by Cora Kenborn
“Beyond the News is not some tabloid,” I growl. “We’re an entertainment news website.”
She rolls her eyes. “Geez, sorry. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”
Oh, I won’t.
Dipping my chin to the side, I give an imperceptible nod. That’s all that’s needed for Milly to snap to attention behind me and flip from designated patron to private detective.
Showtime.
Sitting back, I stare at her. “And your name again is…”
“Alexandra Romanov.” Her sharp tone pulls a hint of a smile to my lips, which only hardens her scowl.
“Right.”
“You don’t believe me?”
I shrug. “It doesn’t matter if I do or not. Public opinion is the only one that matters.”
Behind me, I hear muffled laughter mixed with sounds of a cat coughing up a hairball, and I flip a middle finger while scratching the back of my head.
I’m firing Milly’s ass when we get back to LA.
That’s a lie.
Milly’s the best in the business and loyal as fuck. Even if she is a giant pain in my ass. Plus, she knows what’s at stake. We both know this fruitcake is as much an heiress as I am. I knew it the minute we walked into this hole-in-the-wall bar. So, while her act has been entertaining, why am I wasting my time?
Oh, right. Because I’m a bigger money whore than she is.
But even more than that, I thought she might be worth the effort, a rapidly dwindling hope. Unfortunately for her, destroying people’s credibility for a living has given me the skill of smelling bullshit a mile away.
Sucking air through my teeth, I force a smile. “All right then, Miss Romanov. Why come forward now? It’s been fifteen years.”
She seems to mull this over for a moment, but I know better. I’ve flicked bigger gnats than her off my shoe. She’s stalling because she’s nervous. I’ve knocked her off her game because I’m always on mine.
“I’ve been living in fear for my life,” she says finally. “However, with all the media attention surrounding the anniversary of my family’s murders, I decided it’s time to stop hiding.”
Fuck my life. Is a million dollars really worth this?
“Okay, if you’re who you say you are, I’m sure you won’t mind answering a few questions for me.”
She eyes me curiously but shrugs again. “I have nothing to hide.”
“Of course, you don’t.” Her confidence is insulting. If she expects me to regurgitate facts from some bullshit Wikipedia print-out, she doesn’t know who the hell she’s dealing with.
“So, what’s your birth date?”
She smiles. “June 28th.”
I nod. Hardly a challenge. That’s a common knowledge question. “What were the names of your siblings?”
She catches herself just as she starts to roll her eyes. “Oksana, Talina, Mariana, and Artem.”
I sit back and watch in fascination. Maybe not so much at the lies falling out of her mouth as the entertaining game of identity volleyball we’re playing. However, I’ve never been content to sit on the sidelines and spectate. I’m more of the jump in front and spike the ball type.
Pressing my palm against the table, I lean forward and invade every inch of her personal space. “Birthplace.”
She hesitates. “It’s…It’s…” She’s getting flustered, and I feed on it.
“Birthplace, Miss Romanov. It’s not that difficult. Surely, you remember it.”
Milly’s no longer laughing. Instead, I can feel the tension vibrating off her. She’s on guard and ready to pounce like a tiger on already wounded prey.
The woman’s pulse jumps in her neck, beating in time with her rapid breath. “Moscow.”
“Close. Kronstadt.” I’ve got her right where I want her, so I lob a soft one right over the net and make her lunge for it. “Where did you go to school?”
She smirks. “I had a tutor on set.”
“Very good, Naomi. And your pimp’s name?”
“Reggie.”
Gotcha, bitch.
You don’t survive in this business as long as I have without learning patterns and habits. As much as people like to think they’re unique, when it all boils down to it, we’re all just Xerox copies of the same original. Some of us are more complex full color prints, while others remain basic black and whites, but underneath the ink, we’re all just paper. We’re all predictable.
Once you learn that, no one’s mask is permanent. No one’s truth is hidden.
So, I wait for it. That brief moment when the disconnect between a liar’s mouth and their brain fuses into clarity. When they realize I’ve backed them into a corner with a proverbial knife at their throat.
That’s the investigative equivalent of a money shot right between the eyes, and Naomi Grecco’s face is coated with it.
As evidenced by the sudden hand clamped over her mouth.
Ah, sweet, sticky victory.
I probably should feel guilty about playing her, but I don’t. She’s the tool of a scam artist out to score an easy payday at my expense. I may not have the most dignified job in the world, but I’m no one’s meal ticket. Plus, if anyone’s going to get paid around here, it’s me.
As the seconds tick away, her palm drops from her mouth. “So, you busted me. Good for you. You gonna turn us into the cops now?”
It would serve both of them right for dragging my ass all the way to Chula Vista. Lucky for her, law enforcement and I don’t exactly see eye to eye.
“While it pisses me off you’ve wasted my whole day, I don’t think either of you is stupid enough to pull the same con twice.” I nod toward the burly, lumberjack-looking guy sitting two tables away who quickly averts his eyes and tries to look busy. “Especially now that I have this conversation on record.” I nod behind me where Milly smiles and waves her cell phone at her. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Naomi?”
She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t have to. Defeat is etched in the lines creasing her forehead. “How did you know?”
“I didn’t get to where I am in life by falling for a cheap line and a pretty face.” I nod back at the asshole trying to look like he hasn’t been cataloguing this whole shitshow. “Do you think you’re the first one to line up with your hand out? I pulled your ‘employer’s’ financials. This bar is going under, and your boss over there is desperate. Look, I get it. A million dollars is a lot of money, but DNA tests are a real thing, and identity theft is a felony.”
And I’m sure as hell not willing to risk my ass for an amateur who can’t be bothered to do basic research.
Naomi jumps to her feet, and I slowly push my chair back, taking my eyes off her only long enough to toss Milly a smirk over my shoulder. But it’s all the time she needs. Before I see it coming, she reels her hand back and slaps me across my face.
I know she wants a reaction, but I just don’t have it in me. If taking her shame out on me makes her feel less like a fucking idiot, then whatever. It’s not like anyone’s watching. This is California. Until she pulls out a gun and shoots me in the face, nobody gives a shit.
“You don’t play fair,” she hisses.
I wiggle my jaw, a smug grin tugging my lips. “Never have. If you make a bet, sweetheart, you’d better have a winning hand.” Without another word, I storm toward the bar.
Time is running out. I have to find a suitable heiress before someone beats me to it. It’s a long shot, but I didn’t go from digging in dumpsters for my next meal to running the most successful tabloid news site in the industry by giving up at the first sign of defeat.
Someone once told me fate always finds a way.
Fuck that.
I don’t believe in fate. I believe in beginnings and endings. What happens in between depends on how far you’re willing to go to get it.
Chapter Three
Dominic
Draining what’s left in my glass, I scrape my palm across my forehead and glare. “Don’t say it.”
&nbs
p; Milly glances up from examining her nails. After giving me the silent treatment for the last fifteen minutes, she’s primed and ready for battle. Don’t let those red-framed glasses fool you. Behind them lies a pint-sized warrior.
But I refuse to apologize for anything. Not for being here. Not for confronting Naomi Grecco. Especially not for sticking around and drinking her pimp’s booze after they both tore out of here like their asses were on fire. Neither has bothered to come back, so I haven’t bothered to care. Besides, I have both of them by the balls. They won’t say shit to me unless they’re into public humiliation.
Milly raises an eyebrow. “Don’t say what?”
My fingers tighten around my empty glass. “I told you so.”
A ghost of a smirk curves around her wine glass. “Wouldn’t dream of it, boss.” Taking a sip, she sets it on the bar before returning her focus to her nails. “Besides, saying you’re a giant douchebag for making me spend the night in a rent-by-the-hour motel for a story you knew was bogus would be unprofessional.”
“Glad we’re on the same page.”
“That was something, though,” she says, and I wonder how many cocktail peanuts I’d have to shove in her mouth to shut her up. “Haven’t seen you get your clock cleaned like that in a while.”
I don’t need this. Letting out a low grunt, I signal to the purple-haired bartender for another round. “Milly, do me a favor and don’t talk to me again until I see four of you.”
Fucking women.
She rolls her eyes. “I just don’t get why you’re wasting time peddling your ass up and down the California coast, chasing one dead end after another.”
Because I’m a bitter man who acts first, thinks second, and never apologizes.
“Tragedy breeds opportunists.” I shake my head at the weight of my statement. “People will sell their souls for a buck these days.”
That’s putting it mildly. This business is an endless parade of peacocks and vultures, some preening their feathers while others pick at the carcasses of those who get in their way.
Welcome to Hollywood. Land of cannibals.
“The Romanov Estate should’ve never publicized that reward.” Scrubbing a hand down my face, I add, “They won’t find what they’re looking for. All they’re doing is dangling a million-dollar carrot in front of a pack of wolves.”
Wolves like me.
“Maybe you’re wrong.”
I tilt my chin over my shoulder. “I’m sorry?”
“Even the great Dominic McCallum can’t always be right,” she says, raking a hand through her short brown hair. “It’s not like anything you do lately makes sense.”
First of all, I don’t have to make sense when I’m trying to save our asses. Secondly, I’m not wrong, and I hate being questioned, but I’m not going to fight over it. She’s pissed and rightfully so. She’s one more missed paycheck away from the unemployment line.
Milly is loyal to a fault, but loyalty doesn’t pay the bills.
“Jesus, what do you want me to do, take a blood sample?” I yell. “She wasn’t the one.”
And not even a suitable candidate.
“Maybe you’re just looking too hard.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
She meets my gaze head-on. “My grandma used to always say, when you stop looking for what you want, you find what you need.”
Wonderful. Thanks, Grandma. So, I suppose if I back out now, I’ll find a million dollars and a get out of jail free card under my pillow in the morning.
I open my mouth to tell her where she can shove her unwanted advice when the purple-haired bartender sets another glass in front of me. Picking it up, I down half of it in one gulp, the burn significantly less jarring this time. “I didn’t get to be the best in the business by leaving things to chance,” I bite out through clenched teeth. “I dig where others won’t, so I know things others don’t. So, when I say I know she’s not our Alexandra Romanov, there’s a reason.”
She cocks an eyebrow. “Which is?”
Some people never learn the meaning of “quit while you’re ahead.”
“Know why I’m the best?” When she shakes her head, I lean forward, my jaw clenching so hard the muscles in my neck strain. “Because I know when to keep my fucking mouth shut.”
I must have won the argument because she reaches into her purse and tosses a twenty-dollar bill onto the bar. “Well, when you decide to confide in the only person left who has your back, give me a call. Until then, you can Uber your ass back to the motel.”
Grabbing a handful of cocktail peanuts, I toss one in the air, missing my mouth by a good six inches. “Drive safe.”
Blowing out a frustrated sigh, she slides off her stool. “Are you sure you’re going to be all right?”
Nope. “Don’t worry about me.” I snort, raising my glass of Jack. “I can take care of myself. Been doing it all my life.”
Her hand lingers on my shoulder before she disappears out the front door, leaving me in silence.
I pinch the bridge of my nose in a futile attempt at warding off the headache brewing behind my eyes. I’m drowning in lawyer fees, court costs, and settlement decrees, all because the king of Hollywood tried to silence me and save his own ass.
Then again, when you bait a shark, you shouldn’t be shocked when he bites, and one of the biggest ones in the ocean tried to take a chunk out of my leg. Now that he’s gained a taste for my blood, he’ll keep coming back for more. I didn’t start this war, but now that I’m out of resources, I’m the only one who can end it.
Unfortunately, I can’t do it without her.
Alexandra Romanov.
I’d rather chase down anyone else. Contrary to what people think, I’m not heartless. But that’s not the way sensationalism works. The only thing the world loves more than an icon is a fallen icon, and with the fifteenth anniversary of LA’s most infamous massacre approaching, the media is jerking off to this story. Now, every crazy dickbag with an empty wallet and a set of balls is coming forward, and the race is on to find the supposed sole Romanov survivor. An eight-year-old child who disappeared from a home invasion that claimed the lives of her entire family and silenced the world.
Until the lure of a payout caused a ripple effect that flashed dollar signs in even the most pious of eyes. Suddenly everyone traded their morality in favor of cold hard cash. Forget death; money is the great equalizer.
And here I am, lighting a torch and joining the witch hunt. Not in the name of honor, but in the shadow of greed. Because in sifting through a hundred lies, there could be one truth.
And that truth is a debt I owe the devil.
Cursing, I fish my phone from my pocket. Pulling up the ride share app, I schedule a car to pick my ass up now while I can still see. I scroll down, filling in all pertinent information, cringing as I type in the location.
The G-Spot.
Yes, that’s actually the name of this place. I wish I were kidding. Supposedly, it’s named because gin is the house special. I don’t buy it, either. The place is a dank hole in the wall. No, hole in the wall is too generous. It’s a barely lit crack that smells like stale beer and faded dreams.
You know, if faded dreams had a smell.
And trust me, if they did, the G-Spot would be full of it.
After the GPS populates the address, I schedule a car for an hour and a half from now and close out the app.
Clock’s ticking.
My gaze lands back on the girl with the purple hair and resting bitch face standing behind the bar. “You got any more Jack back there?”
She doesn’t glance up as she swipes a rag across the bar. “Yep.”
“You plan on pouring it today?”
“Sure. I’ll serve it to you in the same place you keep your manners—the shitter.”
Swallowing the instinct to flip this girl off and walk out, I pull out a few bills from my wallet and toss them on the bar. “Look, lady, I’ve had a real bitch of a day, so if you
don’t mind, put a lid on the comedy show and keep ’em coming.”
Her heavily lined eyes shift toward the crumbled bills and then slowly rise until they settle back on me. “You got a little something on your face.”
“A scowl?”
“A handprint. Unless you want another one to match, I suggest you kill the attitude.”
I suppose that’s meant to be a warning. Or hell, maybe it’s a come-on. With this girl, I have a feeling there’s not much of a distinction. I smirk and motion toward a table a few feet behind me. “You can send my drink over there.” I don’t wait for a response. Scooping my wallet off the counter, I shove it in my pocket to the sound of a muffled snicker.
Muttering to myself, I make my way to the table and claim a seat. Nobody cares I’m here because nobody knows my face. Unlike most of Hollywood, I’m all right with that. In fact, I’ve spent the better part of a decade ensuring I stayed out of the spotlight.
Until now.
“Goddamn it.” I pull out a pack of smokes and give it a shake, finding one last cigarette hiding in the corner. The damn thing is between my lips before I remember I promised Milly I’d quit.
Fuck it. I’ll quit tomorrow.
Flicking the lighter, I inhale slowly, making sure every bit of toxic smoke fills my lungs, but I’m so on edge even nicotine can’t settle me. I need to sober the hell up and figure out my next step. Which, if something doesn’t change in the next few days, will be bankruptcy.
Groaning, I scrub a hand down my face, days-worth of stubble scraping my palm. This whole Romanov scheme I’ve been running is nothing but a Hail Mary pass to an empty end zone. A last-ditch effort to save my own ass. Naomi Grecco was the fifth useless con to try and pass herself off as the missing heiress, and I’m not sure if I can stomach a sixth.
It’s turned into an obsession, and I don’t even know why. Is it still about the money? Hell, I don’t know anymore. I’ve done nothing but eat, sleep, and breathe Alexandra Romanov for weeks now. I’ve pinned my future on a faceless woman.
