Page 90 of A Secret and a Lie
The sun is long gone by the time we put down our phones, finally digging into the dinner Brett dropped off for the three of us. We’ve managed to recover nearly fifty clients, but there’s something unsettling about the ones I’ve lost.
I find it impossible to believe those lost clients are going without sex, which means they’ve gone elsewhere. I can’t imagine they’re picking up women on the street corner either. The more I think about it, the angrier I grow.
My lip curls as I clutch my fork tightly, my wedding band glinting beneath the overhead lights. Someone is exploiting my situation, capitalizing on my temporary stumble.
I refuse to be toppled. I’m going to burn this city to the ground with nothing but an army of whispers. My shadowy murmurs in the dark will slice and dice until those who run this country are broken and bleeding, exposed for the average citizen to deal the final death blow.
The rats will run, scurrying to the inkiest corners of the world, but secrets, like the plague of corruption, take no prisoners, eating their victims alive. And the secrets I’ll unlock willdevour.
They should have let the devil lie.
Corinne giggles at something Marcus says as I reach for my phone, typing out an encrypted email and going to war.
It’s half-past eleven when I step into the lobby of Ford’s penthouse, Marcus having dropped me off on his way home. The horde of reporters is still gathered outside, but the police must’ve deemed that the barricade wasn’t necessary anymore, since that’s absent for the first time. I like to think that may mean the media blitz is beginning to subside as people move on to other gossip and news in the never-ending cycle of bigger and better headlines.
I bend down to slip my stilettos off when the sound of voices reaches me on a phantom breeze, and I perk up. Keeping my heels on, I stalk toward the sound.
I wish excited anticipation didn’t buzz in my veins as I step into the kitchen, my eyes landing on Ford, where he leans against the kitchen island. He’s lost his suit jacket somewhere, his white shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal tanned, muscled forearms. His hair is tousled and loose, as though he’s tugged on the strands too often today.
His blue eyes land on mine, hardening a fraction before flicking back to the other man. Disappointment trickles through me, and I hate myself for it. Why can’t I get it together? When I capture his attention, I look for an escape, yet when I lose it, I find myself bereft, craving his focus.
“Hello there, pretty lady,” the handsome blond announces, turning toward me with a devilish smirk.
A quick glance at Ford’s set jaw tells me everything I need to know. I find myself overcome with the desire to paint his face green with envy for no reason other than a bit of fun. It’s been a long night, I deserve it.
“Hello, good looking,” I purr seductively. “Who might you be?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Ford tightening his grip around his scotch, his knuckles white, but it isn’t half as satisfying as I thought it’d be.
“This asshole’s better half,” the attractive stranger replies as he tosses a thumb toward Ford.
“And here I thought he didn’t have a good side,” I snark, shooting a wink in Ford’s direction.
Ford doesn’t chuckle, but the other man does, the hearty sound filling the kitchen. “I knew I’d like you. I’m Drake.”
“Ah, the infamous Drake. It’s been a long time since I heard your name, fourteen years, to be precise.” A genuine smile curls my lips. “I recall hearing something about you suspecting I’d turn out to be an old man.”
He puts his hands up in surrender. “I take it back. You’re far prettier than he deserves.”
“You’re home late,” Ford interjects, effectively ending my conversation with his best friend. He’s turned to face the countertop of the island, his gaze dark and cold where he pins me with a heavy stare.
My smile dissolves. “I worked late,” I answer flatly and turn toward the hallway.
“Seeing a client?”
I twist back in his direction, arching an eyebrow. “Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
Rancor flares in my chest all over again.
Why do you care?I roll my eyes. “No, I was not with a client. Thanks to you, I hardly have any left.”
“Have you eaten?” he inquires, avoiding my comment altogether.
“What’s it to you?” I snap back, entirely uncaring of the audience. “You think you’re my Dom?” I huff a laugh, even as my stomach twists. “My wellbeing is none of your concern.”
The prominent vein in his neck strains against the flawless skin of his neck. Setting the scotch on the counter, he folds his arms over his chest. “I don’t have to be your Dom to give a shit.”
