The Monster (Boston Belles 3)

This was why the headline made sense. Because Barbara told me she had taken one of the deals. That she was going to write the tell-all. The plan was to have Gerald beg me to step in. I, in turn, would have a confession from him, throw my weight a little around Barbara, pay her to keep her mouth shut, and the whole thing would be canceled.

Then, depending on Gerald’s version of what went down between him and Cat, I planned to shed some Fitzpatrick blood. Not a lot. Just enough to satisfy my bloodthirsty nature.

“You didn’t get an offer from anyone.” Gerald shook his head. “Your calls to the publishers went straight to Emmabelle Penrose’s phone.”

I could feel my face morph from anger to disgust. I was played not only by Ash, but by that airheaded Barbie.

As if hearing my internal thoughts, Gerald offered a quick nod.

“Aisling didn’t want you to recognize her voice. She had your calls redirected to Emmabelle’s phone each time you made an inquiry. And once the so-called contract between Barbara and the publishing house of her choice was signed, you were out of the loop. You only ever saw the contract. You didn’t actually speak to any of the people Barbara had spoken to.”

That was true. The minute I hooked Barbara McAllister up with a so-called literary agent—who was probably Emmabelle, too—I stepped aside and tended to my own business, secure in the notion everything would run smoothly.

“How did Ash redirect the calls to Belle?” I narrowed my eyes at Gerald. Everything seemed too flawless to be done without any help.

Gerald smiled a smile that sank into the pit of my fucking stomach.

No.

“Yes,” Gerald replied, and I realized I said the word out loud. “She used the man who knows how to be Sam Brennan better than Sam Brennan—Troy Brennan.”

For the first time in a long time, I had nothing to say. Nothing other than where the fuck was Aisling? Why wasn’t she the one confronting me? Only the answer was obvious. She didn’t want anything to do with me. Every time we were alone, I’d somehow find a way into her pants before pushing her away and telling both of us it would never happen again.

Fucking pathetic.

And this time I didn’t mean her.

“If it makes you feel any better, your adoptive father had no idea this had anything to do with you. He would never betray you like this. Aisling told him she needed a few certain numbers to be redirected to Belle because, as you know, Belle is the owner at Madame Mayhem, a local nightclub, and she said someone was trying to target the club and write a damning tell-all about the managers and goings-on inside,” Gerald continued, taking another generous sip of whiskey.

I took a drag off my cigarette. My drink remained untouched.

Through the curtains, the oranges and pinks of a winter sunrise colored the sky. I tapped my cigarette to the side of my lip, mulling it over.

“It was airtight,” I said eventually.

“Yes,” Gerald agreed. “Aisling did all the leg work. When Troy asked why she didn’t come to you directly to deal with the publishing companies, she explained that because she was infatuated with you, she wanted to limit your communication to the bare minimum.”

She even used her weaknesses to her advantage.

“We communicate often,” I bit out harshly, childishly, the need to fuck her over right back overwhelming me. “If that’s what you want to call it. So where is this Barbara woman now?”

I knew where she was going to be soon.

Six feet under.

Actually, that wasn’t true. I wasn’t going to kill Barbara, but not because she didn’t deserve it for double-crossing me. I wasn’t going to kill her because it was obvious Aisling fucking Fitzpatrick was going to go after my ass, knowing I had one hell of a motive. It wasn’t a cold day in Hell, but finally, I found someone who held me accountable for my actions.

It wasn’t the police, the sheriff, the FBI, or the mayor, although all of them had tried.

It was a petite Irish girl with a smart mouth and eyes like bluebells who wanted to give me everything she had until I made it very clear to her I wasn’t worth any of it.

“That’s a great question.” Gerald grinned smugly, his face so punchable I was surprised it didn’t curve inside out.

He snapped his fingers, and just like that, Barbara materialized from the hallway, no longer looking like a day-shift stripper. Her hair was coiffed back, her attire a black velvet Prada suit and Chanel purse.

Yeah, she definitely didn’t need any food stamps or half-finished cigarette packs.

Barbara smiled at me apologetically, giving me a quick nod.

“I wanted to be here just to say I was sorry in person. I never meant to complicate things for you, Mr. Brennan, but Gerald is an old friend, and when he told me he was in trouble, I simply couldn’t turn my back on him. Surely, you can understand.”