“I read the article on Grady’s phone. She took a leap on me, but she sliced open Marco and Karen. Their lives are messy and riddled with deceit, but they always loved her. She desecrated your reputation! I’m not letting that slide.”
“My reputation is solid. All that was written is complete bullshit.”
“She thinks she’s protected by these walls. Time to prove her wrong.”
“I’m looking forward to your show.”
I take her hand and we trail behind Grady into the facility. He stops at the desk, flashes some sort of badge, and the lady jumps to her feet, rushing around the corner. In less than a minute, she returns, accompanied by two men in suits. They look at our group grimly.
Grady’s demeanor changes, going directly into don’t-fuck-with-me-mode. There are no pleasantries exchanged as he tells them Poppy will meet with Natasha Bindel.
The older one’s expression turns stern, his beady eyes heating, but his counter-part agrees instantly. “Tasha is currently in the common area. Would you like a private room?”
“No,” Poppy answers cheerily, “privacy isn’t necessary.”
I exchange a look with Jackson, both of us thinking the same.
Common area could equal public humiliation. My devious wife has a plan.
When we get to the room, I’m pleased to see it’s packed with people. The televisions are on the playoff games, and at least twenty men are watching intently. The far side of the room is more like a library with a state-of-the-art computer center. Each station is occupied with patients that have technology privileges.
Tasha is sitting by herself flipping through a magazine. The stark difference from last week is shocking. The woman is a vile human being, but it’s easy to see how she uses her appearance as a weapon. Poppy drops my hand and takes the lead, strutting over. She stops less than a foot away, and my first impulse is to yank her out of reach.
“If you’re here to talk, you’re too late. The time for talking was last week.” Tasha continues to flip pages.
Poppy doesn’t speak, her expression blank and mind lost in thought as she stares down. Minutes tick by as her silence wears on. Others in the room take notice, filling the air with hushed whispers and wondering glances.
Tasha finally raises her eyes and slams down the magazine. Her face recoils in disgust. “Jesus, Caitlyn, are you wearing shimmering pink eye shadow? You really are a circus freak.”
A growl rumbles in my throat and Jackson steps in.
“Mmm, you brought the eye-candy with you today.” Tasha licks her lips, gaping hungrily between Jackson and me.
“You’re done.” It’s a simple statement loaded with conviction.
“I’m done? You limped in here looking like a Punky Brewster reject to say that? God, you are pathetic.”
“I’ve spent most of my life in the spotlight, whereas you’ve spent most of your life trying to get your shot. The first lesson I learned was survival. No one led the way, padded my bank account, or covered my ass. It was all me.” Poppy goes on, undeterred.
“Bullshit. What you did was twirl on a stage in skimpy costumes, showing off your tits and ass. You have no idea what survival means.”
Fury boils in my veins, and my instincts scream to put distance between them.
“Get ready, Natasha. Today is your day. I’m about to deliver your big break. And your fifteen minutes of fame are going to be explosive.”
Fire of righteousness flames in her eyes. “You don’t know the meaning of explosive.”
“Depends on your definition.” Poppy peers over her shoulder at me, her eyes twinkling. “Honey, am I capable of explosive?”
The innuendo dips from her sweet voice and shit if my cock doesn’t twitch. “Every fucking time.”
“Lucky bastard,” Jackson mumbles.
She grins appreciatively, turning her attention back. “One thing about stepping into the spotlight is the sheer brilliance of anticipation. The stage, the lights, the music… all of it must come together to deliver a perfect performance. Lucky for you, I’m a pro.”
“You’re full of shit. I’ll ruin you.”
“How? By convincing a two-bit rag reporter to run a story depicting me as a child abuser? Pffttt, that is already gone. As for those pictures making me look like a drunk? Terrible photoshop efforts. Adult entertainer? Really? Such amateur hour. I expected so much more,” she goads scathingly. “Months of planning and plotting and that’s what you came up with? For someone with a lifetime of experience as a guileful con-artist, you disappoint. The story has been retracted with a pleading apology, and my lawyer is in talks of compensatory damages.”
The last part hasn’t happened, but I suspect it will soon.
Tasha’s not buying it. “You’re lying.”
“Ask my lawyer.”
Tasha’s gaze flies to Jackson and she snarls. “Whatever.”
Grady scans over something on his phone and slides it in front of Poppy.
“The reporter you blackmailed is signing like a canary.”
This is news to me, but Poppy delivers it so convincingly I wonder if it’s true.