Page 121 of The Love You Fight For
“Your car?”
“It was in his name, so I’m car-less for now.”
Then, I stop in my tracks.
“That’s why you got the apartment above The Outpost,” I say, and she shrugs.
“Yeah. Everything that is in his name is about to become government property. I had to be prepared.”
“And your writing? That was to make sure you had income?”
She nods.
“It’s also something I really enjoy doing, so it was a good outlet on nights when I felt like I was drowning in Senator Harper’s bullshit. Which, you know, was almost every night.”
I look her over. She’s still in her emerald dress. Her hair is still swept up in an elaborate, fancy updo. Her lips are bright red, and her heels are sky high, and you’d never know from looking at her that she’s worked tirelessly for ten years to build a case strong enough to put her corrupt father in prison.
“You’re something else, you know that? I’ve never met anyone like you before.”
She gives me a real, genuine smile full of mischief and humor and winks at me.
“And you never will. I’m one of a kind.”
TWENTY-NINE
I pullinto the parking lot of The Outpost and groan when I see the car behind me follow.
It’s way too early for this to be a bar patron. I park in my usual spot and my suspicions are confirmed when a man in a suit parks beside me. We both get out of our cars at the same time.
“Ms. Harper, can I have a word?” the reporter asks, and I grit my teeth and take a deep breath.
“This is private property.”
I try to sidestep him, but he steps with me, blocking my path to my apartment.
“I want to talk to you about the charges that have been brought up against your father,” he says, ignoring my comment. “Many people are curious about the things you said at his gala. You’ve got a lot of people demanding the truth, Ms. Harper. I’d just like to talk.”
I glare at him and hope he feels the heat of it through my dark sunglasses. My apartment has been swarmed by reporters almost every day for the last two weeks, and it got bad enough that Chris had to call the state police. The reporters have mostly been staying across the street now, but this one seems to beambitious. Or stupid.
“No comment,” I say flatly, just like Agent Sexton and the lawyers advised me. “Excuse me.”
I move to sidestep him again, but he follows me again, not letting me pass. I swallow back the urge to kick him in the balls and release a small sigh of relief when Chris’s truck pulls into the lot. I glance up at one of the new security cameras he installed last week. He gets a notification on his phone anytime a car enters the lot outside of business hours now.
Protective ass was probably watching me.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr....”
I raise an eyebrow and the reporter fills in the blank for me.
“Roberts,” he says quickly. “Chad Roberts of theHoustonSunTimes.”
Damn. These assholes are just flocking from all over the country. Chris pulls up behind Chad Roberts of theHouston Sun Times’scar and parks, then he hops out of the truck and heads behind the building without saying anything to me.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Roberts,” I continue, “but you’ll have to wait for the trial like everyone else. I’m afraid this was a wasted trip.”
This time, instead of sidestepping him I take several giant steps backward, making plenty of space for Chris as he opens fire on the reporter with the water hose. Chad Roberts screams and shouts profanities, then runs to the other side of his car to take cover. Chris follows, dousing the guy until he climbs into his car for shelter. The reporter is absolutely soaked, and I’m sure it’s not a pleasant feeling since the hose has the gun attachment that is used for spraying out the trash cans.
“Hi, baby.” Chris presses a kiss to my head just as a tow truck pulls into the lot. “Give me just a minute, yeah?”
