Page 66 of Savage Temptation
“We need to stop talking about this,” I insist.
“Not until I say we’re through.”
“What else do you want to know, then?” I snap.
“Why’d you break up with her, or whatever it was you were to each other? She was never clear on that.”
“Because I fucked everything up. I fucked things up with you and still consider myself lucky to have recovered our friendship. And then there was the fallout over the damn video. She’ll be forever haunted by it, byme.”
“That was never you. Sure, you have some weird kinks going on, but you never intended to hurt her.”
“If that’s what unintentionally happens as a result of seeing me, then I should stay single.”
“You’re being a dumbass.”
“Excuse me?”
“Life has gone on. My mother, who is a schoolteacher, laughed about it. Our grandma, who’s seventy-two years old, is telling the story to all her friends in the nursing home. Savage stock is still on the rise. Tessa’s workload hasn’t changed. Everyone had a laugh and moved on with their lives. That is, everyone except my sis, because she was dumped by a douchebag.”
The hits just keep coming.
I keep my emotions well hidden. “Is that all?”
“Are you tired of hearing what a coward you are?”
I scoff. “As though I’m the only coward. Have you told Tessa about your girlfriend yet?”
“That isnotthe same.”
“Whether or not it’s the same, the result is something we’ve seen before: Tessa feels betrayed and ends up hurt.”
“You’re a fucking asshole.”
“Yeah, I am—don’t be like me. Cindy’s a sweet girl, and you shouldn’t have to hide her.”
“Do you think I want this? She’s the one that wants to hide it.”
An alarm rings, alerting me to an interview I have lined up.
“Give Cindy my best,” I say as I fly out the door.
I walk the block to my apartment, where I meet Ivy Cook, a reporter for Chatter magazine. It’s a gossip rag, but they have a lot of pull and they’re not known to lie.
Ivy extends a hand out for me to shake. “Mr. Savage, it’s good to meet you.”
Mid-twenties, tallish, long dark hair, a blouse that cares little for modesty—they’re all the same.
“How long is this expected to take?” I ask curtly.
She chuckles. “The interview can be as short as fifteen minutes, but I’m free all night.”
Of course she is.
I escort her into the elevator and up to my penthouse, where she settles into a couch.
She asks a series of questions that are mind-numbingly boring, but what she lacks in conversation skills, she makes up in blouse removal.
Since sitting down, two additional buttons have come undone, but that’s not nearly as distracting as her nipples poking through the fabric. As much as I love when women go braless, sometimes it comes across as a little too desperate.
