Page 90 of Reckless Desire

“I paid Sydney’s debt and she got upset. I haven’t heard from her in two weeks. Could you check on her?”

“Jesus. What do you mean you paid her debt? What debt?” Sheets rustle in the background.

“Jeremy’s debt. Not my story to tell, but I’m worried and she hasn’t been answering her phone. I’ll bang on her door tonight, but could you please check on her?” The worry crawls up my neck.

“Of course I will. Not for you, though, for her. Why didn’t you call me earlier?” she snarls.

“Because I’m an idiot. It only occurred to me now that she probably retreated from life overall. She’s been on sick leave from school.”

“Jesus Christ, Hunter, you should have called me sooner.”

“Obviously I can’t do anything right,” I snap, tired of all the should-haves.

“It’s nice of you to take care of her debt. Though I can see how that triggered some of the old baggage. I’ll talk to her and text you.” She hangs up.

I groan. How am I going to survive this day? I reach the destination, a large warehouse, and try to put on a normal face.

I hate that I have to be here.

I hate that I haven’t gone to Sydney sooner.

I hate that I didn’t at least call London earlier.

“Hunter,” Delaney greets me with a cheer. “You dog.” She punches my biceps. “I spilled my coffee this morning and was ready to kill you, but the network loves the story and plans to spin it to capitalize on the publicity.”

What is she talking about? What story?

“Don’t look at me like that? Is it true?” She bounces on her tiptoes in glee. “No, no, don’t tell me. It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

“What are you talking about?” I growl. Fuck this day.

She scrolls on her phone and turns the screen to me. Red spreads at the edges of my vision as something inside me dies. Mother-fucking Gigi.

My own face smiles at me from Delaney’s phone with a headline that I’ve been dreading for years now.

Owner of Manhattan Fitness Club Former Gigolo.

I run my hand down my face. “I’m sorry, Delaney.” And then her words register. “What do you mean the network wants to spin it?”

“They’re leaking info about the show and your involvement, hoping to get some free publicity, and frankly it’s kind of cool. Are you really retired?” She winks, but the smirk disappears under the heat of my glare.

If there was a chance this would die unnoticed as a tiny mention by some inspired blogger, it went up in flames when I signed up for the show.

I need to talk to Caro. What am I even going to say? But it has to be me telling her sensibly rather than one of the helicopter moms withwell-intendedcruelty.

“And imagine… for a moment I considered giving the show to Ash.” Delaney shakes her head and continues swiping through the coverage. “This is gold, Hunter. You’ll be famous before we air. Let’s get you ready.”

I stare at her, my head on the brink of a nuclear explosion. I’ve feared that one day I’d have to explain my former gig to Caro and face the judgment of strangers. Never did I imagine that when that day came, it wouldn’t even be my top worry.

“What do you mean you considered Ash?” I follow her as we walk toward the makeup station.

“When he came to me saying you felt bad telling me no but that you didn’t really want to do the show, and how he would love the opportunity. But you accepted the offer that same day, so I forgot about it.”

Before I even have time to process the information, I’m pulled into work. Makeup, change of clothes and endless standing, posing, smiling. The last one is the biggest struggle. Delaney complains, but the photographer says my brooding is a turn-on and people will love it.

By the end of the shoot I feel like a piece of meat, chewed up and spit out. I hope shooting the show will feel less vain, more impactful. Though I shouldn’t judge the work by today because my head has been anywhere but here.

I give the network’s driver Sydney’s address.

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