by Jo Leigh
“If it were for fun, then why weren’t the men who are being traded asked if they wanted to participate? If it were as innocent as you claim, why would so many of the men on the back be marketed as One Night Stands?”
Nate’s picture was still on the backdrop, but next to it now was the picture of the back of his card. One Night Stand written in bold.
Shannon felt as if she were going to be sick. “There’s no auction, no money. It was meant as something nice. Something good.”
“Tell that to the men you’ve been swapping.”
She knew she had to explain, get him to listen and stop making horrible accusations. But Nate was watching this show. Her family and everyone she knew were watching this show, and she hadn’t asked. She’d used Nate, and all the other men, and she hadn’t asked. How could she have not seen how intrusive…?
“None of this was done maliciously or for profit,” she said, trying with all her heart to be as professional as she could. The humiliation was strangling her, but she had to keep on. “We’re all friends. We share lunches. And we talk about dating and how hard it is in New York—”
“So you saw an opportunity and you ran with it. Using the printing plant. Did your family know you were printing trading cards with such personal information? One card we saw said, and I quote, ‘He’s so hot, you’ll need a fire extinguisher.’”
“You’re taking everything out of context. That’s how girls talk about potential dates. It’s not wrong.” Her voice caught, and she knew her face was red, which made her want to double over and die.
“I think you’ll find the men on these cards, and we have yet to quantify exactly how many that is, will have something to say about whether it was wrong to use their pictures, their personal information, to barter them without their express permission.” Grant turned to the camera, and Shannon caught sight of the monitor. Nate was center stage, as if he represented all kinds of horrible and salacious things done in secret basement meetings.
“We’ll have more on this story in the coming weeks as we uncover how many men have been secretly shared among this group of women under the guise of trading lunches. We’ll return in a moment.”
The red light on the camera turned off, and Grant calmly removed the microphone hidden under his tie. He didn’t look at her. Not once. He got out of his seat and walked over to some woman standing by the exit.
Shannon forced herself out of her seat. She took the microphone she’d been given, dropped it on the floor and stepped on it as hard as she could as she followed signs out of the building. Someone called her name, a man, whom she ignored.
Where had they gotten their information? She trusted every last woman at the lunch group. No one would have blabbed. Not only were they all trustworthy, but publicizing the cards ruined everything for everyone. So who…?
“Oh, God.” She braced a hand on the wall. She knew…she knew…
The day she’d been working on Nate’s card, she’d gone for coffee and when she’d come back, the picture of the abandoned printing plant had been on her screen. That’s when someone had downloaded the batch of cards.
She knew who that someone was, and that hurt almost as much as the blinding humiliation. Daphne. Shannon pressed a hand to her stomach.
Daphne had been to Shannon’s home. She knew her family. The two of them had shared more stories about dates than Shannon ever had with any member of the exchange. Daphne had been her friend.
Then again, Shannon was Nate’s friend, and what had that gotten him?
* * *
NATE WAS STILL STARING AT THE big television behind the bar at Molly’s. The packed room had gone silent, the TV muted. He was squeezing his beer glass so hard, either it would shatter or his fingers would break. Shannon.
It had been a shock to see his picture on the screen. Trading cards? He’d always dreamed about being on a card, practically every boy he’d known had wanted that, but for sports. For being famous. Nate had no idea what to make of the card he was on. One thing he knew for certain was that Shannon hadn’t done anything wrong. That two-bit hack of a news anchor had been full of it.
The other thing he was sure about was that Shannon had been eviscerated. Tricked, shanghaied, humiliated, three days before her charity Easter egg hunt. Nate wasn’t a violent man, but he would personally strangle whomever had planted that story.
He would also call his old buddy Brent first thing in the morning. Brent was one of the best litigators in the country.
“What the hell was that?”
At Danny’s bewildered question, Nate jerked out of revenge mode. He didn’t answer, but it did get him pressing her speed dial number. Her cell rang and rang, until it went to voice mail. “Shannon. I’ll call you back. Pick up, honey. Please. It’ll be okay, but I need to know where you are.”
He hung up, hit redial. Got the same result. She hadn’t turned off the phone, then, but she wasn’t answering. The next three times he called, the number was busy. So he wasn’t the only one calling. He hoped it was friends, but for all he knew, there could be other news media trying to get in on the story. Rebecca Thorpe was involved, and that was big news. Very big.
“I can’t get through,” Mrs. Fitz said.
“Me, neither,” Nate said, swallowing hard.
Mrs. Fitz looked wild-eyed. “She’s all the way in Yonkers. She’ll be beside herself. We have to go get her.”
“She told me she was going to take a cab home,” Nate said. He would have hugged Mrs. Fitz himself if Mr. Fitz wasn’t already holding her.
Every person Nate saw looked shell-shocked. He felt the same. The accusations that bastard had flung about had been disgusting. To blindside Shannon without giving her the chance to defend herself was the worst kind of sensationalism with no regard for the truth. He didn’t give a damn if his picture ended up on every news show in America, he would not have Shannon treated like that.
He was shaking in his rage, with his worry. She was out there, an hour away at least, and if she didn’t pick up the phone, he didn’t know what he was going to do.
She had been so frightened of things going wrong. The hiccups. Jesus. The bar was too hot, too crowded, and he thrust his way out.
The night was supposedly the coldest in weeks, but he didn’t feel it. Adrenaline made his heart pound, made him want to jump in the next cab and race to her side. He had no idea how to find her. Someone could probably trace the GPS in her phone, but not anyone he knew.
“Shit,” he said, and he said it again because he could. He was going to find out where that prick Grant lived and make him sorry he was ever born. Nate dialed again, and when he got the busy signal he almost threw the cell as far as he could launch it. With an effort, he held back. Barely. He didn’t know what to do with himself. Except worry. And think the worst.
* * *
SHANNON WAS ON THE SUBWAY. She wasn’t sure which train or where it was headed. She’d just used her MetroCard and climbed aboard the first open door she saw.
She’d shredded a number of tissues and stuffed the remains in her purse. There were two clean ones left. She might have to buy more because she wasn’t getting off this train. Ever.
She was sitting on a side bench, holding on to a pole, staring out the window as the tunnel flashed by. Oddly, she felt as if she’d left herself on a chair in a TV studio where the world she used to know had been crushed out of existence. She had no idea who was riding this near-empty subway car.
Thankfully, it was after eleven. Not too many people out and about at this time, not like rush hour. Still, New York never really shut down, so she wouldn’t be alone no matter what. Too bad.
She closed her eyes and just as quickly opened them again. It was the fourth time she’d tried and she wouldn’t try again. Closing her eyes didn’t provide enough distractions. Behind closed eyes she would remember not any particular word, but a tone, the way it felt when she realized exactly what he was accusing her of.
All her work, all the struggle, the effort, the ca
lls, the nights she couldn’t sleep worrying about Fitzgerald & Sons—all of it was for nothing. They were a joke now. It didn’t matter how the story ended. Even if by some miracle the reporter apologized for his misinformation on the air, it wouldn’t be enough. People’s memories were short, and with a shocking story like this one, that’s all they’d need.
No one would think of Fitzgerald & Sons without the association of Shannon Fitzgerald running some underground man swap. She didn’t even know what that meant, except that it was salacious and filthy. That’s all her customers would think. As they canceled their orders.
How could she ever make another cold call? How could she assure the potential customers who were on the brink of signing? Credibility, gone. Self-respect, none. And they’d used Nate as the symbol of her disgrace.
Damn, now she was down to one tissue. She had money. Credit cards. She supposed she could get out at the next stop, find herself a place to hide for the night.
No, no, not a hotel. She would never sleep. At least here there were people coming and people going. All of them looked as if their world hadn’t been shredded.
God, they’d shown Rebecca. How many times had they sat outside St. Marks shooting footage, trolling, hoping to find the right person or shot? How long would it take for someone to recognize Bree as Charlie Winslow’s girlfriend then make their connection to the cards? Shannon couldn’t even imagine the backpedaling they’d have to do.
She bent over, holding her stomach, biting her lip to keep from moaning out loud. Charlie had no idea about the cards. Rebecca’s boyfriend, Jake, had been wounded in the line of duty in the NYPD, and now he’d be a laughingstock, and it was all Shannon’s fault.
At least Nate was leaving New York. Not soon enough to outrun the ridicule that would come at him from all corners. Shannon had used every weapon in her arsenal to make sure the interview was watched by everyone who had even a tangential relationship to the Fitzgerald family or the business. She’d even figured out when affiliates of the tiny independent station would rerun the piece, and had sent alternative times and channels to all her address books.
God, with every stop and start of the subway a new horror came to haunt her. The repercussions to the lunch exchange women! Their families, their coworkers, all the men they’d ever dated. The circle kept growing and growing. How was her mother ever going to walk into church again? The Easter egg hunt!
Shannon sat up, but she was breathing too fast, and if she didn’t get herself under control she was going to hyperventilate and pass out, and wouldn’t that make a lovely picture for the Post.
It took two transfers and a dozen or more stops to finally reach Grand Central. Shannon could get tissues. Could find a train to anywhere. She’d heard rumors that people lived underground, in the station in abandoned train tunnels. That might not be so bad. Although she’d need a toothbrush. And more practical shoes.
The doors whooshed open and she stepped out. She walked. The four-faced clock was straight ahead. Shannon looked up and smiled. At last, something that made sense. The sky was backward on this ceiling. She’d come here with her fifth-grade class, and her teacher, Mr. Thomas, had made a very big deal of the backward ceiling. He’d said it was supposed to be the sky as God would see it.
According to all four faces of the clock, it was very late. She’d been riding the trains for hours, and somehow it had become 2:00 a.m.
She found her last tissue and kept on walking.
* * *
NATE SAT ON THE FITZGERALDS’ porch steps, leaning against a post, freezing cold. They’d left the outside light on for when Shannon came home. If Shannon came home.
In all the places he’d been across the globe where people had been desperate to find loved ones, Nate’s role had been to be calm, supportive, gentle. He’d been the person they’d turned to for comfort.
Tonight he was the desperate soul, the one panicked beyond reason. The truth was the comfort he’d offered overseas had been useless. The hot coffee or the blankets had been all that mattered. His calm support had only helped him, not them.
He didn’t know how to find her. Shannon was out there, and anything could have happened. He’d run through a hundred scenarios, all of them ending in tragedy. It was torture. For hours, every moment that went by was the moment before she would appear. When Molly’s had emptied, only staff and Shannon’s family remaining, he’d been certain she’d left a message on the machine at the house, only to have Mrs. Fitz remind him that Brady and his girlfriend had gone home hours before, just in case.
Nate had paced and dialed her cell until her voice mail had no more room. Now, as he sat in the cold, gripping his cell phone so tightly he bruised his hand, he was bargaining. If she came home, he’d never say a word to her about how she’d turned him into a trading card.
He would have preferred that the story hadn’t already gone viral on the internet. Evidently, the Winslow family was big news everywhere. One of them was running for senator. Danny had shown Nate the story on Yahoo. A quick Google search had links to everything from the Winslow wiki to the history of trading cards, male prostitution, which had been a body blow, and the entire interview on YouTube.
But he didn’t care. He wouldn’t say a word because he knew she hadn’t meant to hurt any of them. He’d only really gotten to know her in the past couple of weeks, but he was absolutely certain that this trading card thing was her attempt to help her friends find love. That’s all. Because that’s what Shannon did. She helped people—strangers, friends, family, community. The gorgeous redhead didn’t have a malicious bone in her body, and God only knew how she was dealing with this avalanche of lies and blame.
He’d give up pretty much everything so that she wouldn’t have to go through this pain, and that was a body shock of a different kind.
He hadn’t realized until this morning, until he was alone waiting on the steps, that things had gone way beyond friends who have sex. He’d been convinced for years now that he wouldn’t have to worry about the consequences of love. Wrong. So wrong. And with, of all people, the Princess.
He thought about going inside. He wouldn’t go to bed, that was out of the question, but he could use something hot to drink. It was after 3:00 a.m., and his panic had been cycling for so long it felt as if he’d never relax again.
Then he heard footsteps. The click of heels on the sidewalk. He didn’t move, didn’t dare breathe in case he jinxed it or scared her off. If it was her.
It had to be her.
More steps, steps slowing down. It was Shannon. The relief hit him so hard he nearly passed out. Then he saw her face as she looked up at her home. His chest seized at the sorrow. At her hopelessness. Her pain and her guilt were written in her skin. Her eyes… Jesus. This was a woman gutted.
She shook her head, pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes, then turned away, took a step to leave again.
Nate was on his feet in a second. “Don’t.”
Shannon gasped as her hand went to her chest.
“Don’t you walk away,” he said, running down the few stairs until he could grip her by the shoulders, hold her in place. He didn’t even care that his cell phone was still in his hand, he was not letting go. “Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been? How worried we’ve all been? Your mother’s beside herself. You didn’t answer your phone. It’s goddamn three in the morning, and anything could have happened to you. Anything.”
She opened her mouth, but all that came out was a squeak.
“You can’t do that to me again, you hear me?”
“Why?” she said finally, her voice high and lost. “How can you even look at me? I’ve done everything wrong. I made a laughingstock of you. Of the plant. I’ve ruined everything.”
“You’re remarkable, but not even you could ruin everything.”
Shannon pushed at him weakly. “There’s nothing funny about this. I’m a disgrace and Fitzgerald and Sons is going to pay for it. That terrible anchorman used your picture,
and I lied to you about that. I didn’t put your picture in the Gramercy newsletter, I used it to get you dates, and then I stole the card so no one could date you but me, but I never asked you, and that was horrible. You have every reason to hate me for it. And now I’ve dragged Rebecca into the mud, and she didn’t do anything wrong. All my friends, they were just playing along with me, but the trading cards were my idea. My fault. And I made sure everyone kept it a secret. I had to have known it was wrong or I wouldn’t have cared that it was a secret.” She took in a deep breath, and when she let it out her whole body sagged.
He pulled her close, right up against his chest.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, and he felt her body tremble, her shoulders shake with her weeping. “I’m so sorry.”
Nate closed his eyes and rocked her, using his free hand to gently stroke her hair, giving her as much comfort as he could. But all he kept thinking was how grateful he was that she was alive. That she was here. That he could hold her.
That he loved her.
16
“YOU READY?” HE ASKED, as he lifted her chin.
Shannon shook her head. “As soon as they realize I’m not dead, they’ll remember what I’ve done.”
“You haven’t done anything. Your family needs to know you’re all right. I can’t imagine even one of them is sleeping.”
“No.”
“Yeah, and trust me. Every moment is torture, so buck up.”
She couldn’t believe she’d have to face them when she was this tired and fragile. But since her feet had brought her home without her permission, she supposed it was inevitable. People didn’t actually die from shame. They just wished they had. “All right. Let’s go.”
He had his arm around her shoulders, and she slipped hers around his waist. Nate’s effort got them up the stairs. He put his hand on the doorknob, but kissed her temple before he used it. “It’ll be okay,” he said, as he took her inside.
There were lights on in the living room and the kitchen, and the moment the front door closed, Shannon heard her mother cry out. Then it was bedlam.
