Page 25 of Between the Lines

“I abuse a lot of substances,” he says easily. “Most of them legal.”

“Coffee,” I supply.

“That’s one of them, yes.”

I don’t let my eyes waver from his. “Are you going to make me guess the others?”

“Is any of this great material for a corporate memoir?”

“We’re building a working relationship,” I say. “Anything could be useful as background information.”

“Alcohol,” he says. “Preferably scotch; bourbon if that’s not around. A good whiskey works, too. Cold beer on a warm day. If needed, I might even share a bottle of wine with a beautiful woman while playing poker. All perfectly legal.”

My eyebrows lift. “If needed?It was your idea.”

His grin flashes again, followed by a brief chuckle. It lights him up. Makes the handsome features almost painful to look at, and reminds me of the challenging, infuriating, carefree man I’d met at the resort.

I shake my head and try to get a grip on the situation. “Any of the illegal substances?”

“You just won’t let this go, will you?” he asks lightly. “Like a dog with a bone. I saw on your CV that you studied journalism in college after a gap year. Did they teach you this? To pin your subjects against a wall and never let them go.”

That makes me scoff, it’s so untrue. “You’re incredibly unpinned, Mr. Hartman.”

“Aiden,” he corrects me. “Call me Aiden.”

I try not to let the deep timbre of his voice throw me off. “Aiden. Tell me about your drug habit or don’t, that’s entirely up to you.”

“Fine,” he says. “You have wrung it out of me. I give up.”

His grandiosity makes me roll my eyes, even as a reluctant smile tugs at my lips. “What is it? A little weed smoking?”

“I dabbled in other things when I was young and dumb, with friends. We were high on adrenaline and testosterone, but apparently not high enough.” He shrugs, a casual movement. “There are some worlds where cocaine is served like dessert. Brought out on a tray like crème brûlée.”

For all of his casual drawl, he sounds faintly annoyed.Served like dessert.I repeat the words to myself. If only I’d been recording this! This is exactly what I want to know.

About the man who was raised in the lap of luxury, in one of America’s wealthiest families, whose grandparents were early Hollywood elite, and whose father nearly destroyed their entire legacy.

“It sounds less tasty than crème brûlée,” I say. Another stupid comment from my end.

But Aiden just snorts. “Yeah, these days, I’d rather have the sugar. It’s just as sinful.” He nods at me, and there’s a wryness in his voice now. “I saw how your eyes lit up at that, Chaos.”

“I’m a writer,” I say. Which is why I’m here. Doing this. To get my own book with my own name on the cover and explore a topic of my own choosing.

I have a feeling I’m going to have to remind myself of the goal a lot.

“Yes, you are.” There’s a trace of bitterness in his voice, so faint that I don’t know if I’ve imagined it. “Tell me you didn’t try anything illegal, and I won’t believe it.”

These interviews are not usually about me. Sure, my subjects often want to get to know me a bit in return. Build trust. Establish rapport. But it has never gone very deep.

Somehow, I fear this time will be different.

“I’ve dabbled,” I echo his words. Lean my head against the headrest, too. Our eyes meet over the black leather console. “But after a few bad incidents with alcohol when I was young, I don’t like losing control.”

It’s an honest answer. Averyhonest answer, if only he knew. But he doesn’t. The gap year he referred to earlier is just that.A gap year.The only part on my CV I deliberately gloss over.

He raises an eyebrow. “Like being in control, do you?”

“Yes,” I say honestly. “Don’t you?”

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