Page 29 of Catfish

Which we wouldn’t. I’m not letting it get that far.

Then what’s the point?

"I met her at some event," I transmit cooly. "I don't remember which one, but we argued, and I was afraid she was going to start up again."

“Oh.” Emmy looks disappointed, probably looking for a more dramatic story and shrugs. “She seemed nice enough.”

“That’s how she got me,” I reply, giving a curt nod to a fellow congressman as we continue to walk. “Where’s Montgomery?”

“Why?”

“It’s his party, isn’t it?”

“Please don’t tell me you’re going to start something here,” Em groans. I perk a brow. “We’re in public.”

“No shit, Sherlock. That’s the point.” Her small hand grips my forearm, halting me in place.

“I know you’re pissed, Wade. But causing a scene isn’t going to make you look good.”

A Cheshire cat smile slowly transforms on my face. “Who said I was the one doing anything?”

She eyes me suspiciously, cocking her head to the side. “What did you do?”

“It’s not what I did,” I stress then lower my voice. “It’s who Montgomery banged.”

“Wade,” she starts in that tone that makes me want to roll my eyes and dissipate into thin air because the rest of her sentence I won’t give a shit about. “Whatever you have planned, it can’t be here.”

I pull my phone out of my pocket, seeing a text message from Reagan that I desperately want to look at but refrain from opening. “Will you please check on that whiskey? I’m parched.”

"You would honestly make a scene at—" She stops herself, and I peer over at her, acceptance written on her face.

Emmy knows me.

My traits, how much of a douchebag I am. How far I will go to make sure that I’m not fucked with.

“I’ll go check on the drink,” she grumbles, admitting defeat and trudging away from me with a slight slump in her shoulders.

She’ll get over it.

I peek back down at my phone for two reasons: one, I have to set my plan in motion. And two, well, I’m sure you can guess the answer to that.

Reagan: Yes, I’m hosting a party for privileged assholes with special requests.

I’d say “ouch,” but her vodka supply is abundant, totally Montgomery, and I needed something more drinkable for the shit show that was about to happen the moment I called the green light.

Me: Why are you inviting assholes to your party, Sox?

Reagan: This one showed up uninvited.

I smirk, I can’t help it.

So she was coming over to see me.

In a perfect world, I would’ve let her. But it’s good to know that Reagan is real, blunt as fuck, and that breath of fresh air I crave—just like she is in our random conversations.

Me: There’s one in every group.

I begin to navigate through my phone, looking for the specialized app for not-so-pleasant messages that every politician has made up when they want to do some untraceable type shit.

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