Chapter 19
CHAPTER 19
AIDEN
I cross my arms over my chest. “Not going to happen.”
Charlotte’s eyes are defiant. She’s sitting at my kitchen table, the remnants of the takeout I ordered for our dinner between us. “We have to go into those topics in the book. They’re crucial for understanding your story.”
“I have worked very hard to get away from that narrative.”
“This narrative will help you.”
“It’ll put the conviction right back into the public spotlight,” I say. It had taken months— years— to have news headlines about Titan Media that were not just negative.
“I understand that,” Charlotte says. Her intelligent, blue eyes hold the same frustration I feel. Her notepad, the one she loves to scribble in during our conversations, is beside her laptop. “It will have to be done tactfully. Just listen to me for a second, okay?”
“I am listening.”
Her lips quirk slightly, a clear indication that she doesn’t think I’m paying attention at all. I lean back in my chair and fold my arms across my chest.
“The people who’ll buy this book… Will they already know about the conviction? The trial and your father’s sentencing?”
I grind out the word. “Yes.”
“Okay. So by mentioning it in your memoir, you’re not telling them anything they don’t already know.”
“You’re speaking to me like I’m five, Chaos.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, but that might be necessary sometimes.”
“Oh?” I raise my eyebrows. Reluctant amusement pricks through the frustration. “By all means, continue then.”
“Okay, so, we won’t be telling them something they don’t know. Instead, you’ll be reframing their views. Have you read the studies on memory? That we can actively change how we remember certain events over time?” She holds up her notepad. “With this book, you can do that to the minds of thousands of people!”
“Have you read the studies on memory?” I ask. “Because, it’s also said that the more you repeat something, the more it sticks.”
Her smile falters. “Yes, well, I prefer my point.”
“And I prefer mine.”
“It’s what the Board wants from you,” she says. “It’ll be an odd memoir if we don’t go into the… troubling stuff.”
“We can mention it. Gloss over it.”
“Glossing over things doesn’t fill a book that needs to be at least two hundred pages.”
“It’s a corporate fluff piece,” I say.
“It’s a chance for you to become more than your father’s son,” she shoots back.
My teeth grind together on instinct, and my gaze lingers on the wine cellar. Two of the few things my dad imparted was a love of the ocean and an appreciation for high-quality wine.
And Titan Media, of course, and the media storm.
“Aiden,” she says. Her voice is softer, and I roll my neck, trying to shake off the unease. I can’t handle her pity. Showing weakness isn’t something the Hartman household is good at.
“People will see it as a strength if you own the narrative,” she says, and my eyes snap back to hers. It’s like she heard me. “Not to mention it’ll make it a more compelling book, leave them with a sense that you had something to overcome.”
I narrow my eyes at that. It makes sense. Of course it does. “We’ll need to go through it with a fine-tooth comb,” I tell her. “I don’t want a single misplaced sentence that can be pulled out and turned into sensationalized headlines.”
“Got it.” She leans forward, a smile hiding in the corners of her lips. “We’ll triple-check every phrase. I can easily work together with the editor on that.”
“Okay. Good.” I sigh and look at her laptop again. On the back of it, she has a tiny sticker with a sunset and the name of a national park I’ve never heard of . “We could make a deal about this, too.”
Her hand pauses over her notepad. “We already have a deal.”
“Yes, we sure do. Which means,” I say and meet her gaze, “if we’re discussing what it was like to walk into a courtroom filled with thirty photographers and my father in custody, we’ll be talking about your most shameful moments, too.”
She takes a deep breath, like that rattles her. But then she nods and there’s steel in her eyes. “I know.”
Curiosity burns through me. What can she possibly have in her life that she doesn’t want to talk about in return?
“How about this,” I say. “You can bypass that requirement by doing something else for me.”
Her eyes narrow. “And what’s that?”
“Let me read the newly written chapters of your book. The one you want to publish after my memoir.”
“Oh.” Her mouth remains open, and then she chuckles. “Really?”
“Yes. You can’t be spending all your time every day working on just my book, can you?”
“That’s what I’m hired to do,” she says carefully.
I want her to work on herself, too. It’s not right that she has to spend these weeks focusing only on me and my story when this memoir won’t come close to how good a writer she truly is. I’ve read her other stuff.
“But you can do more than that,” I say. “Send me a few chapters of your new book, and I’ll give you a free pass for a hard question. No need to answer it back.”
“Will you read the chapters?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Of course.”
She leans back in her chair, too, and I love this. Squaring off like we’re negotiating. “Okay,” she says slowly. “But you need to remember that they’re just draft chapters.”
“I won’t judge.”
“Mm-hmm.” She sounds like she’s not entirely sure of that.
That makes me chuckle. “Don’t believe me? I’ve read most of the books you’ve ghostwritten in the past few weeks. You’re a good writer.”
Her eyes widen. “ Most ? I’ve ghostwritten almost a dozen.”
“I think I’ve read seven or so.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“Which one was your favorite?”
I smile at her attempt to trap me. “The Alaskan musher, Alice Copeland. But I quite like the one about the Olympic swimmer, too, like I mentioned.”
“When do you have the time to read?”
“Audiobooks are a great invention, Chaos.”
She blows out a breath. “You’re always surrounded by people. By me, this past week or so.”
“Not always,” I say. Sleeping isn’t something I’m great at, at least not when I’m focused on business. Or distracted by other things, or… individuals.
Her audiobooks have kept me company during the dark nights. Even if the stories are about other people, and the narrator is someone unknown, the words are hers.
She shakes her head and looks down at her laptop. “Okay. So… you’re okay with this narrative? The chapter structure I laid out?”
It makes sense. Of course it does, and I don’t have to like it to see the commerciality of what she’s organized. It’s a good story. I just don’t know if I want it told about myself and my family.
But I swallow my apprehension. “Yes. But fine-tooth comb, Chaos.”
“Fine-tooth comb,” she agrees. Then she starts putting her things together and reaching for her empty takeout box. I watch her throw it in the trash.
It’s late. So far, she’s spent most of her time in her room, staying out of the way, except for the times we have scheduled to work on the book together.
I push off the chair and walk over to the neatly stacked pile of her things. That damn notepad that she scribbles in all the time is on the top.
I grab it and sit back on the chair, flipping it open. “What kind of notes do you take in this thing, anyway?”
“Just observations. Anecdotes. Things I might use in my writing.”
Her handwriting is slanted, just faintly cursive. She writes in black ink. The last few days’ notes are neatly scribed here, with the dates written at the top.
Meeting with his team about the purchase of BingeBox. A is direct, firm, and makes harsh demands while smiling. Easy to see how he gets his way.
“A?” I ask. “Is Aiden too long to write?”
“It’s code,” she says, her voice sarcastic.
“Hard to crack. I see that I’m both potentially jealous and fragile of ego.” I flip another few pages and find the day she came to the gym. She had her notepad with her then, too.
“‘Working out with A,’” I read out loud. “‘He gets up ridiculously early. Probably cold plunges and listens to an audiobook at 6x speed. Obnoxious in the gym. He has white shoes with black shoelaces. Seems to enjoy bicep curls. Muscles and vanity are clearly important. What a scoop! God, he’s such a dick.’” I look up at her. “I’m a dick?”
“You were being a dick at that moment,” she says and snatches the book from me. She closes it with an audible snap. “That was then, and I was annoyed at your evasiveness. I’ve gotten much better information since then.”
“That’s what worries me.”
She shakes her head, but she’s smiling. “Right.”
“And,” I add, leaning in, “maybe work on the recordkeeping, too. The date we met up in the gym was the nineteenth, not the fourteenth.”
“My records are always stellar,” she says, and her hand lands on my chest. It’s a firm, warm weight through the thin fabric of my button-down. “I know how to do my job. Maybe you should go to bed so you can do yours properly tomorrow.”
“It’s not that late.”
“It’s late enough,” she says and slides off the kitchen chair. I watch her walk toward the staircase with her notepad and laptop clutched to her chest. “Good night, Aiden,” she says over her shoulder.
“Good night, Chaos.”
It isn’t until I’ve closed my own bedroom door that I realize the implication of what she’d just said, and of her handwriting on those pages.
I dig into my back pocket for my wallet. I pull out the small piece of paper from Red Rock Resort with a phone number written on it in slanted handwriting. If her fours look like nines… well, there’s a possibility she gave me her real number all along.