In all my years of professional hockey—gliding swiftly on the ice in a breakaway or targeting someone for a hip check—I’ve never moved as fast as I do now.
I have Tripp pulled up from the chair by the lapels of his jacket, spun, and slammed into the plexiglass window that overlooks the streets of downtown Los Angeles. His head cracks hard against the thickness, and I pull my arm back to deliver a vicious uppercut into his soft belly.
He doubles over, but I haul him up straight again, my fist cocked back for a second strike.
The conference room door flies open and I glance over my shoulder to see Tacker standing there. He had either been watching through the window or felt the shudder from me slamming Tripp into the glass. Either way, he gives me a pointed look and merely shakes his head as if to say, “Don’t do it.”
Tripp is gagging and wheezing, and I scoff at how pathetic he’s acting. With a sigh, I spin him back around and shove him into the chair. Tacker backs out of the room, shutting the door.
I squat beside Tripp’s chair, resting my hands on the armrest. He refuses to meet my gaze. “I’m not asking you, Tripp. I’m telling you that you are going to do this, or your wife will receive those photos. And then you’re going to be out of a marriage, which appears to keep you in a pretty cushy lifestyle from what I can tell. On top of that, Frank Cannon is going to blackball you to the entire industry if you don’t make the donation. You won’t be able to cut a toilet paper commercial after this.”
He still refuses to meet my eyes, but I know he heard my message.
I stand, towering over him. “You’re lucky.”
That gets his attention, and his head tips back with a hateful glare.
“I could have ruined you in so many ways. I could have just sent that stuff to your wife. I have the connections to blackball you forever. Hell, I could have driven you to homelessness if I wanted to. I’m giving you an easy out by letting you make a difference to people with that donation, and that’s going to satisfy my need to beat you to a bloody pulp. Because that’s really all I want to do.”
“Whatever,” Tripp mutters, once again not able to hold my stare. “Are we done?”
I reach into my pocket, then pull out a card with my email on it. Tossing it on the table, I instruct him, “You have two days to get it done. Send me the proof.”
Without another word, I whirl away from him and head for the door. Just as I open it, he grumbles, “This is blackmail, you know?”
Glancing back, I give him a bright smile. “Yup. Ain’t it grand?”
He flips me off, but he and I both know that donation will get made. He can’t afford to go public against me about this, because his wife will find out he’s a cheater and his career will be over. It’s a risk I know for certain he’ll never take, so blackmail is kind of moot.
I step out into the hallway. Tacker leans against the wall, studying me. He finally breaks out into a smile. “Went well, did it?”
“Well, I got to punch him,” I reply with a shrug.
We move down the hallway, intent on swinging by Frank’s office to thank him for his help. I sort of lied about the blackballing part. I have no clue if Frank would even do that for me, but I’m not about to involve him more than I already have. I just needed a legit place to meet Tripp to offer my deal. The threat of what I could do to the twerp is more than enough.CHAPTER 26Clarke“It’s called depression,” Veronica says as I slump on the stool behind the cash register. As a proprietor of a store that depends on customers to come in and buy things so I can make money, I continuously glare at the door and wish for people to stay away.
“I’m not depressed,” I mutter.
“On the verge of tears, feels like you’re slogging through mud, flat monotone effect. You’re depressed.”
I swing my gaze from the door to my best friend, who leans on the back counter as she watches me. After Aaron had left the other night and I’d finished crying my eyes out, I’d called Veronica.
She came over, then listened to me recount everything without interruption but for a few well placed “uh-huhs,” and “that makes sense,” she lent me her rapt attention as only a best friend can do. She didn’t offer advice or tell me I was wrong. Of course, she didn’t say Aaron was wrong, either. She merely validated my feelings. It’s what I needed then.