Page 92 of Token

Her brothers were all brimstone, fire, and fury. Somuchrighteous bristling masculine fury. They didn’t need to hire a hit man, as they were more than willing to do the wet work themselves. Cam and Jay could be scary intimidating when they adopted theirdo not fuck with my sisterspersona.

The phone calls didn’t stop with her immediate family. Current and former clients, friends from college, and even a long-lost friend from back home in Raleigh—Kennedy didn’t ask how she’d gotten her cell phone number—called to lend their support and express their outrage.

By the time Nate called at minutes after noon, enough time had passed that the world didn’t feel as though she was still suffering the effects of the bomb blast that was Jonathan’s news.

“Hi.” He sounded grim but oddly subdued, and she had never been happier to hear his voice.

“Hi. I was going to call but the phone won’t stop ringing.”

“He’s a fucking asshole. I knew there was a reason I hated the guy.” He tactfully avoided sayingI told you so.

“It looks like you were a better judge of character where he was concerned,” she conceded. Although, it wasn’t as if Nate didn’t have his own troubling blind spots. But that was a matter for another time, one they’d have to deal with eventually. Front and center now was the issue of the emails and navigating her—and the agency’s—way through the gauntlet of unwanted publicity.

“I’ve met enough men like him in my life,” Nate stated in an uncomplimentary tone. There was some seething in there too.

“I wish reporters would stop calling,” she lamented. For the most part, Jonathan was handling those.

“Yeah, well, one just called me. He wanted to know what I thought about my girlfriend being the subject of suchdisparaging emails. Then he asked if I knew exactly what services your agency provided to ECO Apparel.”

That was exactly the kind of attention she’d desperately hoped to avoid. Unfortunately, given the nature of the media these days, questions like this were inevitable. The hunt was officially on.

“What did you say?”

“I told him I had no comment. Partly because, at the time, I had no idea what emails he was talking about. Google took care of that,” he said drolly. “After I read them, I saw red for so long, I thought I was going blind. Then I just wanted to beat the shit out of them.”

Kennedy’s heart swelled. Not a felony, but close enough. It was the thought that mattered, and he must have understood that he wouldn’t be any good to her in jail.

Her office phone started ringing at the same time Jonathan bellowed from outside. “It’s Clive Macintosh from Delany and Associates. He’s looking for assurances.”

“Listen, Nate, I’ve got to take this call. I’ll call you later.”

“I’ll pick you up after work,” he said in a tone that brooked no refusal, and she wasn’t in the frame of mind to offer one. If she made it through the day, she wanted nothing more than to end it in his arms.

With the exception of the clients who contacted her after the bomb dropped, Kennedy preemptively contacted the remaining. Better they hear the news from her than an enterprising reporter in search of a story within a scandal. That was, if they hadn’t been made aware of it already, since news traveled fast, bad news even faster, but salacious news was by far and away the fastest, touching one hundred times the people in one-tenth the time.

The businesses she’d personally dealt with didn’t appear too concerned about their exposure—the agency having produced tangible work product for them in the form of training classes and inclusivity and diversity plans, as well as professional referrals. It was wealthy and celebrity clients, like Roger O’Brien who were worried about their names surfacing in connection with the agency. They’d been guaranteed anonymity and expected nothing less, despite the most sophisticated cyber hack and invasive email leak the country had ever experienced. Thank God her agency hadn’t been caught up in the dragnet. Some other smaller businesses hadn’t been as fortunate.

To date, the casualties of the email leak included four CEOs, two VPs, and a dozen managers, all of whom had been forced to step down. The reasons ran the gamut from inappropriate office relationships to insider trading and every negative “ism” known to mankind. So far it was crickets from ECO, but a text message from Sahara an hour ago informed her a company statement was forthcoming.

When Kennedy had read that, she’d rolled her eyes.I can hardly wait.Truthfully, she didn’t want an apology, which would be performative gibberish anyway. A flimsy Band-Aid slapped on a gushing wound, when a doctor, anesthesia, and stitches were required. She’d more likely believe words blurted in a drunken stupor than those uttered under the bright light of sobriety and media scrutiny. People tended to say what they meant when their guards were down. Phil and Sam—and all the others—had been caught with their pants down around their ankles.

In the midst of a chaotic day—the phone would not stop ringing—Aurora called. She’d woken up at one in the afternoon to find her Twitter timeline filled with links to articles and videos covering every lurid detail of the disgusting email conversation. One of four cable news stations was covering the fallout wall-to-wall. It had taken Kennedy fifteen minutes to convince Aurora that she had it all under control and not to come in. For now. And with her friend’s approval, she finally issued the statement she’d written earlier. Hopefully, with that out, reporters would stop pestering Jonathan.

Just when Kennedy thought she’d be able to leave the wretchedness of the day behind her, her office phone rang. Not a call transferred to her by Jonathan or Mina, but someone who had her direct line. Apart from her clients, not many people did. And her family and friends called her on her cell phone.

Crossing the office to her desk, she reluctantly answered. One more and then she was leaving. The car would be there in ten minutes, and she hated having the poor guy wait.

“Hello, Kennedy Mitchell speaking.”

“Hi, Miss Mitchell, this is Jeremy Friedman fromTimes Square Chronicle. If you don’t mind, I have a few questions to ask regarding your time at Columbia.”

“I’m sorry—what?”My time at Columbia?His question threw her off so much, she didn’t have enough wits about her to issue her standardno commentcomment and hang up.

“I’m sorry,” he said in an amiable voice. “Let me explain. Everyone wants to know more about the woman at the center of the emails and I’ve been calling around trying to fill in your background. I’m sure our readers will be interested in your journey from—” he paused “—North Carolina to Columbia to owning your own PR agency. I just got off the phone with a source at the university and I was told that you were a scholarship recipient, but I’m having problems pinpointing the source of the scholarship. It appears to have come from an anonymous donor and the university refuses to reveal their name.”

Kennedy sat down hard in her guest chair, bewilderment morphing into embarrassment and then seesawing back. How did he know she’d been a scholarship recipient and why did that matter? And an anonymous donor? That made no sense.

“I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about. And I can assure you, my life is not that interesting.” So what if she’d attended a top university on scholarship? She and thousands of others. It was nothing to be ashamed of. That said, what was he hoping to find?

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