T he cold air burned my lungs as I finished up the last quarter mile of my run .

I hated running in the cold .

Hated it with a passion .

Sometimes, I just plain hated the winters here in New York City period, but this was home now. I'd have to suck it up and deal with it .

At least until the five miles was done, and I could get my ass somewhere warm and shower and put on some clothes. Maybe a sweater about four inches thick .

I had to delay the plan for the shower about five minutes though. I'd known I'd have to. I'd planned on hitting the store at some point this weekend, but a winter storm, then the one between Michelle and me, had put an end to those plans and I didn't ever make it out. Since I was down to the dregs as far as food went, I swung north so I could hit the bodega just up from my apartment .

If I had gone in there two minutes sooner or two minutes later, I wouldn't have heard the newsflash. Maybe I could have carried on my day without knowing a damn thing .

But life liked to kick me in the teeth, and instead of passing the day in a comfortable haze and thinking about Michelle, I stood there listening to the on-air reporter as she detailed private information about a woman I cared for .

Standing in line with a gallon of milk and some juice, I clenched my jaw and fought to keep from going nuclear. This was bad. No other way around it, it was fucking bad, in a manner of epic proportions .

The chyron lit up with her name, and every time I blinked, it seemed to flare and glow on the inside of my eyelids, a brilliant white mockery .

Whitley McCrane .

Whitley.

As the on-air reporter prattled on, I focused on the screen so hard that the guy behind me tapped me on the shoulder. "Hey, it's your turn," he said, the Bronx thick in his voice .

"Sorry," I said more out of habit than really meaning it, Moving forward, I dumped my stuff on the counter and pulled a ten out of my pocket to pay for everything all without taking my eyes off the screen .

As soon as I had my change, I moved to the background and kept on watching the TV over the counter

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

Had Whitley seen this? Had her husband ?

This was going to devastate her. She never talked about the attack, her rape. Or what happened after. Just having the cops in the small town where she grew up brush it off as a girl changing her own mind after the fact had been bad enough, but when her parents had practically done the same and gone on to talk about how bad it would be for them politically if they were to pursue charges...it had all devastated her .

The only way Whitley had been able to cope was to shove it all so deep down inside, it was like it had never happened .

The reporter's eyes sharpened, and I felt my stomach twist heavily as she continued to speak .

"What the true story is from all the years ago, we're unlikely to ever find out. Ms. McCrane is unavailable for comment. " The reporter gave the camera a catty grin and continued to speak. My gut twisted as she went on to speculate about reports of a long tern affair that the senator's wife had been reportedly having. "As yet, no concrete details are available, but we'll be sure to update the story as it unfolds . "

"Good-bye, fucking career," I muttered .

* * *

M ind spinning, I headed home, the last block to my apartment passing in a blur. I shoved the milk in the fridge while grabbing a banana and a handful of grapes to throw into the blender along with the juice. I chugged the smoothie while I replayed the newscast over and over in my mind .

Anonymous sources report that Senator McCrane's second wife is having an affair .

Fuck. What was this doing to Whitley right now ?

The same sources report that Ms. McCrane was the victim of a sexual assault while in high school but authorities questioned whether that assault ever happened. Our source has also provided a number of details ...

Source. What fucking ...

I froze, then threaded all ten fingers through my hair. "Michelle," I whispered .

It was the only thing that made sense. I'd just fucking told her everything that had happened to Whitley. And now here it was barely forty-eight hours later and the whole story was live for all the world to see .

Was that why she'd been in such a hurry to leave yesterday ?

She said she didn't want to overstay her welcome, blushing as she kissed me before asking about the subway system – so guileless. Asking about the subway . What New Yorker didn't know about the subway ?

But I'd fallen for it, charmed by her .

She'd probably done her groundwork on that fucking subway ride back to her sweet little apartment up near Manhattan. It wasn't like it would be that hard, since I'd given her Whitley's name and mentioned that her parents were in politics. That was all somebody needed to know anymore to fill in the dots – or let Google do it .

"Son of a bitch!" I fumed, hurling my glass into the sink with enough force that it shattered .

A shard flew out and hit my hand, but I barely noticed .

I had to talk to Michelle .

I didn't know what I was going to do or say when I saw her, but I had to talk to her .

* * *

M ichelle opened the door on the first knock .

The sight of her had the questions – calm, rational questions – dying on my lips. She was barefoot, her rich red curls spilling down around her shoulders. Those shoulders were covered in a rich shade of rose, a t-shirt that clung to her excellent tits before skimming down her sides to end a few inches below the waistband of her jeans .

Jeans.

Had I ever seen her wearing jeans ?

If not...shit. Her not wearing blue jeans was a crime against nature. They gloved those amazing hips and clung to long, lush thighs. I wanted to cup her hips, pull her up against me and –

"Jake!"

She smiled in delight at me while my brain shut down, and the one part that remained functioning was the part dedicated to sex and fun. It began to thoroughly undress her, while the rest of me fought to regain control .

She started to reach for me .

Some select fragment of my brain took note of that, memorized it, catalogued it. But the rest of me was already reacting – and not well .

"How in the fucking hell could you do it, Michelle?" I demanded .

Her eyes went wide. "What –?"

"Did you even think about how many people you'd hurt with that bullshit ?"

"I...I..." She started and stopped a couple of times before finally managing to say my name. "Jake, I'm not sure what you're talking about ."

If it wasn't for the fact that I knew it was her, I might have bought that confused act. But who else could it be? Whitley had told me, point blank, she'd never told anybody else. I was careful to the point of obsession about protecting the privacy of my clients. The only answer that made sense was that somebody I trusted had broken that trust .

"Don't bother with excuses or lies," I bit off, shaking my head. "I know what you did, Michelle. Anonymous source? Seriously? Who else was going to spill that information? The rest of the world might not figure it out, but I sure as hell did. I just told you. Who else would have said anything ?

"Jake, I don't know what you're talking about," she said shaking her head. Her loose, soft red curls bounced around her face and she continued to watch me with confusion, but it was an act. All an act. It had to be .

"You don't know what I'm talking about?" I narrowed my eyes, my teeth grinding together painfully. Pissed off and frustrated and hurt , I shoved the paper I'd bought into her face. "I trusted you. I never should have said a fucking thing about Whitley, but I trusted you. You were hurting, and I wanted you to know that I hadn't doubted you...that ..."

Not knowing what else to say, I looked at the paper then just threw it down between us so that it lay on the floor, face up .

Whitley's face stared up at me, a mockery .

It just made everything that much worse .

"How could you do it?" I asked again, raw inside. "Are stories really worth that much to reporters ?"

"I'm not a reporter," she said, her voice choked. "I do freelance writing. There's a fucking difference ."

She stared at me with wounded eyes .

How could she stand there and look at me like that? She wasn't the one who'd been stabbed in the back .

"It's not just me you fucked over, you know," I said, jabbing a finger down at the paper, the one with Whitley's lovely face gazing up at us. How was I supposed to explain this to her? What was I supposed to say? I was stupid, and my dick got the better of me ?

That was going to sound really good coming from a pro .

I'd have to figure out something though, because she deserved an explanation .

As Michelle continued to watch me with wide, confused eyes, I steeled myself. She might have been playing me from the start. I had no idea, but it didn't matter .

I couldn't get sucked in again .

I was still too far from attaining my own goals and too far from being anywhere close to where I needed to be in my own life, and her machinations to get a fucking story had gone and put everything at risk .

"Jake," she said, unaware of the raging turmoil inside me. "Look, I don't know what in the world this is about..." Her eyes dropped to the paper and she took a deep, shuddering breath. "But I had nothing to do with...whatever...this is. I don't know anything about it ."

"Nothing," I said scathingly .

"No!"

"It's just pure coincidence then that the day after I told you everything that happened to Whitley, some anonymous source contacts a reporter and spills all this shit about her." I raked my hands through my hair. "You've fucking ruined her! You got any idea what the press will do to her? They'll pillory her ."

"I didn't do anything!" she shouted, her voice cracking halfway through the last word .

"What the fuck ever," I snapped. It had to be her. It was the only thing that made any sense at all. "You know what? I don't know why the hell I ever believed a single word coming out of your mouth. It's pretty damn obvious that it was a lie all the fucking time. All of it, just for a fucking story ."

"Jake!" Tears sprang to her eyes. She held out a hand but let it slowly fall back to her side. "Can you...look, can you calm down so we can talk about this ?"

"There is nothing to talk about," I said slowly. "Absolutely nothing. And there's no we . There never was. There was you and me, and we fucked. That's all there was. Now I've got to go try and fix this mess you made." I shook my head, still unable to believe it. "Thanks for probably ruining my life, Michelle. Like I didn't already have enough shit to deal with ."

She pressed her lips together, her eyes closing .

"But hey...I guess that's nothing you need to worry about. As long as you're getting your stupid stories. Have a nice life, Miz Nestor ."