Dirty Headlines

I’d blow his cover in a second if it wasn’t for the fact that at this point, he was recovering from his fourth heart attack, newly divorced, and too tired to fight back. I liked my wars fair and didn’t need another death on my conscience. I was waiting for him to quietly step down from his position so I could assume it and cut my ties with him permanently.

I RSVPed to the stupid event and bounced my foot, looking up for a distraction. The woman in front of me—late twenties, good looking in a corporate-wallflower, champagne-blond kind of way—smiled at me from behind her hardcover Oprah’s Book Club novel. I didn’t smile back. I wasn’t looking for a hookup for hookup’s sake. I wasn’t a player—whatever the fuck that meant—and, unlike some, I didn’t treat fucking as a national sport.

My one-night stand with Judith had been one of a handful. I usually spaced them out to every other month or so—just enough to keep my sexual appetite and libido sated without having to worry about my dick falling off from an unknown disease. At any rate, I’d fucked Jude not too long ago, and would be going for round two soon, if it was up to me.

The woman tucked her book into her bag, got up from her seat, and walked toward the doors, waiting for them to open. She shot me another look, this time wistful.

“Taken?” she mouthed.

I nodded.

“All the good ones are.” She stepped outside.

I should have thought about Lily when I confirmed my status. She did, after all, walk around with a ring that cost considerably more than Judith’s apartment—a family heirloom that should have been given to Camille.

But all I could think of was the girl who’d yelled at me last week at the bar, then sought me out with her green-brown eyes and wouldn’t let go of my goddamn thoughts, long after I got back to my apartment.

And into my shower, where I’d fisted my cock and imagined her smart mouth wrapped around it as I came all over my dirty blond tiles.

The hashtags #CharityGala and #MeToo stared back at me from the cream banner as I entered the event, celebrated on the massive rooftop terrace of the Laurent Towers Hotel. Sleek pink and peach carpets, roses spilling from sculptures like rivers, and long tables covered in velvet black tablecloths—no matter how much money my father was going to raise here, it wouldn’t cover half of what this evening had cost.

I wore a tux and a scowl, Lily trailing alongside me in her gold chiffon dress that managed to have too much fabric yet still expose the better half of her tits. Not that I cared. I knew Lily was screwing around, too. I wasn’t a hypocrite, and I was about as possessive of her as I was of the piece of human turd I’d nearly stepped on as I walked into work yesterday morning, exiting the train. I didn’t want to bring her, but even I recognized that we needed to show some kind of united front. Plus, it was a good opportunity for me to check in on her family, most of whom I actually liked quite a bit.

“Your parents okay?” Our arms were locked together, but I stared straight ahead.

“They miss you.” She couldn’t even answer a simple yes-or-no question.

“Your sisters?” I ignored her pleading tone. I missed them, too. But spending time with them like nothing had happened was impossible.

“Yes, Scarlett and Grace are doing all right.”

“And Madelyn?” There was a lot of estrogen in her family. Her father was surrounded by three daughters, a mother, and a wife.

“My grandmother is peachy. She really wants you to visit her. Said she’ll even make your favorite pie.”

“I might,” I rasped, meaning it. Madelyn Davis was a fucking rock star.

The minute Lily and I entered the room, I began to search for Judith with my eyes like a thirteen year old who’s just discovered his cock. It wasn’t intentional, but primal nonetheless. I wanted to see what she was wearing, how she’d done her makeup, and who she was with. My educated guess was Gary and Ava. She seemed to be spending a lot of time with them, even though she’d formed strong relationships with Kate, Jessica, and Brianna, too.

Lily did the annoying thing she tended to do on the rare occasions we were out in public, and tugged at my sleeve to make sure I was no more than three inches away from her. We were exchanging pleasantries with a bunch of regular guests on the show—a prosecutor, two judges, and a former producer of a competing network. My father ambled toward us, armed with a date who looked fresh out of high school, his laughter sending uncomfortable chills down my spine. She wore an Oscar De La Renta number and beamed like he’d just picked the stars from the skies and rested them in her palm.