Page 20 of Hot Lap
"Reece mentioned you might need this." She hands me a small bottle of ibuprofen and a Gatorade from her purse. It’s the kinda maternal move I’m used to from Frankie.
I take them gratefully, downing three pills and half the bottle. "So, you're what? His fixer?"
"I manage his career and his public image." She taps something into her phone, then looks up with a hawk’s gaze. I’m pretty sure Branca Flores misses nothing. "This marriage is...pues... a surprise. But my job now is to protect both of you from the sharks who would make this into a circus show."
"Too late," I mutter, zipping up my suitcase. "So are you here to offer me money to quietly disappear?"
Something in her gaze gets real sharp. “Is that why you married him?”
“No. I kinda don’t know why I said yes. But after meeting his dad, I figured?—”
Branca cuts me off. "Reece isnothis father, and if he wanted out of this, he wouldn't have sent me. He can clean up his own messes. I don’t wipe his ass or his nose." She looks me directly in the eyes. "He asked me to help you, Maiken, not make you disappear."
I'm not sure why, but I believe her.
"Now, shower and dress in something comfortable, but with coverage."
For a hot second, I consider telling her to leave, that I'll handle this mess. But what would that even look like? Barricading myself in this apartment until the press gets bored? Calling in sick to my classes while my face is splashed across the internet?
I exhale slowly. Sometimes surrender is the smartest move.
I go on autopilot and follow her instructions. It's easier than trying to make my addled brain figure this shit out for me.
The shower is quick but heavenly, washing away the stale sweat and lingering bar-hopping-boozefest stink. The hot water helps clear my head, if not my situation. Makeup is minimal, just enough to not look completely wrecked on camera, though I take a few extra minutes to hide the goddamned black-and-blue bruises on my wrist with coverup and powder. My favorite wide-leg empire waist trousers and a fitted pale pink blouse with a Peter Pan collar make me feel put-together andalmostsweet. Which is good because deep down I'm still leaning toward homicidal.
My hair looks like absolute shit, so I pull it into a low bun, then cover it with a dark green turban I bought while thrifting last month. Fixing my do properly would require time and patience, both of which are in critically short supply this morning. The last touches are lip gloss, a skinny brown belt, and my matching brown and white t-strap Mary Janes.
When I emerge from the bathroom, Branca evaluates me with a critical eye, her gaze methodically assessing my appearance from head to toe. After a moment, she nods. "Good. The car is waiting. Are you ready?"
"Yes, except I need cash."
"No." One syllable, flat and final.
"But—"
She shakes her head. "You're worried about the wrong things. Anything you need, Reece or the team will cover it."
Uh. No. No fucking way am I gonna be dependent on a man I hardly know in a country I can’t even find on a map.
“Branca, I appreciate all you’re doing, but I’mnotflying to a foreign country without cash. My mother didn’t raise me to be an idiot, current circumstances aside.”
She laughs. “I want to meet her someday.” She checks her watch, then pulls her wallet from her handbag. “Here.” She fishes a handful of colorful foreign currency and a black credit card from her wallet and offers them to me.
“I can’t take your money.”
“This is Reece’s money, which means it’s yours.”
I stare at it and sigh. “I don’t want to be indebted to him.”
"Indebted?" Branca makes a dismissive gesture. "You are his wife, not his debtor. This is how marriage works, no?"
Still, I hesitate. She handles this too easily. “I take it this happens a lot?”
Her brows arch and she shakes her head. “No. Not with Reece. He is a careful man.”
I chew my lip and debate. Am I really doing this? Flying across the world with people I barely know? If it wasn't for the vultures outside my door, I'd think I was walking into some human trafficking nightmare. Except Reece's life is too public for that. Apparently, the man can't scratch his ass without someone documenting it.
So what are my alternatives? Hide in my apartment and reread my entire collection of Drew Katterman novels while reporters camp outside? Watch my students' parents pull their kids from my classes when they realize their ballet teacher is a "Vegas stripper"? At least in Qatar, I can figure out my next move without cameras in my face.
