“Yes, sir.”
“My goal is to prove my innocence and end the investigation into me. I’m exploring joining other firms, and this hanging over my head holds me back. Plus, as much as I love seeing your faces on Zoom, I’d like to remove this action item from my calendar as soon as possible.”
“We understand. It would help, sir, if…do you think you could be in DC later on this week? We might need you in New York too.”
“You tell me where to be and when, and I’ll be there.”
When we ended the call, optimism surged, an unfamiliar sensation of late. Leading the charge for my own legal defense felt good. Belman’s lawyers had been holding me back, all part of an elaborate chess game they played, only with my life as a pawn. Clearing the board and playing a new game reminded me how much I liked the game—how much I liked driving the charge.
Outside, a light rain sprinkled, splattering the windows and darkening the deck. With meetings done and not much else to do, I lay back on my sofa. I dialed Poppy. Her voicemail once again picked up. I disconnected. The silent treatment pissed me off. I clicked over to the OnlyFans site. I hadn’t been on in ages, but given she’d been MIA for days, I was curious to see what she was telling the world was going on in her life.
The first photo, posted one hour earlier, showed a close-up of her eyes. The caption read, “Practicing the cat eye. Click to see a real pro do it.” She scheduled her posts, so she could have posted it at any time. I recognized it for what it was–a promotional share. No doubt her cat eye friend posted something sending viewers to Poppy’s page.
I studied the close-up. Those large, luminous blue eyes sparkled, maybe a shade more turquoise than in person. Her smooth skin revealed a flawless, poreless complexion. I could hear her now, telling me how she used an app to brighten her face. Maybe…but she didn’t need a photo app. I wished she’d pick up the damn phone so I could talk to her. Tell her I was making progress. Find out how she was doing. Hear her laugh.
I scrolled down, searching for a photo that showed more of the curves that had been noticeably absent from my bed the past week. I paused on the image and ran the pad of my thumb over her breasts, as a very real visual of the real thing came to mind. With a frustrated huff, I scrolled further.
An announcement in bright magenta letters read, “OMG! Joining forces with Paragon Media Publishing from SPAIN!!!”
I held the phone farther away, scrutinizing the message and the following exclamation filled rant about how honored she was. I typed in Paragon Media into my browser field and clicked on the first search result. I sat up and hurled the phone onto the coffee table. It bounced twice and clattered loudly on the floor.
Unfuckingbelievable.
She refused my investment dollars, and instead decided to join forces with an international pornography conglomerate. This whole time, I thought she was above that shit. Held herself to higher standards. Rationalized she was simply a celebrity of sorts, selling glimpses into her life and photos of herself in various outfits and poses. But no, money—that’s all she wanted. And she was willing to do it all to get it.
The house sucked out the oxygen around me. I’d spent too many days in the same damn living room and kitchen configuration. Too many days in the tiny one-window office. An office with a window looking out on pavers and asphalt, no less.
Fuck all of this. If there was ever a sign it was time to move on, to return to the city, get back to my life and kick some ass, this was it.
I opened the door and walked barefoot onto the deck. The wind whipped my hair, and the mist soaked my skin and dampened my clothes. I breathed in the salty air and attempted to clear my head.
I wouldn’t fly back in this weather. But I might be able to hop on a commercial flight out tonight. Or I could stick to my plan and fly myself back tomorrow afternoon. Every ounce of my being screamed to get off the island, away from this blasted suffocating shithole.
I stormed inside and threw my suitcase onto the bed. I began throwing clothes into a rumpled pile but stopped at the smooth touch of silk. Holding the straps of her chemise, I dangled the delicate item, suspended in air. She still has all her crap here.
My steps thundered down the stairs to the guest room she’d been using for closet space. Her two suitcases rested on the top ledge of the closet. I filled them with everything of hers I could find. Disbelief I’d attempted to introduce her to my mother shook through me. My mother. I fucking knew better. I’d been camping out on this island, and all for what? Because of a woman who sold herself to the highest bidder?
I loaded the suitcases and sped down Federal Road, the most direct path to her house. I supposed she’d be making enough money now she could keep her precious marina location. One helluva way to stay. Fuck. Reed was right. Should’ve just let him name his price. Wouldn’t be any different than the future she chose.
Incensed, I skidded to a stop outside her place. Some old lady waved as she and her pissant dog walked by. I shot her a glare in return. So ready to get off this island.
I lugged the suitcases, one in each hand, up her deck. I pounded twice, hard, on her doorframe then headed back to my cart. The rain picked up, and my pace did too.
“Gabe?” She leaned over the railing, wearing ripped jeans, a white t-shirt, and glasses that gave her
