. It hadn’t worked out well with Zoey. But if what she was saying was correct, there might be something there. Angelica went through boyfriends faster than she went through lip gloss. Since her husband died a year ago, she’d probably had one a month. The idea that one of them could be a career criminal was not at all beyond the realm of possibility.

  Zoey pulled out her phone and sent a text.

  “I’m asking Tara,” she explained.

  The reply arrived just seconds later. Tara must have been sitting right next to her phone.

  “His name is Marcus Sousa,” Zoey said, “Tara says he’s from Portugal, not Brazil. Should we google him?”

  I nodded and we both spent a few minutes looking him up. There was indeed a former professional tennis player named Marcus Sousa from Guimarães, Portgual, but neither of us could find a picture to confirm it was the Marcus that was dating Angelica. It seemed that he had never been particularly successful, and only spent one season on the pro circuit.

  “Did you get a picture of Marcus today?” I asked Zoey, and she shook her head guiltily.

  “No,” Zoey said, “he didn’t get in any of the shots. He just let me pose Angelica the whole time.”

  Zoey’s phone chirped again as we were still trying to figure out if the name we knew was actually the man that Zoey had seen this morning.

  “Well, I can take a picture of him tomorrow,” Zoey announced, rolling her eyes dramatically, “since Tara just let me know that Angelica wants to take a few more shots in the morning. She didn’t like the light on her in some of our shots from this afternoon. Apparently, morning light is much more flattering on blondes.”

  “It’s probably nothing,” I said to Zoey, “but if you can get a picture of him, our family has a relationship with a military contractor that can confirm his identity really quickly. If he had anything to do with the data breach, I want to know.”

  “I’ll get it,” she said confidently, “don’t worry. I’m resourceful.”

  26

  Zoey

  Nathan took me back to his place that night. He lived in the top floor penthouse of a very fancy, very expensive building in Center City West. I’d been to this area of Philadelphia only once before, to buy a Louis Vuitton wallet for Nika’s twenty-fifth birthday. I had felt like a country bumpkin walking into the Louis Vuitton store, and I felt even more out of my element standing in the elevator on the way up to Nathan’s.

  Then again, I was a woman who had just eaten a whole bunch of snails. I could do whatever I wanted, I reminded myself. I was a modern woman on the go: eating garden pests, seducing astronauts, hobnobbing with Angelica Hunt, and capturing pictures of Angelica’s maybe-criminal boy toy. My life had totally gone off the rails and it felt sort-of wonderful. Sort-of terrifying, too.

  I snuck a look over at Nathan as the elevator went up and up and up. It was a really tall building.

  “You practically already live in space,” I asked him, “why do you feel the need to blast yourself even higher into the atmosphere?”

  He chuckled and pulled me closer, wrapping his arm around my waist and kissing my hair.

  “I’m pushing humanity forward,” he replied, modifying his voice into a goofy monotone as if answering a question at a press conference, “by challenging our assumptions of what’s possible and innovating dynamic solutions to the question of commercial spaceflight.”

  “Save that bullshit for Phil at the post-launch interview,” I replied, rolling my eyes at his stock-answer, “he’s gonna love that answer though. The man loves a good soundbite.”

  “I’d much rather have you interviewing me than boring old Phil,” Nathan said, smirking as he poked the buttons to take us up to the penthouse, “although I have a feeling that you’d be extremely thorough.”

  “Oh, I am incredibly thorough,” I replied proudly, licking my lips as we entered straight into the penthouse, “I’ve got a very unique style, too.”

  “I’ll bet you do,” Nathan replied, pinning my shoulders to the wall just inside and then kissing me.

  Since our very first kiss, Nathan had left me breathless. This kiss was no exception. Starting out softly and growing in intensity, I leaned into him as our mouths danced against each other. His hands on my shoulders softened and moved to bury themselves in my hair, ruining the careful twist and ripping out the pins with a forceful intentionality that suggested he’d been wanting to do so all night.

  We weren’t going to make to the bedroom, wherever that was. He dropped his hands lower down to the hem of my dress like he had during our first liaison in his office two days ago, not even trying to locate the zipper of the dress. I smiled into our kiss as he found the gusset of my bodysuit without hesitation and unsnapped it.

  “I love these,” Nathan murmured, and we both giggled like children.

  Leaning back into the wall, I was ready for anything except for my phone to start ringing.

  Nathan and I exchanged a look of comingled irritation and desire.

  “Who calls after ten p.m.?” Nathan asked incredulously as I fished the phone out of my little clutch purse. I groaned when I saw who was calling me. California area code.

  “My boss,” I said despondently, “I have to take this. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s ok,” Nathan said, smiling excitedly at me, “we’re in no hurry. Come find me in the shower when you’re done?”

  I grinned and nodded, and he took off somewhere into the depths of the apartment.

  “Hello? Julieta?” I answered warily. She’d never actually called my cell that I could remember. She was much more of a video call person. Too bad for her, I didn’t have a smart phone that could support it.

  “Hi there Zoey darling,” Julieta sang at me from what could have only been the inside of a very busy restaurant, “just checking in on you. How’s your evening?”

  Bullshit. This wasn’t a social call. She wanted something again.

  “It’s going great. How about you?” I said sweetly, eager for her to get to the point. Nathan was waiting for me in the shower. I could hear the sound of water running somewhere in the apartment and I was just standing mostly clothed here in the entryway. I kicked off my heels as I waited for Julieta to get on with it.

  “That’s wonderful, wonderful. I’m doing fabulously too. Say, is there a chance you’re out with Nathan Breyer this evening? I heard from a little bird that you’d been seen at La Petite Coquette with him,” She asked nosily.

  How did she find out so fast? My fingers froze on the zipper to my dress. God, the woman was practically all-knowing when it came to celebrity gossip. I couldn’t imagine how she would know unless Phil told her, which was as unlikely as it would be disturbing. Maybe someone else at the restaurant had snapped a photo? All it took was one Instagram and she’d be on it. She had a weird sixth sense for gossip.

  I didn’t respond, which was as good as confirming it for Julieta.

  “My, my,” Julieta said, and I could hear her slow clapping through the line, “I’m impressed.”

  Impressing Julieta over something that wasn’t my writing had never been my intention. This conversation was making me feel very nervous. She was abou
t to ask for something I wasn’t going to like. I just knew it.

  “Are you still out with him?” She asked next. Her voice sounded frighteningly hopeful. I felt an opportunity to throw her off.

  “No,” I answered honestly, “I’m not out with him anymore.”

  We were at his apartment now, not out. That wasn’t lying. Lying to Julieta was a bad idea, I knew that instinctively. She lived off exposing other people’s lies. I wasn’t going to give her any ammunition against me if I could help it.

  “Such a pity,” Julieta said sadly, “do you think you’ll go out again?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said evasively.

  “Well if you do,” Julieta said hopefully, “and I’m sure that you will since you’re such a lovely girl, you have a real opportunity.”

  “An opportunity?” I repeated innocently. She was going to need to spell her evil out for me. She probably wanted me to take pictures of his apartment or dig up dirt on his ex-girlfriends.

  “Why yes! Remember, Kim Kardashian wasn’t famous before she appeared in a certain infamous tape.”

  Infamous tape? Oh hell no.

  “You’re not serious,” I said, feeling vaguely nauseated. I sucked in a horrified breath.

  “I’m always serious, Zoey, you know that. Just think of how popular Mr. Breyer is with our audience. His last video was absolute gold. We’re still making money off it. If you could somehow procure a, um, sequel…”

  She was serious. That was the sad part. She was one hundred percent serious. Nathan’s last leaked sex video had been released without his consent. It had ruined his career, his reputation, and temporarily, his life.

  “I’m very sure I don’t want to be featured in a sex tape,” I said firmly, “and I don’t think Nathan would be very happy about it either.”

  I could practically see Julieta pouting through the phone. She hated it when I didn’t agree with whatever she said. But this was just one step too far. There was zero percent chance I’d be willing to ever do something like she was suggesting.