Page 78 of Shot Taker

She cocks her head, reaching for her own wine. “I don’t sound like that.”

“You do a little.”

Her eyes roll, and I find a smile.

“James is bored and trying to make his mark somewhere. His family made headlines for their business acumen, and he wants to see his name in the papers too.”

“I didn’t leak the photos. You don’t think James did it himself?”

“No. The fact that these got out without him knowing pissed him off, but probably more was the fact his name wasn’t mentioned once.”

“Then someone else must’ve done it, probably as a prank.”

When Mari asked me over for dinner, I jumped at it.

“I do have good news," I say. "This gallery owner in New York wants to have an exhibition of my art.”

“Really?!”

“Mhmm. I wasn’t sure if I was going to take it, but with the way James is talking, I need to start figuring out my next steps.”

“You never liked an ultimatum. When we were six or seven, you were running around naked, and Mom and Dad told you to put your clothes on for dinner or you could swim in the lake the entire time we were gone and we’d pick you up after. You dove back in without a second glance.”

“It backfired. Even though there was a lifeguard, Mom went to get hot dogs, and all of you had to stay at the beach and eat on a blanket.”

“It was fun,” she says, grinning. “What made you stop being that girl?”

“A lot of things.” I take a big gulp of wine. “Mom and Dad dying. You always making the right moves. I started to feel like I wasn’t helping things by going my own direction. So, I tried to go with the flow instead of making waves.”

She grabs my arm. “You can make waves with me.”

I smile.

Mari looks at my almost-empty glass. “We need a new bottle,” she insists, though she’s barely touched hers. “Want to go grab one?”

“What kind?”

“Whatever you like.”

I bounce down to the cellar and select two reds at random.

“Mar, I brought a spare in case one is from a fifteenth-century monastery and being saved for you and Harlan’s first-born or something…”

I trail off as I see her standing over the island, staring at the marble surface, the wooden spoon dripping onto the floor.

She holds up my phone. “Nova. Who is this?”

Grumpy Baller: I miss the fuck out of you. Can’t sleep without you here.

My stomach drops.

“Please tell me it’s not one of Harlan’s players. Miles likes to flirt, but you know better than—”

“It’s not Miles. It’s Clay.”

Her mouth falls open. “Nova. He’s an asshole.”

I set both wine bottles on the island and take a breath. “He’s a good guy. You don’t know him, not really. All anyone knows is what he presents to the media in interviews.”

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