what everyone thought.
But isn’t it interesting that only six months after my mother’s sentencing, Jessica was engaged to a man no one even knew she was dating: Travis Gable, a man who knew Nick Foley quite well.
• • •
I tuck the memory away as I walk past the line of co-ops on Travis’s block, my eyes quick, looking for any sign of Lander. But he’s not here. I got out in time. Pulling my phone out of my handbag, I make a quick call to him, but it goes directly to voice mail.
“Hi, I’m sorry I had to cut you off before. I just finished a job interview not too far from you—right across the park in fact, and I was hoping you had a few minutes to catch up. Call me before I head out of here.”
I put the phone back in my purse and keep walking, another block, then two. It would be better if Lander called me before he went to see his brother, though there’s a good chance Travis won’t actually mention the name of his new assistant. After all, he doesn’t know the name means anything to Lander. Hell, he might not even mention that he’s hired an assistant at all; surely they have other, more important business to discuss.
Still, there’s a possibility that Travis might tell Lander that he’s hired an assistant named Bellona. The name is notably unique, so he might mention it as a casual comment. It’s a possibility I need to eliminate.
I walk another block, picking up my pace a bit. My whole body begs to be in motion, like it’s trying to keep up with my mind.
The streets of New York are alive with their usual organized chaos, people with briefcases walking blindly past the tourists, who are taking pictures of the street without even noticing the rock star strolling out of the deli a few doors down. Everyone is blind to what’s going on around them.
Just like Lloyd, Jessica and Travis’s last assistant, when I tailed him to a dive bar in Queens only last week.
• • •
He was standing on the side of the building when I approached him. I smiled weakly, my eyes cast down. “Got a light?”
Lloyd looked up, a Marlboro hanging from his full lips, his eyes narrow as if they were squinting, as if it were the middle of the day instead of late into the night. His posture was tense, his demeanor a little aggressive. Maybe he was hoping for a little action that night.
I was there to make sure he got it.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter as I held out a menthol cigarette. It’s the only kind I can stand. Normally I don’t smoke at all. But that night . . . well, I was a different woman.
I was the woman he wanted.
My hands shook as I brought the cigarette to my lips. I struggled not to shrink away as his eyes roamed over my torn tights and my dirty black miniskirt. I felt their cheapness against my skin, I felt the desperation of my sheer, skintight white nylon top over my black bra. I was exposed, easy prey . . .
. . . and Lloyd, with his hair styled for bad-boy appeal and his wifebeater shirt paired with his worn leather jacket, with his pouty lips and perfect skin . . . Lloyd was looking at me like a predator.
That’s all I needed.
I shivered as I reached for him, as I took his hand, as I moved into his space. My intentions left no room for subtlety. He looked at me questioningly, wondering who I was and what I was up to.
I wasn’t quite able to keep my voice steady when I asked, “Wanna party?”
His smile returned. The haze of smoke separated us, keeping the moment from feeling too real or too scary.
“What do you do?” he asked, his eyes hungry. “X?”
It’s the question of a novice. Anyone who actually does drugs would have seen my trembling hands, the dark circles under my eyes, my slumped shoulders . . . They’d see all that and they’d know X wasn’t my addiction.
“I’m thinking about a different letter,” I said. “Like . . . ‘H. ’ ”
I sounded like a little girl . . . or maybe like Marilyn Monroe or even Jennifer
But isn’t it interesting that only six months after my mother’s sentencing, Jessica was engaged to a man no one even knew she was dating: Travis Gable, a man who knew Nick Foley quite well.
• • •
I tuck the memory away as I walk past the line of co-ops on Travis’s block, my eyes quick, looking for any sign of Lander. But he’s not here. I got out in time. Pulling my phone out of my handbag, I make a quick call to him, but it goes directly to voice mail.
“Hi, I’m sorry I had to cut you off before. I just finished a job interview not too far from you—right across the park in fact, and I was hoping you had a few minutes to catch up. Call me before I head out of here.”
I put the phone back in my purse and keep walking, another block, then two. It would be better if Lander called me before he went to see his brother, though there’s a good chance Travis won’t actually mention the name of his new assistant. After all, he doesn’t know the name means anything to Lander. Hell, he might not even mention that he’s hired an assistant at all; surely they have other, more important business to discuss.
Still, there’s a possibility that Travis might tell Lander that he’s hired an assistant named Bellona. The name is notably unique, so he might mention it as a casual comment. It’s a possibility I need to eliminate.
I walk another block, picking up my pace a bit. My whole body begs to be in motion, like it’s trying to keep up with my mind.
The streets of New York are alive with their usual organized chaos, people with briefcases walking blindly past the tourists, who are taking pictures of the street without even noticing the rock star strolling out of the deli a few doors down. Everyone is blind to what’s going on around them.
Just like Lloyd, Jessica and Travis’s last assistant, when I tailed him to a dive bar in Queens only last week.
• • •
He was standing on the side of the building when I approached him. I smiled weakly, my eyes cast down. “Got a light?”
Lloyd looked up, a Marlboro hanging from his full lips, his eyes narrow as if they were squinting, as if it were the middle of the day instead of late into the night. His posture was tense, his demeanor a little aggressive. Maybe he was hoping for a little action that night.
I was there to make sure he got it.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter as I held out a menthol cigarette. It’s the only kind I can stand. Normally I don’t smoke at all. But that night . . . well, I was a different woman.
I was the woman he wanted.
My hands shook as I brought the cigarette to my lips. I struggled not to shrink away as his eyes roamed over my torn tights and my dirty black miniskirt. I felt their cheapness against my skin, I felt the desperation of my sheer, skintight white nylon top over my black bra. I was exposed, easy prey . . .
. . . and Lloyd, with his hair styled for bad-boy appeal and his wifebeater shirt paired with his worn leather jacket, with his pouty lips and perfect skin . . . Lloyd was looking at me like a predator.
That’s all I needed.
I shivered as I reached for him, as I took his hand, as I moved into his space. My intentions left no room for subtlety. He looked at me questioningly, wondering who I was and what I was up to.
I wasn’t quite able to keep my voice steady when I asked, “Wanna party?”
His smile returned. The haze of smoke separated us, keeping the moment from feeling too real or too scary.
“What do you do?” he asked, his eyes hungry. “X?”
It’s the question of a novice. Anyone who actually does drugs would have seen my trembling hands, the dark circles under my eyes, my slumped shoulders . . . They’d see all that and they’d know X wasn’t my addiction.
“I’m thinking about a different letter,” I said. “Like . . . ‘H. ’ ”
I sounded like a little girl . . . or maybe like Marilyn Monroe or even Jennifer
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