“Sorry.”
He nods and drops his eyes to the phone, effectively accepting my apology and moving on. We’ve been through much worse together. The odd, pissed reaction to one another is nothing.
“They’re bluffing.”
“Maybe.” I scan the text again, even though I’ve read it half a million times since meeting up with Griffin.
Unknown: The public might be fools, but we aren’t. He will listen to you. George Yates must be selected, or the video gets posted on every social media site for the world to see. Do you want to be responsible for that? You have twenty-four hours.
“They don’t believe you aren’t together anymore.”
“We aren’t though.” I place the phone down and run one hand over the back of the other, cracking my knuckles.
She left.
“It’s someone who knows one or both of you to make that assumption. As far as the New York press are concerned, you two are being grieved like Romeo and fucking Juliet.” Griffin shakes his head with a humorless smile. “To think Harley could still influence your decision means they don’t believe the story. Who’s seen you together up close? Who would notice the way you are with each other? Because it’s a big assumption to make that she could have that much of an effect over you when you’ve only been ‘dating’ for a matter of months.”
“I don’t know.” I run my hand around my jaw, the days’ worth of growth covering my skin scratching against my fingertips. “Someone who was paying a lot of attention?”
“Exactly. Someone who is paying a lot of attention to your personal life… a lot of attention over the way you look at Harley. Someone who can recognize the connection you two have.”
Griffin retrieves his abandoned glass and takes a sip. “A woman,” he says as the glass leaves his lips.
I stare at the whiskey bottle as I process his words. He’s right. Who is more likely to notice the way I look at Harley? And the way she looks at me? A man might, but not to the same extent as a woman. A woman is more in tune to recognize those intimate moments between the two of us. Stolen glances when we’re separated at an event. The way Harley shivers and her cheeks flush when I whisper to her about how I can’t wait to drop to my knees and worship her when we get home. How I light up like a fucking Disney parade when she walks into a room.
A woman is more likely to recognize the signs of vulnerability created by the heart.
“I only know one woman who isn’t Harley or my family that knows about my past.” I look at Griffin, bile rising in my throat. “And that’s—”
“Call me a genius and bow to my feet,” Stuart shouts as he barges through the door to the bar looking triumphant, waving something around in his hand.
“Genius,” Griffin says dryly.
“I ain’t fucking kissing your feet.” I snort at Stuart as I grab the clean glass the barman left and pour him a large drink. “Here.” I hand it to him, and he pulls a bar stool around so he can sit and face me and Griffin.
“Thanks.” He knocks the entire thing back in one. “Ah, just what I needed.”
I pour him another as he brandishes a small bundle of papers in his hand like he’s discovered the Holy Grail.
“What’s that?” Griffin asks.
“This”—Stuart holds the folded papers up—“is something interesting I found out about our old friend, Dennis Vincent.”
We both look at him, waiting.
“I never dug into him too deeply before. I didn’t have to. I only do that with my clients and their opponents. I like to know as much about them and their pasts as possible.” He pauses to meet my eyes.
I’ve suspected George Yates and Dennis Vincent were corrupt bastards for years. Dennis vacating the mayor role suddenly before his term was up was suspicious, to say the least. Add to that the pardon Dennis served on a known criminal, as well as a multitude of other smaller crimes which never made it to trial, and you’ve got yourself one giant pie of corruption.
And it’s not one I want a slice of. Not now. Not ever.
I nod at Stuart to continue.
“But with recent events, I decided to apply my sleuth abilities to Dennis. It turns out cheating the city wasn’t the only betrayal of his. He’s been married to his wife for thirty years. But it seems Dennis also sent money to the same checking account every month for eighteen years. It stopped years before he took office as mayor, so there’s no reason for anyone to ask questions… Until now.”
“You think he was paying for a kid he’d had with another woman?” I ask, surprised.
“I don’t think. I know.” Stuart slams the papers down on the bar and we lean in, looking at the bank statements with month upon month of payments going to a woman named Kira Hutchings.