The Big O Series

by M. S. Parker

  The only way Whitley had been able to cope was to shove it all so deep down inside, it was like it had never happened.

  The reporter's eyes sharpened, and I felt my stomach twist heavily as she continued to speak.

  "What the true story is from all the years ago, we're unlikely to ever find out. Ms. McCrane is unavailable for comment." The reporter gave the camera a catty grin and continued to speak. My gut twisted as she went on to speculate about reports of a long tern affair that the senator's wife had been reportedly having. "As yet, no concrete details are available, but we'll be sure to update the story as it unfolds."

  "Good-bye, fucking career," I muttered.

  Mind spinning, I headed home, the last block to my apartment passing in a blur. I shoved the milk in the fridge while grabbing a banana and a handful of grapes to throw into the blender along with the juice. I chugged the smoothie while I replayed the newscast over and over in my mind.

  Anonymous sources report that Senator McCrane's second wife is having an affair.

  Fuck. What was this doing to Whitley right now?

  The same sources report that Ms. McCrane was the victim of a sexual assault while in high school but authorities questioned whether that assault ever happened. Our source has also provided a number of details...

  Source. What fucking...

  I froze, then threaded all ten fingers through my hair. "Michelle," I whispered.

  It was the only thing that made sense. I'd just fucking told her everything that had happened to Whitley. And now here it was barely forty-eight hours later and the whole story was live for all the world to see.

  Was that why she'd been in such a hurry to leave yesterday?

  She said she didn't want to overstay her welcome, blushing as she kissed me before asking about the subway system – so guileless. Asking about the subway. What New Yorker didn't know about the subway?

  But I'd fallen for it, charmed by her.

  She'd probably done her groundwork on that fucking subway ride back to her sweet little apartment up near Manhattan. It wasn't like it would be that hard, since I'd given her Whitley's name and mentioned that her parents were in politics. That was all somebody needed to know anymore to fill in the dots – or let Google do it.

  "Son of a bitch!" I fumed, hurling my glass into the sink with enough force that it shattered.

  A shard flew out and hit my hand, but I barely noticed.

  I had to talk to Michelle.

  I didn't know what I was going to do or say when I saw her, but I had to talk to her.

  Michelle opened the door on the first knock.

  The sight of her had the questions – calm, rational questions – dying on my lips. She was barefoot, her rich red curls spilling down around her shoulders. Those shoulders were covered in a rich shade of rose, a t-shirt that clung to her excellent tits before skimming down her sides to end a few inches below the waistband of her jeans.

  Jeans.

  Had I ever seen her wearing jeans?

  If not...shit. Her not wearing blue jeans was a crime against nature. They gloved those amazing hips and clung to long, lush thighs. I wanted to cup her hips, pull her up against me and–

  "Jake!"

  She smiled in delight at me while my brain shut down, and the one part that remained functioning was the part dedicated to sex and fun. It began to thoroughly undress her, while the rest of me fought to regain control.

  She started to reach for me.

  Some select fragment of my brain took note of that, memorized it, catalogued it. But the rest of me was already reacting – and not well.

  "How in the fucking hell could you do it, Michelle?" I demanded.

  Her eyes went wide. "What–?"

  "Did you even think about how many people you'd hurt with that bullshit?"

  "I...I..." She started and stopped a couple of times before finally managing to say my name. "Jake, I'm not sure what you're talking about."

  If it wasn't for the fact that I knew it was her, I might have bought that confused act. But who else could it be? Whitley had told me, point blank, she'd never told anybody else. I was careful to the point of obsession about protecting the privacy of my clients. The only answer that made sense was that somebody I trusted had broken that trust.

  "Don't bother with excuses or lies," I bit off, shaking my head. "I know what you did, Michelle. Anonymous source? Seriously? Who else was going to spill that information? The rest of the world might not figure it out, but I sure as hell did. I just told you. Who else would have said anything?

  "Jake, I don't know what you're talking about," she said shaking her head. Her loose, soft red curls bounced around her face and she continued to watch me with confusion, but it was an act. All an act. It had to be.

  "You don't know what I'm talking about?" I narrowed my eyes, my teeth grinding together painfully. Pissed off and frustrated and hurt, I shoved the paper I'd bought into her face. "I trusted you. I never should have said a fucking thing about Whitley, but I trusted you. You were hurting, and I wanted you to know that I hadn't doubted you...that..."

  Not knowing what else to say, I looked at the paper then just threw it down between us so that it lay on the floor, face up.

  Whitley's face stared up at me, a mockery.

  It just made everything that much worse.

  "How could you do it?" I asked again, raw inside. "Are stories really worth that much to reporters?"

  "I'm not a reporter," she said, her voice choked. "I do freelance writing. There's a fucking difference."

  She stared at me with wounded eyes.

  How could she stand there and look at me like that? She wasn't the one who'd been stabbed in the back.

  "It's not just me you fucked over, you know," I said, jabbing a finger down at the paper, the one with Whitley's lovely face gazing up at us. How was I supposed to explain this to her? What was I supposed to say? I was stupid, and my dick got the better of me?

  That was going to sound really good coming from a pro.

  I'd have to figure out something though, because she deserved an explanation.

  As Michelle continued to watch me with wide, confused eyes, I steeled myself. She might have been playing me from the start. I had no idea, but it didn't matter.

  I couldn't get sucked in again.

  I was still too far from attaining my own goals and too far from being anywhere close to where I needed to be in my own life, and her machinations to get a fucking story had gone and put everything at risk.

  "Jake," she said, unaware of the raging turmoil inside me. "Look, I don't know what in the world this is about..." Her eyes dropped to the paper and she took a deep, shuddering breath. "But I had nothing to do with...whatever...this is. I don't know anything about it."

  "Nothing," I said scathingly.

  "No!"

  "It's just pure coincidence then that the day after I told you everything that happened to Whitley, some anonymous source contacts a reporter and spills all this shit about her." I raked my hands through my hair. "You've fucking ruined her! You got any idea what the press will do to her? They'll pillory her."

  "I didn't do anything!" she shouted, her voice cracking halfway through the last word.

  "What the fuck ever," I snapped. It had to be her. It was the only thing that made any sense at all. "You know what? I don't know why the hell I ever believed a single word coming out of your mouth. It's pretty damn obvious that it was a lie all the fucking time. All of it, just for a fucking story."

  "Jake!" Tears sprang to her eyes. She held out a hand but let it slowly fall back to her side. "Can you...look, can you calm down so we can talk about this?"

  "There is nothing to talk about," I said slowly. "Absolutely nothing. And there's no we. There never was. There was you and me, and we fucked. That's all there was. Now I've got to go try and fix this mess you made." I shook my head, still unable to believe it. "Thanks for probably ruining my life, Michelle. Like I didn't already have enough shit to deal wit
h."

  She pressed her lips together, her eyes closing.

  "But hey...I guess that's nothing you need to worry about. As long as you're getting your stupid stories. Have a nice life, Miz Nestor."

  Twenty-Six

  Michelle

  It was the slamming of a door down the hall that jerked me out of the fugue I'd fallen into. If it wasn't for the cranky old goat who lived in 210B – he was always slamming the door – I don't know how long I might have stood there, staring in the direction Jake had taken.

  He'd taken the steps instead of the elevator, as if jogging down twenty-eight flights was better than being around me for however long it would take for the elevator to get to my floor.

  That idea bothered me. A lot.

  How could he think I'd do something like that?

  Not just run to a TV reporter, but do something that would be so humiliating for the woman involved?

  It was like he knew nothing about me.

  But I guess he didn't. Not really. I would have at least given him the benefit of the doubt, I wanted to think, would have assumed he hadn't gone all out to do something so...so...mercenary and hurtful. Yet I hadn't gotten that from him.

  The sheer venom in his voice rang in my ears, and I shivered, wondering if I could have done anything different, made him listen... "I could have tried harder," I told myself. Right?

  Looking around, I found myself still standing in the hallway, and I ducked back inside my apartment, leaning my back against the door. A massive ache spread through me, emanating from my chest, and I couldn't help but wonder if it was coming from my heart.

  I'd known I was getting in over my head with him, but I hadn't realized it was that bad.

  "I should have tried harder to make him listen," I said again. But what could I have done?

  He'd been so angry...

  Then, abruptly, it was like a light came on.

  What was I supposed to do? Force him to stand still and listen to me? Grab his arms and make him stand still while I insisted I hadn't done anything wrong?

  I didn't even know who he was talking about.

  That wasn't going to happen.

  I couldn't make him believe me.

  That understanding only added to the ache, and I buried my face against my knees as the burn of tears creeped ever closer. Giving into the urge, I buried my face against my knees and gave in to the sobs that had lurked so close to the surface since he'd showed up on my doorstep.

  I'd had one day.

  One day to feel happy and then it had all come crashing down around me, everything going straight to shit.

  "I should have known better."

  The crying jag left me feeling good and drained, so I retreated to my bedroom with a cold washcloth and closed the blinds, sending the room into darkness.

  As I sank down on my bed, I decided it was a good thing I'd gone to Jake's place instead of calling and asking him to come spend the weekend with me. I'd thought about it – hard. But I'd been too nervous to even pick up the phone and it was a good thing because if I'd laid down and the sheets smelled of him, I might have started crying all over again.

  Draping the cool rag over my eyes, I blew out a shuddering breath.

  "Don't think about it for a little while," I said. "Just don't think."

  I didn't expect to be able to follow my own advice, but to my surprise, within a few minutes, I slid into a restless sleep.

  Fragments of dreams chased me. Jake alternately mocking me and yelling at me.

  How could you do it?

  I never should have believed you.

  When I finally woke, it was almost a relief.

  It was also still daylight, which wasn't a relief, because that meant it was still the same day. I didn't know why but I was desperate to get this first day gone – this first day of a new world that had no Jake in it. At least not for me.

  Have a nice life.

  The echo of his voice still rang in my ears, and I managed, barely, not to start crying all over again.

  Was this what it felt like to have a broken heart? If so, then sign me up for the single ladies' club, because I never wanted to feel like this again.

  Getting out of bed took all my energy, and I padded listlessly out of the bedroom to stand in my kitchen. After brewing a cup of tea, I wandered around my apartment for what felt like hours, but in actuality, it was less than thirty minutes. Sipping at the tea, I tried to find something that felt like it was worth doing.

  I couldn't write the article yet.

  There was no creative spark inside me, and the very least I had to do was take off the rest of the day, maybe even the rest of the week.

  If it took more than that...?

  Grimly, I realized I might have to tell my aunt that I wouldn't be able to write for her any longer. Wouldn't that be fun?

  She'd want to know why, but I'd have to stall on telling her for a few days, at least. If she asked me right now, I'd break down and tell her and that just wasn't acceptable.

  The last thing I wanted to do was tell my aunt that I'd fallen for the King of Multiple Orgasms, and he now hated me.

  And I still didn't know why.

  Listlessly, I dropped down on the couch and picked up the remote, thumbing it until the TV on the far wall flared to brilliant life.

  I flipped through channels.

  Hallmark – hell, no. The last thing I needed was some sappy love story.

  Game shows. No, thanks.

  The weather. Bleakly, I looked outside. Cold and gray, kind of like I felt right now.

  When I finally landed on the news, I dropped the remote and just stared at the screen without really seeing it. I'd been doing that for an indeterminate amount of time when a name caught my attention – immediately.

  "Whitley McCrane..."

  Whitley.

  Jerking upright, I stared at the TV, listening raptly.

  Whitley McCrane.

  Senator's wife.

  Having an affair.

  Reported being sexually assaulted when she was in high school.

  The entire report painted her in the horrible light...and it had been reported by an anonymous source.

  An anonymous source.

  Jake.

  Heat suffused my face as everything fell into place.

  He thought I had done all of this. He thought I had found some reporter to take this story to, that I dug around and found out who his friend Whitley was and then decided to tell the world about it.

  "Wow." Swallowing the knot in my throat, I closed my eyes and fell back against the couch. "That's some opinion you have of me, Jake."

  Minutes ticked by, the silence stretching out so long that the shadows in my apartment had shifted to full on gloomy evening by the time I finally felt like moving.

  And the only reason I moved was because the stupid phone was ringing.

  Again.

  It was the third time somebody had called since I'd worked up the energy to turn off the TV, and that had been some time ago. I'd looked at the phone the first time, hoping against hope it was Jake.

  But it had been my parents, and I hadn't been up to talking to them.

  The screen showed me that it was them again, but now for some reason, I wanted to talk to them. I wanted to talk to somebody who wouldn't think I'd carelessly destroy somebody's life just for the hell of it.

  "Hello," I said, my voice wooden.

  "Darling!" Her voice came across the phone warm and bright as she greeted me.

  "Hi, Mom," I said wearily. I wasn't up for cheerful chatter. Too often, that was all she had for me. It had been like that ever since...

  Ever since Parker, I made myself finish, forcing myself not to shy away from the bastard's name. It was over. It was done. I was living, but I wasn't always healing, and I needed to deal and accept and move on.

  "Sweetheart, are you okay?" she asked softly.

  It surprised me that she even seemed to notice, and I took a deep breath. How bad did I sou
nd?

  "I'm having a lousy day, Mom." Then, before I could change my mind, I asked, "Would you consider me a bad person?"

  She sounded concerned. "What?"

  "A bad person. Do you think I'd do something mean and careless that could ruin somebody's life?" The words tumbled out in their rush to escape my lips.

  "Heavens, no!" She spoke so forcefully now, she almost didn't even sound like herself. "You are one of the kindest, sweetest people I've ever met – and you're my daughter. I'm insanely proud of that fact, Michelle."

  Tears sprang to my eyes at her words. "Thank you, Mom." I attempted to wipe the tears away, but it was hopeless. "I miss you. I miss you and Dad. It's been too long since I've seen you both."

  "Well..." She laughed a little, something embarrassed about it, like being caught having such strong emotions was uncomfortable for her. "That's actually part of why I called, dear. Your father and I are in Philadelphia for a few days...business. We were thinking we might swing through New York when we left. Have dinner, maybe catch a show. What do you think?"

  "That sounds great, but I've got a better idea, unless you're just dying to spend some time on Broadway." I paused a moment, some of the knots in my belly untangling a little. This was what I needed. "How about I come there instead?"

  The flight to Philadelphia was short and uneventful, which was exactly how I preferred it. I thought briefly that my seatmate might have been flirting with me, but the idea seemed a little far-fetched. Why would men suddenly be noticing me all because I had put on jeans and a cute sweater?

  I was still the same old me.

  He walked with me through the terminal, chatting about a restaurant he liked down near the river. He could have knocked me over with a fingertip when, after claiming our bags, he asked, "So...what do you think? Want to join me for dinner?"

  "Excuse me?"

  With a charming smile on his boyishly handsome face, he said, "I was just thinking since we're both in town for a few days, maybe things would be a bit more fun for both of us if we had plans for dinner one night."