Page 19 of Dirty Little Secret, Baby
I’ve moved the rest of today’s work home. I’m in my living room, swirling a whiskey on the rocks in my hand while poring over some documents, but in my head I’m stuck on that stupid bet I agreed to, wondering what my next steps are.
Then it hits me I must look like one of those ridiculous, stereotypical Hollywood billionaires who wander around their mansions bored, knocking back whiskey. I set the glass aside, pack up the papers, and check my messages again.
Nothing.
That’s a good sign, because after leaving the restaurant I called Eric right away and asked him to hire a private investigator to keep an eye on Beth’s shop. He should contact me immediately if Jake shows up there, because then...
RIIINNNNNG
My doorbell. I head to the video intercom. There’s nothing to see at the street, and the image from the camera at the door is—once again—not visible because some joker has parked a flowerpot with one of the plants right in front of it.
Another one of those doorbell pranks. They’ve tapered off since last year, but I still haven’t found the culprit. Upgrading the camera so I can watch the footage from before the ring didn’t help either. Most of the time it was just a masked figure who then hustled off.
I suspected my neighbors. But they live in houses as big as mine. Why the hell would they waste time with doorbell pranks when they’re pro athletes, CEOs, or the like? It made no sense. Maybe one of their kids? Rich kids do get bored. But am I supposed to just call every neighbor and ask: "Excuse me, does your kid like wearing balaclavas and pulling doorbell pranks?"
Who would admit that? The parents would probably just shove their kid’s elite-school report card under my nose and I’d have to sit through lectures about the golf handicap their childrenalready have. I swore that if I ever had kids, they’d grow up grounded, go to a normal school, and...
I brush the thought aside as I walk to the door, wondering what’s waiting for me today. Me as a father figure... that was way too far off.
When I open the door, I let out a breath, because I’m greeted by a pitiful meow. In front of me isn’t a flaming paper bag filled with dog crap but a sweet little black-and-gray mottled kitten looking up at me and...
Oh God, is it bleeding from one of its paws?
"Where are you, you pig?" I shout, looking around, but of course there’s no one there.
"It’s okay, little one," I say, bending down and carefully extending my hand. The kitten trembles at first, then calms as I pet it. "Don’t be scared."
"I’m taking you inside now," I say, gently lifting the kitten into my arms, and I wonder how twisted someone can be. Flaming bags of dog crap were one thing. But deliberately injuring a cat and dropping it off—that was clearly too far.
"I’ll call a vet to take care of you. Want something to drink in the meantime?" I ask the sweet little thing looking up at me with big, innocent eyes. "I’m sure you do. Hang on a sec. And I’ll call Eric—he should send someone to bring you something decent to eat. You must be hungry."
I get ameowin response and can’t help grinning.
After I set a bowl of water in front of her, I dial Eric’s number.
"Boss, good thing you’re calling, I—"
"Let me go first," I cut him off and lay out my request.
"Okay, boss. Got it. I’ll handle it myself. But there’s something else..."
"What is it?" I ask.
"Jake... he’s in front of the shop on 4th Street. He’s still in the car, our guy on site says."
"Why the hell didn’t you say that right away?" I snap at him.
"But you wanted to handle the things for your cat first. Sir, I was just..." he stammers.
"I’m sorry, Eric. You’re right," I say evenly, thinking about Jake and how he treated Dilara. Am I really any different? I should treat my people better.
"Sorry about the tone. I’ll head out right away. The chopper’s still busted, I assume, so I’ll take the car. Can you take care of the cat? Her name is Cutie," I add.
"Will do, boss," Eric replies after a beat. "Are you okay?"
"You mean because I sound like a human right now, Eric? Yeah, thanks for asking. I’ve rarely been better," I reply.
Then we end the call, I grab the keys, run to the car, and kick myself for not going straight to Beth after the bet. It should’ve been obvious Jake would show up there right away. But what would I have said? Ask her to dinner again?
