Chapter 30 Christopher
Monday
The last place I want to be right now is sitting in this meeting, nursing my wrist. I’ve been pretending that it is the reason I missed last week’s call, even though it was all Alexander’s fault. In fact, everything the last few days has been his fault.
I play with a loose thread from the wristband I picked up from CVS, trying to garner sympathy from the HR representative who is sitting directly across from me in the meeting room, next to Pietro.
“Taking everything into account you’ve outlined today,” the representative says, sliding back the paperwork I got emailed from the hospital, “we’ve decided that a verbal warning is the outcome from this process.”
My shoulders slump and I let out a sigh.
The last thing I needed after the past forty-eight hours is another blow.
“And the Brewed account?” I ask. I turn my gaze to Pietro.
“Given the impact that you not attending Thursday’s meeting had with their team, we are going to keep the account with Tony, who managed to save the meeting and stop it from turning into a catastrophe.” Pietro’s body stiffens.
Right, Pietro, say how you really feel.
I can feel the sense of injustice rising inside of me.
I’ve been working hard at this company for the last five years, the last three of them here in LA.
And because of one slip up, when I was on leave no less, I’ve lost my main account and gotten a verbal warning. But I force myself to swallow it down.
I still have a job to come back to.
I can still live in America.
“Okay,” I say, lowering my head and grabbing the papers. “Thank you for your time today.”
I get up, let myself out of the meeting room, and head back to my desk. Tony and Sara look smug, sitting opposite of each other at their laptops.
Clearly, Tony already knows he’s got the Brewed account, and by proxy, given that he and Sara are definitely fucking, she’ll know too.
But I need to play the long game here. I plaster on a smile and act as if everything’s okay, something I’ve been forced to do for two reasons today, and bide my time.
HR works in the best interests of the company, never the employee, and loose lips sink ships. It’s only a matter of time before someone’s loose lips speak to HR about the Tony/Sara ship, and wipes the smug looks off their faces.
“Everything okay?” Tony asks, turning to me.
I meet his gaze through his Harry Potter-framed glasses, then note his patchy stubble, messy hair, and the two-sizes-too-small black T-shirt that reveals a potbelly.
They say you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but given that we work in marketing, the cover looks less homeless chic and more homeless geek. And it’s definitely not what you’d expect from an account executive who is working with one of the biggest brands in the world.
“Couldn’t be better,” I say, flashing him a fuck off smile.
Bide your time.
“What are you up to tonight?” Sara asks, getting up from her chair and opening the filing cabinet behind her.
Her short tennis-style dress, provocative to say the least, rides up even further as she bends down to get a folder out of the cabinet. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Tony staring at her like a piece of meat.
“Just a chill one. What about you two? What are you up to?” I ask, reaching for my bag and unplugging my laptop from the charger.
Sara freezes in position. She keeps her back turned away from me, clearly an attempt to hide whatever expression has appeared on her face that will give away what I already know.
“Off to play tennis,” Tony says, twiddling with his glasses.
He always does that when he lies.
I wonder if he knows that’s a tell.
“You should play mixed doubles,” I say, after an awkward pause when Sara returns to her desk. “Looks like Sara’s already dressed and ready to go, and you’d both make a great… team.”
Sara’s cheeks immediately flush as her gaze darts to Tony, then to her laptop.
“Right, I better go,” I say, sliding my laptop into my bag and getting up. “Have fun.”
Julie, Pietro’s assistant, waves goodbye at me and shouts, “Lunch tomorrow?”
“Absolutely,” I say, waving back.
That is, if I make it through tonight.
Forty minutes later, I unload my shopping basket onto the conveyor belt. Although I might be able to mask how I’m really feeling to the world underneath the guise of a smile, my shopping choices clearly aren’t hiding anything.
“Tough start to the week?” the cashier asks, scanning each item through and placing them in a brown paper bag.
“What gave it away?” I ask, laughing at my purchases.
The two tubs of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream.
The tub of pringles.
The chicken tenders.
The six-pack of Corona.
Thankfully, I managed to pick up some healthy items too. Spinach, avocado, bananas, and berries, but I’d be kidding myself if I claim I’m going to eat any of them. My housemate Andrew will probably end up eating it all instead.
“That’ll be ninety-one dollars and seventy-two cents.” The cashier places the can of pringles into the bag while I take out my wallet. I show him my driver’s license so he can verify I am indeed over twenty-one before tapping my Wells Fargo card on the card reader.
A flashback to the flight home to LA almost knocks the wind out of my lungs.
Filling in my bank details on the paperwork and signing the numerous pages.
They were a renegotiation of the terms Paul had made me sign, but with no negotiating.
I shake my head, shoving my wallet back into my pocket.
I grab my bags and head to my car, throwing the bags in the trunk of my jeep before jumping in the driver’s seat, turning on the car, and cranking up the air conditioning full blast. I wave at another driver, waiting with his indicator on for my spot, to move on.
He throws his hands up, but I give him a death glare. He really does not want to pick a battle with me, today of all days. I grip the steering wheel and let out two deep breaths as he moves on, before pulling out my phone and firing up the Wells Fargo app.
The money wasn’t there earlier, and I have a rousing suspicion that Connie has pulled a fast one on me. She’s bought my silence, but without the payment. She said the money would be there by 4 p.m., but when I checked just before heading into the HR meeting at five, I didn’t see the deposit.
I hold the phone up to my face, the app opens and loads, and I close my eyes.
I wish I’d never met Alexander Morgan.
I wish our paths had never crossed that first night in the lift.
I feel like I’ve been stabbed in the back. Not with a knife, but an axe.
But maybe I dodged a bullet, or more aptly, a cannonball.
I also don’t wish that I’d never met him.
I don’t.
But I do hate the way I’m feeling right now. How all of this has left a bitter taste in my mouth. Like a shot of tequila, but without the warm feeling and buzz inside.
I open my eyes, and let out an audible gasp.
Checking Account
$108,274.52 available
I rub my eyes to make sure they’re not deceiving me.
I’ve never seen that much money in my checking account in my life.
Sure, after Dad died and the inheritance money came through, I had a nice little bump in my UK account that I’ve put into savings for a downpayment on a house. But that figure. It blows my mind.
Yet, I can’t help but look at the money and feel cheap. Like I was an escort, paid not for sex or company, but to ensure I left afterward. I never would have taken the money if Connie and the documents weren’t so convincing.
This scandal will ruin Alexander’s career.
If it comes out that Alexander is gay, he will lose everything.
And she’d asked what would happen to me. Was I prepared for what would unfold if my identity was revealed? The trolls would tear me apart. The press would comb through every part of my life. They’d air all my dirty laundry for the world to see.
And then she delivered the ultimate blow.
Alexander was on board with it.
He wanted to pay me off. To make all of this go away. To give me one hundred thousand dollars so that I’d go along with whatever narrative they put out and never discuss it with anyone.
I wanted to speak to Alexander. To hear it directly from him. But Connie told me that wouldn’t be possible. Now all I have left from our time together is this hush money, his white T-shirt, the door hanger, and those poxy earbuds.
I pull my seatbelt on, and move the car into drive when the radio host stops me in my tracks.
“And now, the moment all you Morganites have been waiting for. The world premiere of Alexander Morgan’s brand-new single. The studio version of the live track that’s currently sitting at number one on Spotify, Stolen Moments.”
I pull out of the parking spot and work my way up San Vicente and onto Sunset Boulevard while the song plays out.
My hands begin to burn from the tightness of my grip on the steering wheel.
When I stop at a red light, a huge billboard of Alexander stares back at me, naked except for a pair of Hugo Boss briefs.
Really?
Are you fucking kidding me?
Is it going to be like this everywhere I go now?
I change the station, the song too painful to hear, and opt for the soothing sounds of KOST 103.5 FM instead. Kelly Clarkson’s Behind These Hazel Eyes plays out.
“You’re right, Kelly. You’re right,” I say out loud, as I pull into the garage underneath my apartment. Alexander won’t get to see any tears I cry behind these hazel eyes.
“Who broke your heart?” Andrew shouts from the kitchen.
He’s rummaging through the shopping bags to see what I got while I relieve myself in the toilet. His voice is barely audible over the NBA Finals blaring in the background on the TV from the lounge.
“How long have you got?” I say, returning to him in the kitchen.
“So, how was London?” He tilts his head sideways as he pulls out the pringles can and helps himself to a handful.