Lake
LAKE
Even though I don’t believe in this, the start of a new year is always hopeful. It’s a clean slate. A new start.
And then you find out it’s the same shit, different day.
My enthusiastic clean slate plan explodes three days into the new year when Scott starts calling me again. Somehow, I figured that just ignoring him would do the job because he’s been ignoring my existence for twenty-three years, so I simply assumed he would forget all about me soon enough.
Apparently not.
“Are you gonna take that?” Ryker asks one day when I forget to put my phone on mute, so it starts to ring, and I silence the call.
“It’s not important,” I say.
He sends me a long look. A silent “Bullshit.”
“It’s just Scott,” I mumble in a pathetic attempt to sound casual.
He looks at me carefully. “I thought you decided to give him a chance.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Because?”
Because he’s a fucking asshole.
Instead of doing the normal thing and just telling him, I don’t. I know I should. Not telling him is an asshole move.
And still, I just can’t.
“It’s easier this way,” I say.
He eyes me, still carefully, like I’m a ticking time bomb.
“And by easier you mean…?”
I get up and start randomly putting away shit that’s lying around just so I have something to do. “Just easier. I don’t need him poking around in my business, okay? It’s better like this.”
For the longest time, I feel his eyes on me, but I avoid looking at him. I’m too scared to ask what that’s about.
Disappointment, most likely.
For the next week, I’m banking on Scott giving up.
He doesn’t.
And day by day, I start to feel like an inactive volcano awakened from dormancy.
By now, I’m mostly pissed off instead of hurt, so when he, once again, calls me, I pick up, ready to tell him to fuck off.
Turns out it’s his assistant.
Which makes me even more pissed off.
An in-person fuck off suddenly sounds really enticing.
I schedule a meeting for tonight.
It’s only when I’ve put my phone away that I remember Ryk has a game. I debate calling back and rescheduling, but at the same time, I just really want to get it over with. It’s not like it’s going to take that long to tell Scott what an asshole he is. I’ll just be a bit late to the game.
It’ll be fine.
I have a long day at school, where I’m unable to concentrate properly, and by the time my last class lets out, there’s a headache throbbing at the base of my skull, and my enthusiasm levels are lower than ever.
I just want to go home, crawl under the covers with Ryk, and stay there for the foreseeable future. Shut the rest of the world out because it only causes problems.
But at the same time, I’m well aware that this Scott situation needs to be taken care of. The sooner the better. If I leave him hanging now, it very likely means I’ll have to meet him some other time, but if I handle it today, I’ll be rid of him for good.
That’s the push I need to drag my ass to the subway.
The bar Scott picked out is in some kind of hotel in the Upper East Side that looks pretentious as fuck. I take the place in for a bit and try to figure out if they’ll even let me inside in my jeans, winter boots, and jacket.
Then again, I don’t really care that much.
I draw some subtle looks in this sea of expensive suits and designer dresses, but nobody stops me either.
It doesn’t take me long to find Scott.
He’s sitting at a table, scrolling on his phone, but as if on cue, he lifts his head, gaze wandering over the bar, until his eyes land on me.
The look he sends me is impassive, and suddenly, a pang of dread unravels in my gut. I’m not sure why, but there’s something about this moment I don’t like.
Nevertheless, I grit my teeth and level my gaze at Scott before I square my shoulders and make my way to his table.
Scott brushes over his tie and pristine white shirt as he stands up.
“Thank you for showing up,” he says.
“Uh-huh,” I mutter. “There’s somewhere I need to be, so I don’t have much time.”
“It can wait,” he says, like it’s up to him to organize my schedule and determine what deserves my attention. “Sit down, sit down,” he says with a dismissive wave.
And, like a well-trained puppy, I do. I regret it at once, but getting up now would be even more pathetic.
“How about a drink?” he says, hand already in the air for the waitress.
“I’m good.”
“Suit yourself. Another one of these, sweetheart,” he tells the waitress. She sends him a polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. I can relate.
“Right away, sir.” She walks away.
Scott’s gaze takes me in, then. Cool and calculating this time. “I understand you and your mother had a little chat.”
“You’re a dick,” I say calmly. “You could’ve just left me alone instead of playing some fucking mind games.”
The waitress is back with Scott’s drink. He takes the glass and takes a slow sip, eyes still trained on me.
“Believe it or not, it was worth a shot.”
“You’re a dick,” I repeat.
“I’m a businessman.”
“Is that a synonym for dick?”
“There is some overlap between that and success.”
“Great,” I say sarcastically, pushing my chair back to get up. Turns out I’m not interested in continuing this conversation. Fuck him.
“How much will it cost me?” he asks.
I stop and frown at him. “How much will what cost?”
“Your silence.”
I lean back and cross my arms over my chest. “How very mob boss of you.”
“It’s just common sense. You’ll need to sign a retroactive non-disclosure agreement, and I imagine you have a price for that.”
“I don’t give a fuck about your money.”
“Of course you don’t. What will it be, then? Twenty thousand? Thirty? Forty?”
I scoff. “I don’t want your money. Just go back to pretending I don’t exist, and it’ll be compensation enough.”
I start to get up again.
“I’m still going to need you to sign the NDA.”
“Pass,” I say and start to walk away.
“.”
I turn around at Scott’s voice. He’s standing up, holding an envelope between his forefinger and middle finger.
I slowly walk back to the table, eyes narrowing.
He holds it out toward me.
I’ve got a bad feeling about this.
I open the envelope and pull out a sheet of paper, eyes moving over it before my gaze flies up to Scott, and I hold up the copy of my marriage certificate.
“Where did you get this?”
“That’s not really important.” He waves me off dismissively.
I’d argue it is since we filed for a confidential marriage license, so this information should absolutely not be available to random people. I mean, we flew to freaking California and then found some weird tiny town in the ass crack of nowhere to get married expressly for the purpose of keeping this thing to ourselves. The fuck?
I debate arguing about it, but in the long run, does it even matter?
I carefully fold the certificate and place it back on the table.
“You can pay some minions of yours to find out stuff. Good for you,” I say as calmly as I can. “And?”
He eyes me with something that almost looks like pity. He taps his forefinger on the folded certificate. “Think of this as insurance. We both have something we’d rather keep to ourselves. Talk to a reporter, and so will I. An up-and-coming NHL player married to his own brother. Sounds like something that would make a splash if spun correctly. And, kid? I will spin it correctly.”
I’ve never been more tempted to punch somebody. My nails dig into my palm. The pain of betrayal has long come and gone, leaving behind only helpless rage, and I’m dying to act on it. Holding on by a thread.
But then my eyes land on the sheet of paper on the table, and it’s like a bucket of cold water.
Scott’s eyes are still on me, studying my every reaction, lips quirked in apparent amusement. Or maybe that’s plain old satisfaction.
He’s getting what he wants.
And I can’t stand the sight of his smug face a second longer.
“Go fuck yourself.” I turn around and walk away.