“What is it?” she asked as innocently as she could, although she already knew the answer.
Simone held up her phone, showing the screen to her and Deacon. An old newspaper article about the drug overdose of Nicole Wood was there. It even featured the photo of Nicole and her infant daughter, the same one Cecelia carried in her purse. The section was circled in red and accompanied by a note:
Cecelia Morgan? More like Cecelia Wood—a liar and the daughter of a junkie and her dealer. No wonder the Morgans hid the truth. The homecoming queen isn’t so perfect now, is she?
Deacon’s arms tightened around Cecelia as she felt her knees start to buckle beneath her. It was only his support that kept her upright. She looked around the room, and it seemed like everyone was looking at her as though she smelled like horse manure.
Her head started to swim as she heard the voices in the room combine together into a low rumble. She could pick out only pieces of it.
“Who knew she was so low class?”
“I should’ve known she wasn’t really a Morgan. But it looks like she’s not Maverick, either.”
“Her mother probably used drugs during her pregnancy, too. I wonder if that’s why Cecelia is so inca
pable of empathy.”
“Have they ever revoked someone’s club membership for fraud?”
“You can see the resemblance between her and this Nicole woman. She never had Tilly’s classically beautiful features.”
Cecelia covered her ears with her hands to smother the voices. Her face flushed red, and tears started pouring from her eyes. Deacon said something to her, but she couldn’t hear him. All she could feel was her world crumbling around her. She should’ve made the second blackmail payment. What was she thinking? That he would decide maybe that first payment was enough? That people wouldn’t judge her the way she would’ve judged them not long ago?
It was a huge mistake, and yet, she knew this was a moment that couldn’t be avoided no matter how much cash she shelled out. It wasn’t about the money, she knew that much. He probably didn’t care if he made a dime in the process. Maverick was set on ruining people’s lives.
He would be a happy man tonight.
* * *
Deacon didn’t know who Maverick was, but he sure as hell was going to find out. Why did this sick bastard get pleasure out of hurting people in the club? Deacon would be the first to admit this wasn’t his favorite crowd of people, but who would stoop that low? If he could get his hands on Maverick right now, the coward would have bigger concerns than whose life he could make miserable next.
First things first, however. He could see Cecelia breaking down, and it made his chest ache. He had to get her away from this. With every eye in the room on them, he wrapped his arm around Cecelia and tried to guide her to the exit. She stumbled a few times, as though her legs were useless beneath her, so he stopped long enough to scoop her into his arms and carry her out. She didn’t fight his heroics. Instead, she clung desperately to him, burying her face in the lapel of his suit.
The crowd parted as they made their way to the door. Half the people in the room looked disgusted. Some were in shock. A few more looked worried, probably concerned that their dark secret might be the next exposed by Maverick. There were only a few people in the room who looked at all concerned about Cecelia herself, and that made him almost as angry as he was with the blackmailing bastard that started this mess.
That was the problem with this town—the cliquish bullshit was ridiculous. It was just as bad in high school as it was now. It made him glad that he’d decided to leave Royal instead of staying in this toxic environment.
The problem was that most of the people in the town were in the clique, so they didn’t see the issue. It was only the outsiders who suffered by their viper-pit mentality. Deacon had always been an outsider, and money and prestige hadn’t changed that, not really. He’d gotten through the doors of the club tonight, but he still didn’t fit in. And he didn’t want to.
Yet if he had to bet money on Maverick’s identity, he’d put it on another outsider. Whoever it was was just kicking the hornet’s nest for fun, watching TCC members turn on each other so they would know what it felt like to be him.
Cecelia didn’t need to be around for the fallout. This entire situation was out of her control, and she would be the one to suffer unnecessarily for it. Brent and Tilly should be here, taking on their share of the club’s disgust for forcing her to live this lie to begin with. If they’d been honest about adopting Cecelia, there would’ve been nothing for Maverick to hold over her head.
He shoved the heavy oak door open with his foot and carried her out to the end of the portico. There, he settled her back on her feet. “Are you okay to stand?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, sniffing and wiping the streams of mascara from her flush cheeks.
“I’m going to go get my car. Will you be okay?”
She nodded. Deacon reached into his pocket to get his keys, but before he could step into the parking lot, a figure stumbled out of the dark bushes nearby. He didn’t recognize the man, but he didn’t like the looks of him, either. He was thin with stringy hair and bugged-out eyes. Even without the stink of alcohol and the stumble in his steps, Deacon could tell this was a guy on the edge. Maybe even the kind of guy who would blackmail the whole town.
“Cecelia Wood?” he asked, with a lopsided smile that revealed a mess of teeth inside. “Shoulda seen that one coming, right? Nobody is that perfect. Even a princess like you needs to be knocked off their high horse every now and then, right?”
Deacon stepped protectively between him and Cecelia. “Who the hell is this guy?” he asked.
“Adam Haskell,” she whispered over his shoulder. “He has a small ranch on the edge of town. I’m surprised he hasn’t lost it to the banks yet. All he does is drink anymore.”
The name sounded familiar from Deacon’s childhood, but the man in front of him had lived too many rough years to be recognizable. “Why don’t you call a cab and sleep that booze off, Adam?”