Page 132 of The Good Girl

“I think the buzz of you and her died down the second our illustrious leader decided to publicly claim her.” G rolls his eyes.

Ambros smirks. “I did notice a few topless shots of you on your bike coming up on my feed. I was starting to think going topless was a requirement of joining.”

“Your virtue is safe here, pretty boy. Besides, the pres has quite his own following now. Ten thousand the last time I looked.”

“Oh, I bet he does.” Ambros grins.

I narrow my eyes and look at him.

“Of course, I’ve been doing the whole topless thing a lot longer than you,” he jokes. I assume he means promotional picswhere he’s just wearing shorts. “Before you know it, you’ll have ninety thousand followers too.”

G looks at Ambros. “You have ninety thousand followers? Who the fuck are you, Selena Gomez?”

Ambros laughs. “Not even close. She’s got around five hundred million.”

“Really? Well fuck a duck. I can’t imagine that many people interested in my life,” he swears before he sits the laptop on the edge of the desk. “Okay, out of the dozen or so people who were the most vocal, three live across the globe. One is sixteen, living in Australia, and attending high school. I have two in Europe—Germany and Sweden, to be precise. Both are married and live normal lives, from what I can gather from their profiles. These ones feel more like sheep who like to follow a leader. They don’t start the chaos but have no problem reveling in it.”

“You’ll always find those. Someone will say something, and you’ll get ten more jumps on the bandwagon, and before you know it, they’ve gone viral. Most of the time, it’s all for show so they can get their five minutes of fame.”

“Who wants to be famous for being an asshole?”

“Some people have made a living out of it.”

“What about the others?”

“I’ve managed to dismiss most of them as trolls instead of a threat. I have six left on the list. John Cyrus is a trucker who drives all over the country, delivering beer. He has a record for domestic violence. His ex-wife filed for divorce after his last stint in prison and walked away with nothing—her choice by the looks of things. The only thing she took was the dog. He still has the house they shared in Tampa but spends eighty percent of his time on the road.”

“Wait, you’re tracking these guys through their social media?” Ambros sounds surprised.

“I’m protecting my president’s old lady from potential threats,” G tells him.

“I’m not judging. I’m just conscious about what I post.”

“Honestly, it’s not that hard to hack into someone’s life. People say plenty without even realizing it.”

“You think this guy is a threat?”

“He says some nasty shit about Nevaeh in his posts and has the potential to be a problem, but only if the circumstances are right.”

“Like?”

“If she were handed to him on a silver platter. He won’t miss an opportunity, but he won’t go out of his way to seek her out either.”

“Alright, who stands out?”

“I’ve circled two. The other four all have criminal records. These two, I couldn’t find anything on. Their social media is locked down tight. In fact they have virtually no social media presence beyond what they posts about your girl. I searched, and there are five Newton Helms in a two-hundred-mile radius of here and eight Alan Ellwick’s. And none of them fit with the other four unless you count the dead guys.”

I pause. “What did you say?”

“There was an Alan Ellwick and a Newton Helms who would have fit but they’re”––

“Dead.” I finish for him, spinning the laptop around so I can check out the other names.

“Alfonso Ramiro, Michael Perkins, Daniel Waterman. Fuck me.”

“You know these guys?”

“No, but I recognise their names.”

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