Page 78 of Wild for You
I stare at the messages in disbelief as my mouth goes completely dry. “Sam … what the fuck is going on here? Are we both talking about the same thing? Does Gwen know about my leg? Because I sure as fuck didn’t know she was … pregnant.”
I find Sam staring at the wall, next to me on the couch, his mouth agape and eyes wide as saucers. He swallows a gulp and shakes his head. “I … um … I thought.”
“You son of a bitch!” I swing, and my fist makes a satisfying contact with his cheekbone.
“Whoa, fuck! Ouch!” He curls into a ball as I pelt him with blow after blow. “Hold on, how the hell is this my fault! I told you I didn’t want to be involved!”
I gasp a heaving breath as I pause for a moment. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me about this? You saw how distraught I’ve been over the last few weeks.” I strike him again, this time in the chin, and my hand aches in the best possible way.
Fucking finally, I’m starting to feel something again.
“Shit, dude, can you just stop hitting me and let me talk.” He wipes the blood from his mouth and gives me a death glare. “Gwen told Maggie to stall, so she had time to think. I assumed you knew when you got that text. What was I supposed to do, insert myself into your adult problems?” He shakes his head and dabs his swollen lip with the hem of his shirt.
“So, all this time, Gwen’s been pregnant?” I look down at my blood-stained knuckles as I try to process this information. “And by the looks of these texts … she thinks I’m out because I don’t want anything to do with her and the baby?”
Sam sighs and pulls out his phone. “It seems that’s the most likely conclusion.”
I fall back onto the cool tile floor as my mind spins.
“What am I going to do, Sam? How the fuck am I going to fix this?”
I hear Benjamin’s voice answer through Sam’s phone. “Hey, Ben, um … we’ve got a big problem over here, and we need your help. Jack’s really fucked himself this time.”
“I was wondering when he was going to call me. Jack, it’s so nice to see you’ve pulled your head out of your ass. What can I do to help?”
“I need to know everything I’ve missed. Catch me up while I think of a plan.”
Benjamin sighs. “Hey, guys, can you give me a minute? I need to take this call,” he says to whoever he’s meeting with. I hear the door click shut and the squeak of his desk chair before he finally speaks. “Okay, here’s what I know. I hope you’re ready to take notes …”
CHAPTERTHIRTY-SEVEN
Gwen
My phone buzzeson my desk, and I turn it over, not wanting the distraction to break my concentration. I’ve been working on this press release for Pheobe Thorstein for the last week, and I’ve almost worked out all the details. We’ve spun her little mishap with the cult leader into a tell-all memoir, and I’ve managed to get her a book deal out of this shit show.
We’re rebranding her as the first in her family to seek outside help and how she overcame her crippling people-pleasing tendencies and learned to stand in her truth. Of course, the whole joining a cult and becoming its matronly symbol will be the B story, just another example of how people prey on the innocent.
I stretch my aching neck from side to side. All my muscles are stiff from sitting at this desk for hours on end. I need to schedule an appointment with my masseuse ASAP.
Sandra not so subtly suggested that the VP promotion will finally be mine when this is all wrapped up with a pretty red bow.
I balance my pen between my fingers as I wait for the rush of excitement, but nothing happens. If anything, I feel more annoyed that she’s continued to dangle the carrot in front of me—even after surviving a plane crash on the company’s behalf. Though I suppose I never finished the job. It’s not like there’s much of an image to repair when he’s all but disappeared from the internet. That's the thing about being in the public eye; once you disappear, someone else comes along demanding attention, and everyone forgets about you and your problems. I laugh at the realization. Maybe our strategy should be to disappear for three months, and when you come back, no one will be the wiser. People are too caught up in their own lives to pay attention to Jack or anyone else’s problems.
My phone buzzes, again and again, rattling the surface of my desk.
Jesus, it must be a full moon tonight with all the chaos I’ve been slammed with.
An email from Sandra pings in my inbox with the subject line,***URGENT!!!I roll my eyes.
Everyone thinks their life is so important, but I’ve learned the difference between real problems and the made-up ones that the media deems urgent.
It’s all bullshit.
“There you are!” Sandra bursts through my door. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. Is your phone not working!?” She’s breathless, heaving actually, as she stands in my doorway.
“Have you not seen the news?” She clicks on the TV mounted on the wall across from my desk.
Immediately, a clip of a scrawny, bearded Jack flashes across the screen with the words, “Wombat Willy YouTube survivalist makes the documentary of a lifetime …”
