And that’s what Reed would have to do.
“He’s fine.” He patted Sofia’s hand. “I promise.”
Chapter 15
“I don’t believe in regrets. Dating Reed taught me a lot of things, even if it took a while for the pain to subside. Now I know how to avoid men like him.”
—AnyaMark
Reed eased himself into a booth, cringing as his quads protested the movement. Last night, after dinner with Sofia and Gabriel, he’d punished his body at the gym in the hopes it might quiet the worry. But no amount of physical activity seemed to get his head in the right space.
It was that damn woman.
He couldn’t seem to get through a night without replaying what it was like to peel away the clothes from her skin. To kiss her deep and hard. To show her she didn’t need to settle for some boring, middle-management type.
“Can I get you something to eat?”
He hadn’t even realized the server had come to take his order. “Just coffee.”
“How do you like it?” The server winked at him saucily, her bright-blue eyes and cherry-stained lips something that should have appealed. Would have appealed if he wasn’t so damn occupied with a certain prickly librarian.
“Black,” he said. “One sugar. And whatever my friend wants.”
He gestured to Peter, who was ambling toward the table slow and steady. The man was good at his job, but he never seemed to move with any sense of urgency. Reed’s mentor had told him once there was a fine line to how a man walked—too fast and people assumed you didn’t have things under control. Too slow and people assumed you didn’t care.
But Reed had found people who walked slowly toward a meeting were usually stalling because they had bad news.
“Coffee. Two creams and two sugars for me.” Peter grunted as he slid into the booth. “And a bagel with cream cheese.”
When the server had gone, Reed turned to Peter. “Okay, you said you needed a week to fully look into this. I’ve been exceptionally patient, but I’m hoping to hell you have something for me.”
Peter wriggled his nose, causing his giant mustache to bob up and down. “Depends on your definition of something. The people behind Bad Bachelors have made an effort to cloak their identities. I had my tech guy look at the site and they’re locked down tight. Whoever built it knew how to cover their tracks better than a bunch of Russian hackers.”
Not surprising. Reed would have bet his last ten bucks he wasn’t the only one after answers either. The folks at Bad Bachelors would be racking up enemies. Fast. But he wouldn’t allow them to stay hidden if he could help it. If they wanted to expose him, then they could expect a taste of their own medicine.
“That’s why I’m paying you to go digging,” Reed said. “What have you got so far?”
Peter pulled out a small notebook from his satchel and flipped it open to a page with some scrawled notes. Old school. “I started with the company that created the app, Bad Bachelors Inc. It’s referenced on their website and in several articles about the app. However, I can’t find anything which corroborates that it’s an actual company.”
“So they’re saying they’re a company but they’re not really?”
“Correct. However, the Bad Bachelors domain name was purchased by a company called Maximum Holdings. That’s the company listed on the app stores as well. Apparently, they’re based out of Delaware. It was set up last year and it does appear to be a real company. An LLC, to be exact.”
They paused the conversation as the coffees were delivered along with Peter’s bagel. “Delaware?” Reed asked, taking a sip of his drink. “I’d assumed they’d be based in New York, given the focus of their app.”
He had a sinking feeling in his gut and Peter’s knuckle cracking did little to ease it.
“Privacy laws in Delaware allow people to set up an LLC without disclosing the name of the owners, nor do they require the members or managers to be residents of the state.” Peter shook his head. “There’s a damn good reason why more than half of Fortune 500 companies are based there…on paper anyway.”
“Shit,” Reed muttered. “Surely they have to file tax forms or something. If they’re making money, someone will know who they are.”
“That’s the thing.” Peter scratched his head. “I can’t see how they’re making any money. The app is free to download, and there are no advertisements on it or their website. There are no paid memberships, subscriptions, or upgrades of any kind that I can see.”
Reed blinked. It’d never occurred to him that Bad Bachelors wasn’t being run as a business, one that would surely be lucrative at that. “Why would they possibly do it if they weren’t making money?”
“Beats me.” Peter took a bite out of his bagel, cream cheese clinging to his mustache as he chewed. “They would have costs to cover too. Hosting for the website and setting up the LLC. Not to mention the design of the app and website itself. Even if it was done in-house, it would have taken time.”
“The whole premise of the app is to lift the lid on dating, right?” Reed rubbed at the back of his neck, his mind whirring. “Why would someone do that if money wasn’t the object?”
“Personal vendetta?” Peter wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Someone got burned and now they’re trying to make sure other people don’t go through the same thing.”
“There’s nothing more powerful than the anger of a lover scorned.” Reed should know; he’d faced it in his work on more than one occasion. Angry exes had tried to take down one or two of his clients before. It had only solidified his opinion that a relationship could really screw with one’s life.
“I’m sure my ex-wife would agree with that.” Peter chuckled. “She scratched my girlfriend’s car up good after I started dating again. Took a key to it and carved her name in these big, jagged letters.”
“Maybe this is the passive version of the car keying.” A picture was starting to form—a motive, other than money, that would befit someone who’d had their heart broken. “Question is, am I the target? Or do I just represent what she hates?”
“You’re assuming it’s a woman,” Peter said. “We don’t know that.”
“True,” Reed said. “But my gut tells me it is.”
If money was out of the equation, the only reason left was passion. Bad Bachelors was an attempt to lash out—revenge in the most basic sense. It was a new solution to an age-old agenda—ruin the reputation of the person that hurt you. Only now, with social media being a key pillar of reputation, it could be done en masse. Why hurt the one bastard when you could hurt them all?
“Keep digging,” Reed said. “See if you can find someone in Delaware who knows how to bend the rules.”
“It’s gonna cost ya,” Peter replied.
“It’s already cost me.”
Reed drained his coffee and slid out of the booth. As much as he wanted to untangle this mystery right here and now, he had bigger fish to fry. With Chrissy Stardust gone, he had a new whale in mind. One that would not only bring in more money for Bath and Weston—and therefore him—but one that would also get him in the good books with a certain tattooed librarian.
* * *
Darcy sat on her sister’s bed, being forced to give her thoughts on things she knew nothing about. Like which of too seemingly identical black skirts went better with a tank top. She eyed the two options for longer than necessary, so at least she could give the illusion that she’d put some thought into her opinion rather than singing eenie, meenie, miney, mo in her head.
“That one.” She pointed to skirt number two. “I like the…flippy bit.”
“You mean the asymmetrical hemline?” Cynthia grinned and held it up in front of her.
“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Darcy picked at the white fibers poking out around the rip in her jeans. “You’ll look gorgeous even if you wear a pa
per bag. Besides, it’s just a baseball game.”
“It’s the day I introduce my big sister to my boyfriend.” Cynthia spun around and threw skirt number one onto the bed. “It’s a milestone.”
Darcy had managed to stick to her internal promise of not telling her sister what to do, but she had been checking in more often. So she’d feigned interest when Cynthia had mentioned that he played baseball every Sunday with his friends and had managed to score an invite. Not that it would likely do much, but Darcy figured she might feel a little better about the guy if she met him.
Brad, ugh. What kind of name was that anyway?
At least this way she might be able to steal a moment with him to make it clear she wouldn’t tolerate anyone screwing her little sister around. Discreetly, of course.
“You could have worn something a little less”—Cynthia wrinkled her nose—“emo teenage boy.”
“What’s wrong with my outfit?” She looked down at the vintage AC/DC tour T-shirt and ripped jeans. “How the hell is this emo? It’s not like I’m wearing a My Chemical Romance T-shirt.”
“It was a phase,” Cynthia said with a huff and she shimmied out of her jeans.
Darcy tried not to look at Brad’s name stamped onto her sister’s thigh as she slipped the skirt over her legs. “A terrible phase. I had to do my homework next door while I listened to you wailing like a dying cat to that god-awful music.”
“Oh, because that’s better than listening to you and Mom screaming about your piercing?” Cynthia snorted. “You really thought she wouldn’t notice. That woman makes the FBI look inept when it comes to sniffing things out.”
“I knew she’d find out.” Darcy shrugged. “I’d stopped caring by that point.”
She remembered the argument plain as day. After weeks of switching her piercing out with a clear plastic spacer whenever she came home from school, she’d finally just left it in and counted down the minutes until her mother noticed and had a heart attack. One minute and thirty-four seconds. She’d timed it.
“How do I look?” Cynthia twirled on the spot, the edge of her black skirt kicking up just enough to show her slim, tanned thigh but not enough to flash her ink.
Darcy always blamed their differences on the fact that they were half sisters. They didn’t look alike—Darcy’s pale complexion and dark locks appeared harsh next to Cynthia’s olive skin and soft, chestnut hair. They didn’t sound alike or act alike. They had no hobbies in common. They didn’t even share the same surname. And, until Cynthia had gone and gotten herself tattooed, they hadn’t rebelled alike either.
“Perfect. As always,” Darcy said. “But I’d grab a cardigan unless you want Genio to bitch about you going out with bare shoulders.”
“It’s eighty degrees out.” Cynthia shot her a look but grabbed a lightweight chambray shirt and slipped it on over her white tank top.
“So where are we going?” Darcy pushed up from the bed and checked her own appearance in the mirror. Okay, so Cynthia had a point—she didn’t exactly look like Little Miss Approachable. The spike through her left ear might have been a bit much. “I’m assuming you gave Mom some story to throw her off the scent.”
“We’re going to a gallery.” Cynthia winked and slung her bag over one shoulder. “She was most impressed that I managed to get you to do something cultured.”
“I work in a fucking library. I read classic novels. What more does she want?”
“Probably for you to stop swearing like a sailor.” Cynthia reached for the hem of Darcy’s T-shirt and knotted it so that the fabric pulled tight around her waist. “You have such a great body. I have no idea why you hide it away all the time.”
She certainly hadn’t been hiding it in Remi’s dress when she met with Reed on Monday night. Memories washed over her—his hands in her hair, between her legs. His tongue working her into a frenzy. God, she’d been thinking about it all week.
“You okay, Sis? You look a little flushed.” Cynthia pressed the back of her hand to Darcy’s forehead the way their mother had done when they were kids.
“I’m fine. It’s hot in here.” She fanned herself. “Let’s get iced coffee on the way.”
“I like the way you think.”
An hour later, Darcy and Cynthia headed across West 110th Street and into Central Park, beverages in hand. Darcy couldn’t understand what would possess her sister to make the almost two-hour round trip from Bensonhurst to watch her boyfriend play beer league baseball.
“Isn’t it a gorgeous day?” Cynthia sipped on her hazelnut iced latte, which was piled high with whipped cream and drizzled with syrup.
See, even your coffee isn’t the same.
Darcy took a sip of her black, cold brew. “Yeah. I probably should have brought sunscreen.”
“Oh no, you might get a tan. How awful,” Cynthia teased.
Darcy ignored the dig. “So, tell me about Brad. How did you meet?”
“Remember when I had that little, uh…incident with my car?” She spooned some whipped cream into her mouth.
“If by ‘incident’ you mean that time you backed into a tree, then yes.”
Cynthia narrowed her eyes. “Anyway, I didn’t want to tell Mom and Dad about it, so I couldn’t go to the regular mechanic. I found a different place and he was the guy who took all my details.”
“So he chatted you up while you were waiting?”
“Not exactly. I had to leave the car there because they were super busy and I got the impression they usually take care of fancier cars than mine. But Brad made sure I got their best guy to look at it.” She beamed. “And he was finishing his shift, so he, uh…gave me a lift home.”
“That’s very personal service,” she said carefully.
Men hitting on Cynthia wasn’t unusual, the girl was a knockout. Plus, she seemed to be unencumbered by the same soul-deep cynicism that affected Darcy. Lord knew people preferred Little Miss Sunshine and Rainbows, especially men.
“Well, I’m assuming they don’t do that for everyone,” Cynthia said.
“Just young, pretty women.”
“Why do you have to make it sound sleazy like that? It was a sweet gesture.”
“I’m only worrying about your safety, Cyn. Did you skip the childhood lesson about getting into cars with strangers?”
Her sister’s icy silence was broken by the squeals of children as they drew closer to the Lasker pool. The pool—which turned into an ice rink in winter—was a hive of activity. Parents lined the edge, feet in the water, while their kids splashed and played. A lifeguard sat, ever vigilant, under a high-visibility orange umbrella.
“I know Mom and Dad think it’s okay to keep treating me like a child,” Cynthia said eventually. “But I don’t expect it from you.”
“I’m sorry.” Darcy slung an arm around her sister’s shoulders. “The older I get, the more I sound like her, you know. It’s terrifying.”
“You’d better put a stop to that now.” A smile crept onto Cynthia’s lips. “The world can’t handle two of her. Could you imagine? Nagging would become the national pastime.”
“Well, well, well.” Darcy took a long sip of her iced coffee. “Who would have thought you’d be chewing off my ear talking ill of our precious mother?”
A look of guilt flashed over her face. “I know. But lately she’s been driving me crazy. I feel so…stifled.” She sighed. “Maybe it’s time to move out.”
“Not with Brad.”
Cynthia huffed. “You can’t help yourself, can you? No, not with Brad. With one of my friends. Melissa from work is looking to move after her lease is up. Might be nice to have freedom and privacy…and to not have to okay my every movement with her.”
“I remember those days.” They crossed a street and Darcy spotted the sports fields up ahead. “Which one are they playing on?”
Cynthia pulled out he
r phone and tapped at the screen. “North Meadow Baseball Field number five.”
“No freaking idea which one that is.”
Cynthia sucked on her straw. “Me either.”
* * *
Reed dropped his sports bag onto the dirt. For once, he hadn’t been looking forward to his weekly game and catch up with the guys. Which wasn’t a good sign. Life had to be grim for a ball game and beers not to appeal.
But this week had been a royal mind-fuck. First off, Monday night with Darcy had thrown him for a loop and he still couldn’t stop thinking about her a whole week later. Most unusual. Secondly, he’d tried—unsuccessfully—to schedule a meeting with Dave Bretton and his agent. The guy had blown him off twice and was dodging his calls. And with Donald Bath breathing down his neck, he needed to land this big fish. Fast.
“You look like you’ve aged a decade since dinner.” Gabriel slapped his back. “Maybe it’s time to invest in some of that anti-wrinkle shit girls use. I’m sure Sof can set you up.”
Reed snorted. “How about I tell your pregnant wife that you think she’s an expert on wrinkle cream and we’ll see how that goes?”
“I’ll deny it till they stick me in the ground.”
Reed ferreted out a cap from his gym bag and then grabbed a water bottle. He should probably have been warming up, like the other guys already tossing the ball around, but he couldn’t seem to get into the right mood.
“Who’s pitching today?” Reed leaned back against the wire fencing that sectioned off the dugout from the field. “I’m happy to do it.”
Brad, their star outfielder, snorted. “Yeah, ’cause you did such a great job last time. That dude ended up with a bruise on his chin for his engagement party.”
The Smokin’ Bases were a competitive lot, but clocking a batter in the chin was not encouraged.
“He walked.” Reed tossed his head back and chugged his water. “And scored too, if memory serves me correctly.”
Bad Bachelor Page 17
