Page 74 of Player
Finn
While Clarissa showers, I hack into her account and thumb through her videos. It’s a shite thing to do.
Erasing everything that exposes me or this job is one way of keeping her safe from the boss. Hayden won’t appreciate my inviting a reporter into our business, no matter how helpful she may be and no matter how masterfully I’ve lied. And a smart, capable reporter with an eye for feckin’ trouble? No, Hayden has a ruthless track record of destroying anyone or anything that might hurt TORC.
Relationships are like Guinness and orange juice for a cutthroat like me—never to be mixed. Mix business with pleasure and the outcome will be disastrous.
I should cut her loose. Get rid of her.
Soon, I think. In the meantime, it’ll have to be delete, delete, delete.
Focus, bucko. Do. The. Job.
I get back to the business of ruining her work. Clarissa’s good at documenting moments, and you can’t help but be proud of her. It still doesn’t stop me. The fight club in the moonlight—delete. Men placing bets—delete. Shite, she even has me inside the cage—delete, delete, delete. Irish guilt has me transferring the videos to my own hack-proof account before I permanently erase them from hers. An eegit-worthy move because if Hayden ever finds them or asks me why I kept copies there will be hell to pay.
She’ll find a way to weave a story together with what remains.
Right-o.
When she discovers the missing videos, I’ll play ignorant. Hacks happen. Just ask those Hollywood celebrities whose nude pictures were exposed. No sense feeling guilty.
The shower shuts off. I tuck her phone back into her satchel and move across the room to her bed.
She comes into the room wearing a towel and a smug smile on her face, wet hair falling around her face, skin pink from her shower. So beautiful, I feel like I’ve been sucker punched in the gut.
“Can’t get enough of me, huh?” she asks.
We parted ways an hour earlier, yet here I feckin’ am, a glutton for punishment.
“Did something happen? Did you connect with O’Brien?” she asks excitedly, searching my face.
You happened.
I can only stare at her. Unable to ask for what I want. Unable to have “the talk” and share with her all the reasons we can never be.
“Finn. What’s wrong?” She moves to the bed and plops down beside me. “God, this is going to be bad, isn’t it? Did he move on? Is the uranium gone?”
“It’s not the job.”
“Oh.” She’s quiet beside me, waiting.
Except I can’t tell her I’m sorry.
I stand, ready to retreat.
“I know,” she says, stopping me in my tracks.
Knows what?
Frowning, I spin her way.
She’s on her feet now. Head cocked to the side, hand on hip, waiting for me to speak.
“What is it you think you know?”
“This is a booty call.”
“Booty call?”
