“Why would they go after you?” Roger asks as he calls for another round. “I don’t get it.”
I sigh and finish my drink, ready to give the digest version of my shitty ex-husband.
“I’m not sure if you can tell by my ‘throw-caution-to-the-wind’ attitude last night, but I’m recently divorced.” I watch Roger to see if this sinks in unpleasantly, but he merely nods and continues to listen.
“He dragged me to court for almost a year. He didn’t want to get divorced, though God knows why. He had enough women scattered throughout the city! I don’t think he would have noticed if I suddenly wasn’t around to remind him; he’s a cheating asshole.”
I stab my fork into the salad, wishing it was his face. I look at Roger, and he looks concerned again. Shit, did I say too much?
“Sorry…” I start, but Roger waves me off.
“Not at all. I’m just wondering how such a scumbag landed a woman like you.”
I blush again, resisting the urge to slap myself across the face and snap myself out of it; but it feels nice to hear. Plus, I’ve already done enough slapping for the day, right?
“Thanks,” I mumble awkwardly into my salad. “Anyway, he, my ex, owns all the tabloids that are blowing this up. I’ve been living like a monk trying to stay out of them for all the court proceedings, but —”
I pause, suddenly horrified. How the fuck did he get those pictures anyway?
“So, you think this is all his plan to get back at you then? You must’ve cleaned up in court,” Roger chuckles appreciatively as he receives his next glass.
“Oh, I most certainly did,” I laugh. “That suite you… toured last night...”
Roger smirks.
“That was part of my winnings. Can’t imagine he’s too pleased about it, but…” I trail off, still wondering how they got the shot.
“Is something bothering you?” Roger asks, his brows furrowed. “I mean, besides every shitty thing you just told me, and the equally shitty morning you just had?” he adds, and I snort.
“It’s just… I can’t wrap my head around how they got those pictures.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Roger nods.
“I mean, is he spying on me?” I look at Roger, but he just shrugs.
“Dunno.”
Well, that’s helpful. Isn’t he supposed to be one of America’s most brilliant business minds? Still, I don’t have it in me to hate him. He really has been an exceptional listener. I know the bar’s so low for me at this point in my life. But, really. He’s not the dick I presumed him to be.
I think back to how I felt waking up; the sun on my face, bearing my nakedness to the glowing morning skyline. Fuck. I slap my hand over my mouth.
“What? What is it?” Roger asks. “Are you sick?” Idiot.Cuteidiot.
“No, no. I’m just. We didn’t close the drapes or anything last night. I mean, I didn’t think to. Could they have gotten a picture from outside? Fuck, this is all my fault —”
“Hey,” Roger’s hand is suddenly on mine and his blue eyes are staring intently at me. “Drapes or no drapes, no one has a right to take photos of you without your consent.”
Damn, if we weren’t so very clearly in public and most recently shamed in a tabloid, I’d consider leaning over to kiss him.
He’s right.
I didn’t ask for this anymore than he did. Even if his career isn’t on the chopping block, I’ll bet it still feels pretty grim to see a photo of your ass on every newspaper stand this side of Broadway. Great ass though it may be.
I’m about to pick up my drink to toast him for a day-saving lunch, when I see someone out in the street with a camera, a camera pointed directly at us. They’re snapping away, pushing aside pedestrians to get closer to the glass.
“No fucking way,” I say as I stand up, slamming my hands on the table. Roger leaps up and tries to follow my line of vision. You’ve got to be kidding me! Is that Johnny ‘Weasel’ Stanfield?
“Is that guy taking pictures?” Roger asks, but I’m already flying past him for the door. I’m not sure if that’s the Weasel, but I’m damn sure gonna find out.