Chapter 13
Quid Pro Quo
Kiki
This was a mistake.
If I didn’t need the money so badly, I would have turned the car around the second I saw the sign for the broker’s open and gone straight back up the mountain.
Instead, I’m here, tucked into the corner of a perfectly staged living room, pretending to study trim work and paint colors while a handful of local agents mill around with drinks in their hands and judgment in their eyes.
I haven’t even attempted this in months.
Not seriously, anyway. I’ve been getting by on the rent from the building in town and the few jobs Eddie has thrown my way, but getting by and getting ahead aren’t the same thing.
I need a sale. I need the commission. Hell, I need a reminder that I still know how to do something besides survive.
But things have been better lately. Or better adjacent, anyway. There have been moments with Eddie that almost make me forget what it feels like to have a target painted on my back. Almost.
But outside my small, fragile pocket of safety, Sparkwood is still Sparkwood.
And she isn’t always pleasant.
A couple of local realtors, women I’ve known for the better part of a decade, stand near the refreshment table pretending to admire the spread while they glare at me over their wineglasses.
“I can’t believe she’s here,” one hisses, ensuring I hear every word. “Doesn’t she remember what her husband did? If I were her, I’d never show my face around town again.”
Really, Pam? That’s your take?
I turn my head and catch her shooting daggers at me, and for one glorious, reckless second, I consider giving her the tongue-lashing she deserves.
What sweet, darling Pam fails to remember is that everyone has skeletons, and I have receipts with her name on them.
You want to talk about spouses behaving badly? Fine. Let’s talk about that real estate conference two years ago. You remember the one, Pam? The one where everybody saw you cozying up to the head broker in the hotel bar, despite the minor inconvenience of your wedding ring.
The words press hot against the back of my teeth, but I swallow them, because I know how it will end. Apparently, I’m supposed to stand here and take their abuse, simply for daring to exist in society.
Screw this shit. Screw the sale. I’ll figure out another way.
Because if one more person says anything about me—hell, if they so much as chirp out a cheerful hello—I’ll crack straight down the middle and leave my dignity splattered all over these gorgeous hardwood floors.
I set my glass of water down a little too close to Pam’s elbow and offer her a brittle smile. “Nice seeing you again, Pam.”
Fine, I’ll admit it. Her startled jump gives me a mean spark of satisfaction. But she’s not worth it. I know this, and luckily for her know-it-all ass, she does, too.
So I turn and walk out before either of us can muster another word.
The second I step outside, the cold air hits my face like a slap. I suck in a breath so deep that it almost hurts, as if I might be able to purge the whole miserable encounter from my lungs.
Time to go. Retreat to safety.
I’m halfway down the front path when my phone starts ringing inside my purse. I yank it out and glance at the screen. My lawyer.
Please let it be good news, universe. I could really use a damn break.
I answer on the third ring. “Hi, Mr. Jones. Calling to tell me I’m a single woman?”
There’s a brief pause before he clears his throat. “Not exactly.”
I freeze on the walkway, my fingers tightening around the phone. “What does that mean, exactly?”
Turns out, Mr. Jones did not have good news for me. In fact, he had the worst fucking news I’d heard all day, and that’s saying something, considering the day I’ve had.
I storm through the entrance to the federal detention facility with one mission: to talk some sense into my soon-to-be ex-husband, even if it means beating it into him.
Fucking Drake.
The rage boiling in my gut cools as I reach the metal detectors where I have the joy of emptying my pockets, tossing my purse and keys into the gray plastic bin shoved at me.
You’d think I was hiding a bomb in my bra with the way the detention officer scans my body, and if that weren’t enough, a quick pat down, just for fun.
The second they’re done, my patience is gone.
They lead me down a cinder-block corridor into the visitation room, a space more bleak than I expected. Plastic chairs bolted to the floor face each other across a scarred table, fluorescent lights casting a sickly haze over it all. The room is devoid of warmth, devoid of anything human.
I barely have time to sit before the door opens again.
Showtime.
Drake saunters into the visitation room like he doesn’t have a care in the world, and the final vestiges of my sanity fray at the seams. He knows he singlehandedly turned my life upside down and yet, he looks completely unbothered by the situation. It’s the final nail in the coffin.
Sadly, not his coffin.
It’s crazy how put together the man appears, even here, wearing a standard-issue jumpsuit. Not a damn hair out of place. Like he’s got a personal stylist on the other side of the door.
He drops into the chair across from me, offering up a smug smile, and I’m tempted to smack it from his face, but let’s be real. My life is hard enough. Bunking with my estranged husband in a cell is not a step in the right direction.
“Well,” he says, settling back in his seat, “you’re a surprise.”
I fold my arms across my chest and glare at him. “No the fuck I’m not.”
He makes a soft tsking sound and shakes his head, clearly amused by my temper. “Cursing right out of the gate. Feisty today, aren’t we?”
I am in no mood for this man. I swear to God, it is going to take every ounce of restraint I possess not to rip one of these bolted-down chairs from the floor and bash him over the head with it.
Best to get on with it and get the hell out of here.
I suck in a sharp breath, plant both hands on the edge of the table, and force my question through clenched teeth. “Why didn’t you sign the divorce papers, Drake?”
He steeples his fingers, still maddeningly casual, as if he’s not currently sitting in a federal detention facility awaiting trial for crimes so vile they make my skin crawl. “Because I needed to speak with you. The way I see it, I should be out of here soon. All charges dropped.”
I actually feel the blood drain from my face, my fingers tightening like a vise around the table edge. “How the hell would you manage that, Drake?”
“Simple.” He shrugs. “Because I’m innocent.”
No. That can’t be.
There’s no way they’d let him out, is there?
Don’t get me wrong. For the first few weeks after Drake’s arrest, I prayed this was all some terrible mistake.
A ridiculous misunderstanding. That the man guilty of these unspeakable acts wasn’t my husband, but a stranger wearing his face, and if I held on, I’d awaken to find it all a terrible nightmare.
But little by little, day by day, the truth grew teeth.
Yet now here he sits, calm as you please, discussing his freedom as though it was all a mixup.
Nothing to see here, folks.
I shake my head, hoping against hope it might clear the fog setting up camp in my brain. “Well, bully for you. Still don’t see what that has to do with me or our divorce.”
“You remember the Rotary Club gala last fall, don’t you?”
Is he fucking kidding? Of course I remember that night. It’s the night my life fell apart.
Which part does he think I’ve forgotten? The elegant opulence of the gala or the flashing blue lights and heavy fists at my door at two in the morning? How about federal agents swarming my house and my husband being led away in handcuffs?
I fix him with a burning reproach. “Yeah, safe to say I remember that night.”
“Do you really though? You were quite drunk. How many glasses of champagne punch did you consume anyway?”
“A few. What does that matter?”
He leans forward, resting his arms on the table, staring at me like I’m the criminal mastermind instead of him. “Kiki, we both know how blurry your memory is when alcohol gets involved. Remember that New Year’s Eve where you wound up at Washington Square Park with no inkling how you got there?”
Look, I’m not denying it happened. I was a bit of a party girl in my twenties. I had money, good looks, and a killer group of friends, and it all came to a head one New Year’s Eve when I woke up freezing my tits off next to my girlfriend, on a bench in the park, dozens of blocks from the party.
Do I know how I got there? Not a damn clue. And Drake, a man I had gone on exactly two dates with, had the pleasure of picking my sorry ass up since I’d also lost my wallet somewhere along the way.
It was not a good look, but my friend and I were unhurt and had a ton of laughs about it. It was also years ago.
After that, Drake began corralling my wild side. He claimed it was for my benefit, to prevent the town from talking about my crazy antics.
He had big plans in Sparkwood, and if I was to be with him, I needed to behave properly. Passing out drunk on city benches was not part of that plan. It was time to grow up.
So, I obliged his request and dimmed my light.
But I still have zero idea what this has to do with his current situation. “What the hell does a New Year’s Eve party fifteen years ago have to do with anything?”
“It has everything to do with my case. You were drunk the night of the gala, and you told agents I left a little after eight.”
Granted, some of the details of the night are fuzzy, like the color of the hostess’s dress or what brand champagne was poured, but I remember Drake leaving the gala early. I recall that I was less than thrilled about it, too.
I narrow my eyes at him. “You did leave early. Said you had to get back to the station. I remember checking my phone when you walked out.”
“Then you remember incorrectly, and it’s no surprise with all the alcohol you consumed.”