When Mom found out what had been going on, she was furious. Had a chat with Fred’s mom. I thought they’d resolve it amicably—they were friends, after all—but nope. Mom came home, called Fred’s mom “that bitch” in an extra-cold voice—I don’t think she knew I was listening—and never spoke to her again. And it was terrible until Fred’s family moved to New York because Fred’s mother was on every damn committee at my school and in the neighborhood, and she had lots of friends in the area. She did her best to snub Mom every chance she got…and there were a lot of chances.
“And it’s Shelly who’s the bitch, not her mom,” I add. “Mrs. Morris is fine. I just don’t want to be responsible for Mom’s relationship going sour.” Mrs. Morris is also on tons of volunteer groups and other social stuff that Mom is involved in. She has scores of friends, many of them mutual with Mom. I don’t think Mrs. Morris would snub anyone…but then, I didn’t think that about Fred’s mom, either.
“Yeah, but keeping secrets like this isn’t good. It’s going to come back and bite you in the ass.”
“Stop worrying. Go do something productive instead.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you…” Derek trails off and grows quiet. Must be getting alerts on his phone. He gets distracted easily by social media. It’s a trait he shares with the youngest of us, Trent.
“The blonde’s your assistant?” Derek says suddenly.
Uh-oh. “How did you know? Did Jan tell you?”
“It’s all over the gossip sites.”
What the hell? I sit up straight, dread settling over me. No fucking way this is possible. I wouldn’t have recognized Erin from that photo myself if I hadn’t been there. “How did they find out?”
“An anonymous source. So Erin is the girl.”
“Yeah, but that’s not what’s important.” I think fast. None of the people at the auction is the type to tell, calling themselves an “anonymous source.”
Fordham?
But…no. If he wanted everyone to know, he would’ve made his move the moment the picture came out, instead of sending those ridiculous roses. I mean, what kind of boring idiot sends red roses? Everyone buys those.
“They also linked her to you,” Derek adds. “They know she works for you.”
Shit.
A conversation I had with Dane a while back fleets through my brain. We were talking about being famous. He said it was overrated because his Hollywood superstar cousin Ryder Reed never gets any peace, since reporters—the term was uttered with a cynicism only Dane can muster—constantly want a piece of him. “They show up on location, at his home, stalk him in his car…” Dane said with cold contempt.
Neither Erin nor Fordham nor I are as high-profile as Ryder Reed. Nowhere close, really. But right now, news is slow, and these so-called journalists are always looking for clickbait. The more outrageous the story, the better. And based on what Matt said, Warren Fordham is interesting enough. Throw in a woman and a possible rival…click, click, baby.
“I gotta go,” I say, and hang up immediately to try Erin’s number. She doesn’t pick up. I try security, praying everything’s business as usual.
“Security desk.”
“This is David Darling. Is everything okay down there?”
“Inside the building, yeah. But there’s a group of media vultures outside. Some lady just went out, and she’s getting mobbed.”
Jesus. Cold fear clutches my heart, and my pulse leaps. I know it’s Erin. Has to be. She left only minutes ago.
“Was she carrying flowers?”
“Yeah, a huge red bouquet. They’re scattered all over the pavement now, though.”
The fear turns into terror. Those assholes can make a Black Friday stampede look civilized. A bitter tang coats my mouth.
“We’re calling the police,” the man says.
He couldn’t have done that sooner? “Can you do something now?”
“I can’t leave the desk, and my partner can’t fight them by himself. This wasn’t in the contract.”
Useless pussies!
Furious that these assholes are worried about a fucking contract, I sprint out. Both elevators are on the first floor, and it’s going to take forever.