Page 23 of Snap Shot

“And Rayna Metzer, the popular Instagram influencer?”

My face is paralyzed in an awkward expression from the camera flash, our hands connected while I help her out of the limo.

And yet another comes along, a small pile of photographic evidence forming in front of me.

“Sierra Martin, the designer.”

These are not super recent. They're practically ancient. Months gap between the photos of non-relationship relationships. It's embarrassing as it is and downright humiliating coming from the neat, tidy, successful perfection that is Indi Davé.

Does she actually believe what Pall said? That I'm some sort of manipulative mastermind who trades promises of favors for sex? I haven't had to put an effort for no-string flings, like,ever. They come willingly—and literally—and aim to please. She’s right, we don't know each other anymore. And she's not trying to, unlike my pitiful ass.

I choke the shame and resentment down. It brews and boils as Indi's voice fades into a droning buzz. Thoughts of regret for agreeing to pursue this case burn my already-bruised ego.

“Mr. Radek?” Indi knocks her fist on the wooden desktop. “Are you listening to me?” Her finger stamps against the stack of pictures. “Thisis the narrative they've built. If it's untrue, we have to change it and Iwillmake sure there are repercussions. But I can't do that ifyoudon't tell me what happened.”

My patience snaps. “Why don'tyoudo your research,Ms. Davé?” Best lawyer, my left buttcheek.

There's no way in hell I'm discussing my sexual past or clarifying every female relationship in my life with someone who didn't bother to check on the dates of these photographs.

“Excuse me?” Her mouth parts and I'm too angry to wander to filth anymore. Fine, I'm still a little keyed up. A half-chub though. Not a fully.

I rise to my feet, buttoning my suit jacket. “I'm sorry, but how do you expect me to trust you when you can't give me a little respect?”

“I—” Indi's face blanches under that smooth, wheatish skin.

“I'm out. Send the bill. I'll sign the fucking check.”

The door gives up under my incensed blow and Behraz hops to her feet, abandoning the rest of her sandwich, a string of mustard-covered lettuce hanging from the corner of her lip. Nosy employees eye me as I march out of the office.

It's a miracle I made it home without crashing. The Porsche took my wild swerves and gear changes through downtown like the gorgeous creature she is. My forehead vein throbs as I attempt to calm in the lot. Deep breaths provide no solace.

The unhurried speed of the elevator up to the penthouse irritates the fuck outta me. My fists crash into a couch cushion, driving in again and again until I'm sweating through my shirt. I peel it away, frowning at the missing buttons and rip in the underarm seam.

After a necessary ice-cold shower, I pull on some cotton shorts and find my phone. I want to run away. My thumb finds the favorited contact, line ringing in my ear as I crouch over the end of the bed.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetie. You doing okay?”

“I've been better.”

“Yeah? Wanna talk about it?”

“Not right now. What are your plans for the weekend?”

“Nothing really. I'm off. Your sister's heading down from Toronto with the kids. Seth's out of town.”

“Ah, okay.”

There's a pause before Mom asks, “You wanna come home, too?”

“Yeah.” I deflate with a sigh. “I do.”

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Gray painted brick contrasts the bright yellow door Mom swings open, dropping her shoulders with a sigh at my offer of a Timmie's double-double.

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