piece of the puzzle, the guy who stepped in and decked the bodyguard,” the man reasoned aloud. “Could be he started the whole thing. Jealousy can make a guy do strange things.”
Cal pushed his coffee away, even though it probably wasn’t the reason for the sour feeling in his stomach. He turned sideways to face the guy. Long hair brushed the man’s eyebrows in front and covered his collar in back. Cal figured a haircut was about two months overdue. A shave wouldn’t hurt, either. Combined with the guy’s worn denim shirt and jeans, he could have been a man in need of a job. Except for the glasses. The square black frames imparted a serious, slightly professorial air to a face that was not much older than his own. Or maybe it was the steady gaze behind the glasses. The guy looked too smart to care about some no-talent rich asshole’s bar fight.
Cal gave him his stern cop face, the one he saved for argumentative drunks. “Sounds like you’ve read all about it. I thought you said it was trash journalism.”
He shrugged. “Entertainment for the masses.”
“More like crack cocaine,” Cal told him. “Feeds an empty craving while taking the focus off real life. I told you, I’m not interested.”
“You don’t think it matters if a woman slugs a man in a bar, then ducks out like she has something to hide?”
“I think it’s between the man and woman, and the cops. And just because a woman doesn’t want to get shot by a raging, drunk bodyguard, doesn’t mean she has something to hide.”
The guy cocked his head, thinking it over, nodding sagely. “You could be right.”
“I am.” Cal turned back to the window.
“I guess you would know.” He let a pause hang in the air for a few seconds. “Since you were involved.”
Cal turned back. The guy’s frank gaze looked pretty damn sharp now as he waited for a reaction. Cal scowled. If he was fishing for a quote, he wasn’t going to get one.
The guy held out his hand. “Rick Grady. You got a name, other than Mystery Man?”
Cal ignored the hand. The name sounded familiar, probably from one of the bylines in those trashy tabloids, and he had no desire to shake hands with one of those hacks. “Congratulations, you found me. I have nothing to say to you or the other slugs who live under your rock.”
He shrugged. “That won’t stop anyone from writing about you.”
The reporter’s lack of concern only aggravated the frustration that had been building since last night. “And you have the scoop on that, don’t you? You can tell the world that I like apple pie and take my coffee black. Or do you just make shit up like all the other vultures?”
Rick Grady leaned back in his chair, unmoved. In fact, Cal thought he looked slightly amused. “Your diet is fascinating stuff, but I’m not interested in writing about you.”
“And yet you sit here making wild speculations and pumping me for comments on the big incident. That doesn’t sound like a lack of interest to me.” The problem was, Cal hadn’t been the only subject of those speculations. The thought of Rick Grady spreading more lies about Maggie jabbed at his gut like a hot poker, spreading heat through his whole body. He leaned closer, dropping his voice. “If you even think of writing one of your sick, twisted lies about Maggie Larkin, I’ll find you and break your fingers one by one.”
“Jesus, buddy, back off.” But instead of looking scared and retreating, Grady leaned forward. “Pushed your buttons, huh? I suggest you learn to control that reaction, or you’ll be their next big headline instead of a mildly interesting sidebar.”
Cal curled his fist around his chair instead of smashing it into Grady’s face, and forced himself to take several deep breaths. Rick Grady might have sold his soul to whatever tabloid he worked for, but he was right. Despite his best instincts, Maggie Larkin had gotten under Cal’s skin. She was impulsive, bossy, and a giant pain in the ass, and
Cal pushed his coffee away, even though it probably wasn’t the reason for the sour feeling in his stomach. He turned sideways to face the guy. Long hair brushed the man’s eyebrows in front and covered his collar in back. Cal figured a haircut was about two months overdue. A shave wouldn’t hurt, either. Combined with the guy’s worn denim shirt and jeans, he could have been a man in need of a job. Except for the glasses. The square black frames imparted a serious, slightly professorial air to a face that was not much older than his own. Or maybe it was the steady gaze behind the glasses. The guy looked too smart to care about some no-talent rich asshole’s bar fight.
Cal gave him his stern cop face, the one he saved for argumentative drunks. “Sounds like you’ve read all about it. I thought you said it was trash journalism.”
He shrugged. “Entertainment for the masses.”
“More like crack cocaine,” Cal told him. “Feeds an empty craving while taking the focus off real life. I told you, I’m not interested.”
“You don’t think it matters if a woman slugs a man in a bar, then ducks out like she has something to hide?”
“I think it’s between the man and woman, and the cops. And just because a woman doesn’t want to get shot by a raging, drunk bodyguard, doesn’t mean she has something to hide.”
The guy cocked his head, thinking it over, nodding sagely. “You could be right.”
“I am.” Cal turned back to the window.
“I guess you would know.” He let a pause hang in the air for a few seconds. “Since you were involved.”
Cal turned back. The guy’s frank gaze looked pretty damn sharp now as he waited for a reaction. Cal scowled. If he was fishing for a quote, he wasn’t going to get one.
The guy held out his hand. “Rick Grady. You got a name, other than Mystery Man?”
Cal ignored the hand. The name sounded familiar, probably from one of the bylines in those trashy tabloids, and he had no desire to shake hands with one of those hacks. “Congratulations, you found me. I have nothing to say to you or the other slugs who live under your rock.”
He shrugged. “That won’t stop anyone from writing about you.”
The reporter’s lack of concern only aggravated the frustration that had been building since last night. “And you have the scoop on that, don’t you? You can tell the world that I like apple pie and take my coffee black. Or do you just make shit up like all the other vultures?”
Rick Grady leaned back in his chair, unmoved. In fact, Cal thought he looked slightly amused. “Your diet is fascinating stuff, but I’m not interested in writing about you.”
“And yet you sit here making wild speculations and pumping me for comments on the big incident. That doesn’t sound like a lack of interest to me.” The problem was, Cal hadn’t been the only subject of those speculations. The thought of Rick Grady spreading more lies about Maggie jabbed at his gut like a hot poker, spreading heat through his whole body. He leaned closer, dropping his voice. “If you even think of writing one of your sick, twisted lies about Maggie Larkin, I’ll find you and break your fingers one by one.”
“Jesus, buddy, back off.” But instead of looking scared and retreating, Grady leaned forward. “Pushed your buttons, huh? I suggest you learn to control that reaction, or you’ll be their next big headline instead of a mildly interesting sidebar.”
Cal curled his fist around his chair instead of smashing it into Grady’s face, and forced himself to take several deep breaths. Rick Grady might have sold his soul to whatever tabloid he worked for, but he was right. Despite his best instincts, Maggie Larkin had gotten under Cal’s skin. She was impulsive, bossy, and a giant pain in the ass, and
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