“What’s in it for me besides attention I don’t want?”
“Your say. Your side of the story. The truth. What happened on that construction site? Apologize to the families who lost men that day. Change the narrative. Take control of the conversation for once.”
It all sounds like reporter bullshit. Change the narrative. What the fuck for? Nothing anyone has printed since the accident has been wrong.
“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”
“I want to help you.”
“I didn’t ask for help.”
“No, you didn’t. What can I give you in exchange for a half an hour of your time?”
I full-on meet her gaze. Let her rake her eyes over my face. Did she understand what that sounded like? What she was offering?
What she suggested in exchange isn’t new. I’ve heard it all. More than one woman who couldn’t look me in the face without flinching still proposed trading sex for words. It used to be my money. Now it’s for my side of the sordid story.
The fucking joke’s on them because there is no side. What happened was my fault. I’d taken ownership of it a long time ago.
I step over to the table, run my finger along her jaw, down her neck to the V of her sweater. I trace my fingertip along the smooth skin of her collarbone. “What if I want this?”
“Sex won’t make you feel better.”
“Says you.”
She grabs my hand, but surprisingly, doesn’t fling it away or bat at me like my touch disgusts her. “Says me. Tell me what you really want, Rick.”
The demand leaves my mouth before I can stop it. “You’ll stay here until I feel like talking.”