There’s no way I can look at Allison, lying in a hospital bed with a saline drip pumping pain meds through her small, lifeless body, and not place the blame on myself.
I should have been there.
The attack happened at my office, way past when even Allison usually leaves for home. Gabe has been just the distraction she’s needed to get the hell out of there at a reasonable hour recently, so I have to wonder—why the hell was she there so late?
With hospital visitors restricted to family, I sent Margot home last night. Having her stick around a hospital waiting room—eating vending-machine food and drinking the worst coffee next to airline brew—would have been pointless. And cruel.
Even so, Margot had enough clout to sneak up to Allison’s room an hour later with supplies for me—some decent food, cans of Starbucks double-shot espresso, a change of clothes, and a toothbrush and toothpaste, thank God. Proudly, I sported her pair of puffy pink earplugs to get a few hours’ sleep because there was no way I was leaving Allison’s side until she woke up.
Margot understood, but I hated it, knowing she’d be stuck giving the press conference alone to address the allegations about our deal. Well, not exactly alone. Evie, Jean, and even Everett are all right there with her as I watch. But she doesn’t have me.
From my phone, I pick it all up with my Bluetooth earbuds, not disturbing Allison as she rests. But there’s nothing I hate more than watching from the sidelines—and it’s about a million times worse as I watch Margot get pummeled with a barrage of both on-topic and outrageous questions alike.
“Why did you fabricate the deal?”
“What was going on in the elevator?”
“Will you retain your title . . .” which I think is about her acting-CEO position until they finish with . . . “as countess?”
Even some bullshit about, “Is it true you and the count are still married?”
I run a hand over my face. Damn, these vultures will reach for anything.
As reporters throw one cheap shot her way after another, I watch in awe. Margot is the epitome of poise and class, unworried about their questions and unhurried in her responses.
What can I say? My girl’s a pro.
I’m only half listening—Margot’s saying something about stepping down as acting CEO—when Allison starts coming to.
“Uncle Coop,” she says weakly, and I take her hand, giving it a tender squeeze as I reach out to caress her cheek.
Before Allison can wriggle around too much, I press the call button for the nurse and wrap my hands firmly around my niece’s shoulders, keeping her calm and still.
Confused, she scans the room.
“Shh . . . easy. I’m here. You’re in a hospital. You’ve been out about twenty hours, mostly from the meds. Your mom’s flying in and will be here soon. Gabe just left, but he’ll be back.” I lean in, whispering the next bit. “If anyone asks, he’s your fiancé.”
Allison’s weak chuckle warms my heart, and I drop a quick kiss on her head. “But don’t get any ideas. No need to get tied down for, oh, I don’t know, six or seven years.”
Again, she giggles, and relief pours from me in a long breath. As a nurse comes in to check Allison’s vitals, her eyes stay on me.
“Alli, what do you remember?”
Her words come out a little slurred as she fights to recall. “Simone. She was in your office . . . messing with something under your desk. I thought maybe she was leaving you some paperwork and dropped something, so I ducked down to help her look. That’s all I remember, except Gabe’s voice . . .”
“Gabe found you and called the cops. Simone’s in custody, determined to represent herself. Like a dumbass.”
Allison gently rubs the back of her head, wincing as she finds the spot, when I give her the answer.
“It was my prized baseball bat.”
She narrows her eyes, looking both confused and amused. “The mini bat that I gave you when I was eight?”
“That’s the one.”
The competitive athlete in her comes out quickly as she scoffs. “What a pussy.”
“I, for one, am grateful she didn’t grab the full-size one.”
Allison scowls. “I’m guessing she couldn’t lift it without breaking a precious nail. God, I can’t wait to kick her ass.”
“Hey, now. Is that how a lawyer talks?”
My scolding makes Allison think before she corrects herself. “I mean, God, I can’t wait to sue her for all she’s worth.”
Grinning, I pat her hand. “That’s my girl.”
* * *
With Avery and Gabe keeping a close eye on Allison, and both the police and my own team gathering every last shred of evidence against Simone and Travis, his arrest is imminent.
I head to my office. Sure, the exhaustion is hitting me like a Mack truck made of pure down and thousand-thread-count sheets, but I want to check out what Simone might have been up to. Did she get something else?
On the way up, I text Margot, eager to check in on her after one hellacious day.
coop: Hey, temptress. How are you holding up?
margot: Glad today’s over and can’t wait to see you. When? Where?
coop: Heading to the office now. My place? Four minutes?
margot: I’m right around the corner from your office. I can meet you there.
I shoot her the emoji with the winky guy blowing a kiss. Then an eggplant. And some lips.
In response, she sends emojis representing a shower, a peach, a banana, a lollipop, a tongue, and a bed. As I scan the string of tiny little images, amused as hell, I’m half a click from the L-word, so I romance her instead. Our way.
coop: How about a massage?
margot: For you or me?
coop: Good negotiations are about give and take. You name your demands. I counter.
margot: Chocolate-covered strawberries?
coop: Chocolate-dipped banana.
margot: Lap dance?
coop: Pole dance.
margot: Who’s on the pole?
coop: Who do you think?
margot: Almost there.
coop: Almost naked. See you in a minute.
I enter my office, flipping on the lights to their full brightness, and scan about for anything that looks out of place. I’m not exactly a neat freak, but none of my cheese looks moved. Before I can do anything else, another text distracts me.
The text is from Corey, hopefully with the smoking-gun evidence we can use to nail Simone to the fucking wall. Whatever it is, the attachment is damn near impossible to read on my phone, even with the reading glasses I deny I need. But it’s easy enough to send it to the printer so I can get a better look at the microscopic font.
I’m faced with two documents. One is in English, but the other is in another language I’m not familiar with because I’m really not familiar with any other languages at all. That’s me. Unilingual.
Fortunately—or unfortunately—they seem to be the same, with one being the English translation of the other. And from the looks of it, Margot Long isn’t the person I thought she was.
Or should I say, Margot Long-Rodriguez.