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Authors: Molly O'Keefe
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the news?”
“Been busy, Wes. Puking my guts up.”
The screen changed to a picture of a pretty woman with curly brown hair and a wide smile.
“That’s Ashley Montgomery,” Wes said. “She was kidnapped by pirates, rescued, and then vanished again.”
“And I thought I had it bad,” she muttered, pleased when Wes smiled at her.
“The worldwide media search for Ashley Montgomery has finally ended,” the news anchor said. “Montgomery has turned up in a small town in Arkansas, where she’s been recuperating after surviving three weeks in a Somali pirate camp. Apparently she’s been busy organizing a series of senior citizen initiatives in the small town but has said that she will be stepping out occasionally to help her brother’s congressional campaign.”
A man, blond-haired and smiling, radiating a kind of poise and confidence that one would expect from a guy running for office, was shaking hands with people in a huge crowd as he walked toward a podium.
The crowd was holding signs that said Harrison Montgomery for Congress and A New Hope .
“Two months ago, Harrison Montgomery’s run for Georgia’s Fifth District seat in the House of Representativesseemed like a sure thing. But Republican candidate Arthur Glendale is giving the Montgomery Golden Boy a run for his money.”
“Ryan?” Wes asked. “What’s wrong?”
Harrison Montgomery .
Harry .
“I’m going to be sick.”
Chapter 7
Sunday, August 18
Ryan was proud of her apartment. It was an engineering/small-space lifestyle marvel and it had taken years to get it just right, to come up with all the clever space-saving tricks. The key was sparseness. Absolutely no clutter or mess. Having no attachments to things helped, too. No pictures in frames, no mementos to keep in boxes that took up space. Living this way required a certain ruthlessness, but she was suited for that.
The books were her only luxury.
Which wasn’t to say her apartment was dour. No. She’d painted the kitchen part of the studio yellow to go with her red teacups, which went with her blue rug. The walls in the living area were lined with shelves filled with books and jewelry, along with some of her prettier shoes that she’d collected over the years. Her clothes were nestled in there, socks and underwear in a shelf basket. Her laptop was tucked under the couch.
After the divorce and selling the house in Jersey, she’d moved to this Queens apartment, thinking it was only temporary, hopeful she’d get some more bookings, maybe a national spot, and make some money that would let her move someplace else.
Someplace without water stains, and with a real closet and—dare to dream—an oven. Maybe a one-bedroom in Brooklyn.
But the big contract didn’t come, and she’d stayed in Sunnyside and made her little apartment work for her.
“This place is worse than a college dorm room,” Wes said as he walked in behind her.
“Like either of us has ever seen the inside of college dorm room,” she muttered. She hung her keys on the hook beside the door and collapsed onto the couch underneath the loft bed she’d made with her own two hands last year.
Upstairs, her neighbor was screaming in Spanish at something on the TV.
And the smell of someone cooking cabbage seeped through the walls.
Home, sweet home.
“We need to talk about this,” Wes said, pacing the four steps from her kitchen area to the bathroom door.
“There’s not much left to say.”
“Harrison Montgomery knocked you up and there’s not much to say?”
Ryan sighed and rested her head in her hands. “You make it sound like I’m a victim, Wes. And I’m not. It was more than consensual, we used protection, something happened, and I’m pregnant.”
“You’re pregnant, broke, out of work, and sick as a dog.”
She glared at him. “You don’t have to stay. You can leave if this is so damn troubling to you.”
“You know, maybe I will leave, and I’ll head on down to Atlanta and let Harrison
“Been busy, Wes. Puking my guts up.”
The screen changed to a picture of a pretty woman with curly brown hair and a wide smile.
“That’s Ashley Montgomery,” Wes said. “She was kidnapped by pirates, rescued, and then vanished again.”
“And I thought I had it bad,” she muttered, pleased when Wes smiled at her.
“The worldwide media search for Ashley Montgomery has finally ended,” the news anchor said. “Montgomery has turned up in a small town in Arkansas, where she’s been recuperating after surviving three weeks in a Somali pirate camp. Apparently she’s been busy organizing a series of senior citizen initiatives in the small town but has said that she will be stepping out occasionally to help her brother’s congressional campaign.”
A man, blond-haired and smiling, radiating a kind of poise and confidence that one would expect from a guy running for office, was shaking hands with people in a huge crowd as he walked toward a podium.
The crowd was holding signs that said Harrison Montgomery for Congress and A New Hope .
“Two months ago, Harrison Montgomery’s run for Georgia’s Fifth District seat in the House of Representativesseemed like a sure thing. But Republican candidate Arthur Glendale is giving the Montgomery Golden Boy a run for his money.”
“Ryan?” Wes asked. “What’s wrong?”
Harrison Montgomery .
Harry .
“I’m going to be sick.”
Chapter 7
Sunday, August 18
Ryan was proud of her apartment. It was an engineering/small-space lifestyle marvel and it had taken years to get it just right, to come up with all the clever space-saving tricks. The key was sparseness. Absolutely no clutter or mess. Having no attachments to things helped, too. No pictures in frames, no mementos to keep in boxes that took up space. Living this way required a certain ruthlessness, but she was suited for that.
The books were her only luxury.
Which wasn’t to say her apartment was dour. No. She’d painted the kitchen part of the studio yellow to go with her red teacups, which went with her blue rug. The walls in the living area were lined with shelves filled with books and jewelry, along with some of her prettier shoes that she’d collected over the years. Her clothes were nestled in there, socks and underwear in a shelf basket. Her laptop was tucked under the couch.
After the divorce and selling the house in Jersey, she’d moved to this Queens apartment, thinking it was only temporary, hopeful she’d get some more bookings, maybe a national spot, and make some money that would let her move someplace else.
Someplace without water stains, and with a real closet and—dare to dream—an oven. Maybe a one-bedroom in Brooklyn.
But the big contract didn’t come, and she’d stayed in Sunnyside and made her little apartment work for her.
“This place is worse than a college dorm room,” Wes said as he walked in behind her.
“Like either of us has ever seen the inside of college dorm room,” she muttered. She hung her keys on the hook beside the door and collapsed onto the couch underneath the loft bed she’d made with her own two hands last year.
Upstairs, her neighbor was screaming in Spanish at something on the TV.
And the smell of someone cooking cabbage seeped through the walls.
Home, sweet home.
“We need to talk about this,” Wes said, pacing the four steps from her kitchen area to the bathroom door.
“There’s not much left to say.”
“Harrison Montgomery knocked you up and there’s not much to say?”
Ryan sighed and rested her head in her hands. “You make it sound like I’m a victim, Wes. And I’m not. It was more than consensual, we used protection, something happened, and I’m pregnant.”
“You’re pregnant, broke, out of work, and sick as a dog.”
She glared at him. “You don’t have to stay. You can leave if this is so damn troubling to you.”
“You know, maybe I will leave, and I’ll head on down to Atlanta and let Harrison
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