Page 44 of Love Marks

“Yikes. Hope they aren’t listening to this one. I’m not using my interview voice.”

Tim huffs out a laugh that ends into a sigh. “The thing I can’t figure out is how the hell the media got their hands on the story. I swear to God, this shit was airtight. Nobody knew about the investigation because they don’t have much evidence and we’ve been cooperating. Then last week I went to The Phoenix for a meeting with my lawyer to discuss my case. The next day I’m on the front page of every newspaper in this goddamn city.”

I’ve mostly zoned out of Tim’s rant at this point, because my mind is stuck on one tiny detail.

“Sorry, did you say The Phoenix?”

“Yeah. New York Post must have the place fuckin’ bugged or something.”

“Or something,” I mumble, my head spinning.

It’s a coincidence. Just a coincidence.

My mind flickers with the memory of my argument with Quinn, the image of her insisting she didn’t leak the story. The raw glimpse of honesty I thought I’d seen in her eyes.

No, no. This can’t be happening. Because if someone else, some other employee at The Phoenix is the rat, then that means…

My stomach drops.

“Tim? I’m sorry to rush off but I have to go.”

“No problem, bud. Thanks for calling.”

I hang up, my body moving rapidly, as if I’m on autopilot. Hands shaking, I dial The Phoenix, needing answers.

* * *

A few hours later, I’m sitting at my desk in the darkness, replaying my conversations with Pierre.

Ian’s been maitre-d here for almost 5 years and we’ve never had any problems.

Rest assured, he will be fired immediately and the situation will be reconciled.

Of course, Miss Taylor can certainly have her job back. I’ll be calling her personally with my apologies.

The words swirl together in my brain as I knock back another full glass of whisky. I stopped keeping track a few glasses ago. I don’t normally drink like this, but I need to get rid of the feeling that’s pooling in my gut and clawing its way up my throat.

I pour myself another glass with shaking hands, attacking myself with my thoughts.

All this time, I’ve been blaming Quinn. Treating her terribly. Making her cry, making her flinch away from me, making her dread seeing me so much she’d rather call in sick than face me.

A wave of nausea rolls through me. Oh god. Am I going to be sick?

My head is pounding with the painful reminder of our last encounter, as if my mind is tormenting me with every conversation, every jab I threw in her direction.

Do I apologize? Would she even forgive me? Do I even deserve her forgiveness, or anyone’s for that matter?

I don’t even know.

All I know is I feel so deep in despair, so wracked with guilt, so deeply uncomfortable with the realization that all I’ve done for the past few weeks is make life difficult for someone who only ever treated me with patience.

I push down the tears threatening to spill over and knock back another glass, praying the whiskey numbs me completely.

Chapter 21

Quinn

My stomach rolls with another wave of anxiety as I ride the elevator up to the familiar penthouse suite. It somehow feels more sinister than ever, like I’m about to confront the final boss at the end of the video game. Honestly, Bowser sounds like a sweet turtle in comparison to Wesley Marks. Every fiber within my being screams abort mission now!

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