Chapter 17
Pepper: Why the FUCK is there a picture of us all over the internet?
Chase: We must have been snapped at the courthouse.
Pepper: Well, do something about it!
Chase: I’ll fire up the time machine I made out of all the junk you left in my workshop.
Pepper: Sue them.
Chase: Sue who? The sixteen-year-old kid who posted it?
Pepper: I’m serious.
Chase: It only goes away if you ignore it.
Pepper: Hard to do that when thousands of people are sharing it.
Chase: Just trust me.
Pepper: I’ll pass on that, but thanks for the offer.
Rosie: What the fuck is this photo with Walker?
Pepper: It’s not what it looks like.
Rosie: It better not be.
PEPPER
“I am not going into that monstrosity!” Mr. Clay digs his heels into the grimy sidewalk with alarming strength, considering he’s using two walking sticks.
“Mr. Clay,” Chase starts calmly from where he supports Mr. Clay’s other elbow. “You should really be in a wheelchair, it’s the safest—”
“Tosh!” He whips the arm nearest me out of my grip and takes a small step forward, his scuffed dress shoes shuffling. “I’ll take the train.”
“Err, is he going to make it?” Sunny asks, her brows knitting together as dazzling midday sunshine turns her hair luminescent popsicle pink.
I meet Chase’s gaze and we share a split second in which we mutually weigh our own guilty consciences, before we turn in unison to head after Mr. Clay, leaving behind the large boxy accessibility van Chase hired to transport him home.
The sounds of weekend traffic clog the sidewalk, skyscrapers breathing down our backs in every direction, and it’s hotter than Satan’s armpit this time of year.
It’s been awkward since we both showed up at the pre-agreed time to help Mr. Clay back home. He’s got a new hip, all the walking aids in the world, and the same general disdain for anyone who isn’t the British royal family. Presumably.
When Chase positioned his strong, broad frame over me yesterday, it was like all logic whipped out of my head and scampered away to somewhere off-map.
It felt teasing, natural, and dark in a way that makes my stomach clench even now just thinking about it.
Gone were the thoughts about how I thought he had to be corrupt, and the ones about me not dating rich guys.
All that was left was the simmering warmth his dark whiskey eyes glistened with as he devoured me with them.
It’s intoxicating. Chase Walker is, regrettably, intoxicating.
I can no longer deny that I see snippets of something good in him.
The way he interacts with his family, the heartbreakingly tender way he cradled his mother while she sobbed, and the unwavering determination to stop his tech from being misused.
The man behind the austere veil is perhaps not all bad.
Even still, I’m carrying around a tight knot of worry about my image being blasted all over social media.
My entire world is constructed around keeping as low a public and digital presence as ever, and I bear the faint bruises beneath my eyes after a sleepless night trying to scrub what I can from the internet.
But that’s just the thing— once something is on the internet, you can never truly put the cat back in the bag.
The network is too big, and with too many trillions of moving pieces.
It’s like playing whack-a-mole with no hands.
Besides, that photo completely misrepresents the moment. Did they really have to catch the exact second Walker decided to get up in my personal space and touch my face? And was it necessary for me to look so stunned and beguiled?
“Mr. Clay, wait! At least let us help you.” I rush forward and scoop my arm through his just as we all reach the steps down to the subway. Sunny hovers on the other side of him, ready to support him if needed. “You’re going to break your other hip at this rate.”
A distinct snort reaches my ears over my shoulder, and at the same time, Mr. Clay halts his hobbling and levels me with a cool glare.
I let out a nervous giggle, which dies when the deep lines in his whiskered face don’t shift. “Too soon?”
“I want a bacon buttie and an Earl Grey tea,” he chews out, the wiry hairs in his moustache sticking out at odd angles.
“A bacon butt-what?” Chase asks, putting his hand on Mr. Clay’s back and indicating in the direction of the street entrance elevator.
“A bacon buttie,” Mr. Clay repeats in a gravelly tone, shaking off Chase’s attempt to guide him away from the steps. “Crispy back bacon and proper bread, none of that candied crap you eat here.” He shuffles to the precipice of the stairs and we all hold a collective breath as he teeters slightly.
“Like a BLT?” Ellie chimes in, the soles on her boots clomping as she starts down the steps without us. Even without the mid-week crush, the station is still busy with a steady trickle of passengers entering and exiting.
Mr. Clay doesn’t answer, but instead lets out an unintelligible rumble.
We wait patiently as he makes his way painstakingly down each step, refusing help no matter how many times we offer.
When we do finally reach the bottom, we head for the turnstiles.
I automatically dig into my pocket for my phone, double clicking the outer button and using my face to unlock my payment card.
Mr. Clay leans against the side of the barrier as he produces a travel card from the depths of his forest-green corduroy pants, starting to shuffle forward.
I hold my phone to the small reader pad and quickly scan the crowd for Sunny, who has already done the same and let herself through—I spot her pink hair a few feet away from us on the other side.
It looks like she’s trying to intercept and reason with a suitably annoyed Mr. Clay.
I’m about to push through my turnstile when I happen to catch sight of the towering man in the one next to me. He frowns at the metal gate like it’s a Rubik’s Cube and he’s not sure how to get the colored squares all on the same side, a shiny black Amex card held aloft in one broad hand.
It suddenly dawns on me. “You’ve never used the subway before. Have you?”
Sheepish burnt amber eyes slide to mine. “Erm, no.”
“You are unbelievable.” I scoff, rolling my eyes. “Just pay on the reader and it will let you in.”
“Er, yeah. About that.” Chase reaches up to scratch the back of his neck. “I don’t know where the reader is.”
I absorb the irony for a moment before leaning over to point at the section of the barrier that collects payment. “Call yourself a tech whiz.”
“Actually I don’t call myself that, everyone else does.” He grins my way and winks, actually winks, and I immediately chastise the part of myself that wants to blush.
We let ourselves through the turnstiles and into the station, fighting our way over to Sunny and Mr. Clay. The former is holding onto the tail of the latter’s shirt as he tries to shuffle away.
“It was all I could think to do to stop him.” Sunny lifts one shoulder apologetically.
“Mr. Clay, where would you like to go?” I raise my voice more than usual on account of the bustling surroundings.
“I’m not deaf!” he roars cantankerously. I mean, the hearing aids wrapped around his ears would suggest otherwise, but whatever.
“Perhaps we should just let him lead the way,” Chase supplies as he catches up.
We follow Mr. Clay at a snail’s pace, through the crowd and down another set of steps to the platform. He seems to know where he’s going without checking the route maps on the wall.
“How long have you lived in New York City, Mr. Clay?” I ask as we just make it inside the train doors before they slide shut.
“Forty years,” he grumbles, the ends of his walking sticks squeaking on the rubber floor as he makes his way to a vacant seat.
It’s a nice change to be able to get a seat, my weekday commutes consisting of standing and holding the overhead rail, with non-consensual smelling of the person next to me’s armpit.
We all take a seat as the train starts to move, Sunny on the opposite side of Chase and Mr. Clay to my right.
The heat is worse down here, and the stale scent that is the New York subway system in summer wraps around us.
“Oh hi, Gerry!” Sunny waves at the disheveled man on the opposite side of the train, slouched across two seats in a tattered overcoat, with something pink and long wiggling off his shoulder.
“Tell me that’s not a rat on his shoulder?” Chase asks quietly.
“Okay,” I begin in a measured tone as the man waves cheerfully back at Sunny. “It’s a very tiny opossum.”
I really do need to have that chat with her about stranger danger.
“Funny,” he throws back sarcastically, with no evidence of actual humor across his sharp features. “You know him?” Chase directs at Sunny just loud enough for me to hear.
“The rat? No. But Gerry, yes.” She nods.
I hide my snort at her response in my hand and try to play it off as a cough. When I look up, I catch the end of a piercing glare from Mr. Clay, which gives me the same feeling as a high-school kid admonished by the teacher.
We manage to get off the subway at East Broadway station, and up to street level without a hitch.
For someone who had his hip replaced just days ago, Mr. Clay charges onward at a formidable speed, seemingly urged on by his desire to reach our destination.
Which appears to be a hole-in-the wall diner with white tile coating the walls and metal tables.
“Are you sure they do Earl Grey tea here?” I ask skeptically as we all take a booth, Chase and Sunny on one side and me seated next to Mr. Clay.
“I friggin’ love this song!” Sunny begins humming along to the teen rock song that plays faintly in the background.
Chase looks astoundingly out of place here, even though he’s casually dressed.
Even jeans, a white T-shirt, and a tan suede jacket can’t dull his socialite shine.
I find myself distractedly trying to find just one hair out of place in his curated stubble and effortlessly windswept curls. Irritatingly, none exist.
“Terrence!”