Page 63 of Infinite

“I’m hoping by Thursday night.”

“Thursday?” I ask. “That’s three days away.”

“I know. Things aren’t great here. Don’t worry. Tootles and I are working on the spreads online. We already went through the one for Forbes.”

“I wasn’t worried about that. I’m worried about you.” I add cheese to the eggs and stir, noting the strain in her voice. “What’s going on?”

“You don’t want to know.”

I scrape the eggs onto the plate. “Yeah, I do.”

“I’m getting a lot of pressure from Mr. Singleton to become re-engaged to Denver.”

“Ah, why?” I ask, wishing it didn’t come out in a snarl.

Becca groans. “He’s in trouble again.”

“Because he’s a dumbass,” I helpfully add.

“And narcissistic,” she mumbles.

I fill my glass with water a little too aggressively and slam it down beside my breakfast. I take a breath, trying to cool down. I have to remember this isn’t my home or my things. I need to respect them, just as I need to be respectful of Becca and not drive to Charlotte and break Denver’s neck.

I grip my fork, although I can’t seem to take a bite. That doesn’t stop me from gritting my teeth. “What are you going to do?”

It’s a nice question. A decent one. And a hell of a lot more polite than telling Becca her asshole boss and his even more asshole son can fuck off. See? This here is what’s called growth and maturity.

“I’m trying to spin what Denver did as a man with a broken heart acting out.”

I roll my eyes. “And how exactly did he act out?”

“Oh, another accident in his Lamborghini. But don’t worry. He wasn’t drunk. He just lost control, because the young, naked woman in his passenger seat was giving him head.”

“As a man, I can respect that.” I manage a decent chew and swallow when a thought occurs to me. “That young woman wasn’t of age, was she?”

“He’s notthatbad. She’s twenty-two, I think. In fact, blow jobs are one of her specialties, given she’s worked as a high-priced prostitute for quite a few years now. That blow job cost him ten grand and a three-inch gash below his crown line.”

“Nice,” I say, wondering just how many times Denver was dropped on his head as a child. “So, tell me. How are you equating prostitutes and blow jobs to a grieving and jilted lover?”

“Funny you should ask. We weren’t willing to pay off the prostitute this time.”

“We weren’t?” I ask, finishing up my eggs.

“No, because by the time she was released, she’d already contacted several magazines—the less reputable kind, mind you—and offered an exclusive for her near-death experience at the hands of Denver Singleton the eighth, or whatever the hell number he is, for two million dollars.”

“Two million for ten minutes of head?”

“Three minutes. She’s that good.”

“Damn,” I say. “I should’ve been a prostitute.”

I’m trying to get a laugh out of her, given that the more Becca speaks, the shriller her voice becomes. “You know, it’s bad enough this fuck-up got into yet another car accident, ripped through a park the Boy Scouts had cleaned that day, and attracted the attention of a crowd of two hundred seniors who were attending a symphony mere yards away. He had to go and hire a prostitute.”

“No kidding,” I agree.

“If she was smart, really smart, I could have hired her to play the new girlfriend and Charlie Sheened the shit out of all of it.”

“Oh, don’t go bringing Charlie into this. That boy’s been through enough.”

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