Caroline, Farrell, and Emma sat discreetly tucked into a corner table at 21, the former prohibition speakeasy and iconic New York restaurant. Technically, they were “on assignment.” Farrell was convinced that the mayor was strong-arming the president of the sanitation workers’ union into an unfair contract with the city. It was the fodder of eighties action movies, and Caroline and Emma loved it. So, when Emma got the text, they were quick to throw on their best little black dresses and provide some cover for Farrell, in exchange for an expensed meal. Occasionally, Farrell got recognized, but in his barely presentable tweed blazer, with two attractive women, he looked more playboy novelist than newsman.
Caroline sipped her red zinfandel and whispered loudly. “It looks like the mayor is the one getting the thumbscrews, not the other way around.” The mayor was looking at a bunch of photos the other man passed him. He had visibly paled.
“I’m going to see if I can peek over his shoulder.” Farrell scooted back and pretended to wander past the extensive wine collection that lined the walls, glancing at bottles. Caroline giggled and leaned into Emma. “I love being on a stakeout. We should have brought huge sunglasses and floppy hats,” she beamed. She continued talking about possible disguises, glancing over her shoulder at Farrell’s ridiculous attempt at subtlety, when Emma’s breath was stolen.
Nathan had come into the very small, very intimate bar holding the arm of a striking brunette. The waiter opened a prearranged bottle of Cristal upon their arrival and placed a flute in front of each of them. With her wavy shoulder-length hair and candy apple lipstick, she looked like a forties pin-up girl. Their fingers were intertwined on the bar, and Emma’s stomach churned. When he leaned over and started nibbling her neck, Emma rose to her feet. Rage and confusion propelled her steps. The woman saw her coming first. As she got closer, she saw that she was older than Emma had first thought—doing a damn good job of masking forty. She watched Emma approach with a satisfied gleam in her eyes. Nathan noticed her lose focus and detached from her earlobe.
“Hi,” she said quietly.
“Emma.” He seemed panicked for a second, but it wasn’t the panic of a man getting caught. Emma wasn’t sure, but she thought he looked... afraid. “What are you doing here?” The woman turned to the bar to sip her drink and check her phone.
“Having dinner with Caroline and Farrell. What are you doing here?”
“Emma, you need to excuse us.” He grabbed the woman’s hand and kissed it. “It was nice seeing you, but I believe I made the parameters of our relationship clear.” He kissed each knuckle of the woman’s hand and let the words sink in. ‘The parameters of our relationship.’ That was the awkward term he had used to explain wanting to date her exclusively. He was sending her a message; whatever this was, it wasn’t what it seemed.
“I will see you in the office.” His arm circled his date’s waist and he gave Emma a pleading but firm stare. Whatever was going on here, she needed to make this look good. Watching him fondle this woman was making her blood boil, but she certainly wasn’t going to make a scene, not when Nathan was silently screaming that there was an explanation.
She brushed down the front of her dress, glanced up at him, and shrugged. “Sorry to interrupt.” Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat to cover it. “We were just leaving.” She nodded in deference. “Mr. Bishop.”
The brunette cooed, “Ooh, Mr. Bishop, I like that.” Emma ground her teeth together and glared at her as she turned away. “Nice meeting you,” the older woman purred. So, this was what getting the brush off felt like. No. This was what getting the brush off from Nathan felt like. Awful.
She rounded up Caroline and Farrell, and they made their escape. As they exited the room, three suited men clogged the doorway, smelling of cigars. Emma was shoulder-to-shoulder with the first man in the group, facing out while he was facing in, scanning the room. The man stilled, and the stem of his wine glass snapped in his hand. Emma couldn’t see his face, but his body simmered. She could guess what was in his sightline, but all the speculation was giving her a headache. All she really knew for sure was that Nathan was in a dark bar fondling another woman.
She couldn’t explain her heartache in front of Farrell. She knew there was more to the story, but that didn’t eclipse the fact that Emma had to sit there and watch Nathan make a meal out of another woman’s neck. Turned out she didn’t need a cover story. Farrell had been oblivious to the exchange and regaled them with the story of the photos he had spied the union chief trading with the mayor.
“They were shots of the mayor capturing all his worst attributes.” He grabbed his flat stomach and moved it up and down mimicking a beer belly. “He wants the mayor to try this diet drink he sells. It’s a meal supplement, you know, one of those pyramid schemes.” He cleaned his glasses with the tail of his shirt. “Actually, I should look into that. Talk about a great way to launder money.” He prattled on as what would surely be his latest conspiracy theory took root. Caroline squeezed her hand soothingly. Emma forced a smile. When they got to Hell’s Kitchen, Farrell insisted on putting the women into a cab—he liked to think the now upscale area was as dangerous as its name. JT was behind them in the Suburban, so Emma explained that she had called for an Uber and that it was pulling up. Satisfied, they went their separate ways.
In the back of the car, Caroline unleashed. “What the fuck was that?”
“I don’t know.”
“It seemed fairly obvious, Em.”
“I know this sounds crazy, but I think there’s an explanation.”
“Em, he’s like a fucking NBA player—of course he has an explanation! His dick fell out of his pants and got stuck in her.”
“I think he was giving me a signal.”
“Yeah, a get-out-of-here-so-I-can-fuck-my-date signal.”
“Look, we’re journalists. We’re not supposed to judge until we have all the facts.”
“Yes, and we are women. We are not supposed to live in denial when our significant other has his tongue down someone else’s throat.”
“I know.”
“Come on, let’s get a slice. You didn’t even let me eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Oh, hell no. I am not letting Nathan Bishop steal your appetite along with your heart.”
“Fine.”
Caroline called it a night after two slices and two episodes of a plastic surgery reality show. It was after midnight, but Emma was nowhere near sleep. She sat on the balcony and stared at the night, the growl of traffic dimmed only slightly by the ten stories between. Her phone buzzed across the end table.
Mr. Wonderful: Let me in.