Jack

Beefy-Ass Billionaire Blackmailer Brouhaha!

“Beefy-ass?” There’s not much to do but read over her shoulder. I have a feeling I’m going to regret this.

“Need as many hits as possible in a short time. Sex sells.” She’s already typing again. Words trip off her fingers like musical notes.

Sweethearts, let me make you a promise: you DON’T know what BeeBee did last summer! Gold shots off the Gold Coast? Moroccan margaritas? Curaçaos on, well, Curaçao? No, no, and, sadly...no. :-(

Darlings, I’ve been DEEP undercover in billionaire Jack Brightman’s high-society harem, and boy, have I—

“You’re going to admit to that?”

A brief scowl furrows her brow. “Got to be as honest as possible. This’ll all be investigated. Verified. The more it checks out, the more they’ll be likely to believe.”

“But they’re going to find out who you are. Everyone is. What about your book, the real one—about your childhood, coming to America—” I duck as she swats at my head.

“Peeping Tom fuck!” She’s after me now. I turn my head to avoid another smack, and catch a good one around the ear. “I knew Starkey was looking, but you? That was private!”

“So all those publishers in your browser history, those were...what? So no one would ever see—hey, quit it! I’m just saying....” I cover my head, but she’s got a pillow now. The blows rain down hard and fast. “Don’t you have some blogging to do?”

“Fine.” Stella ditches the pillow. “But go sit over there. You’re distracting me. I’ll call you over when I’m done.”

I watch her thumbs fly over the screen. I’ll give her one thing: she’s fast. I’d pictured her pecking away in the tub, sipping wine as she mulled over the perfect phrasing, but she types like a demon. Barely fifteen minutes in, she beckons me over. “Tell me if anything’s off.”

I skim what she’s written. There’s a frankly embarrassing section on my, uh, high-society harem, complete with outtakes from the contract. Makeup, birth control; signatory shall not, at any time, present herself in any public or semi-public venue in a condition of fatigue or disarray.... “Jesus. It really says that?”

“You didn’t know?”

“Guess I forgot. It has been ten years.” My face feels hot. I’m actually blushing. “Shit. I sound like a pig.”

“Keep reading.”

Darlings, I kid you not, those inspections were REAL! Every Sunday, Brightman’s goon would ROUT me from my beauty sleep and turn my suite upside down! Nothing escaped his rummaging fingers. Under each individual color in my eyeshadow palette—what do you even call those? Cakes? Discs? Shadow pies?—check! The inside of my toilet? Check! Tampons, creams, and, ahhhhhh, personal massagers? Nothing was sacred! But no goon’s a match for your crafty Countess....

I scroll down. I put her through that. She covers Starkey’s assault in the Hamptons—that, I force myself to read. It’s shocking. Brutal—I didn’t know he choked her. Didn’t know he humiliated her. By the time I get to the main attraction, there’s a lump in my throat.

“Nagler—you really want to name and shame a dead man?”

Stella’s stretched out on her back, staring at the ceiling. “No. But no Nagler, no story.” A car backfires, and she flinches. “I left out the kid’s name. They’ll probably dig it up. Or his wife will, if she really doesn’t know. I never believed that, though. How could she not?”

She’s not wrong. “Wives always know.”

The Countess finishes with a flourish: and to quote the man himself, it’s SO much worse than I thought!—a scandal for the ages! The warmongering-for-profit scheme hatched by Gunnarsson and Moss is as REAL as those inspections, and TWICE as offensive! With Brightman in hiding, following Nagler’s assassination, I can’t sit and wait for him to do the right thing, assuming he’s even alive! So here it is, sweethearts: spread it far; spread it wide! Show those beefy-ass billionaires there’s no quarter for traitors!

Wow. “Y’know, threatening no quarter’s technically a war crime, as well.”

“Only when you’re at war, darling.” She tips me a ridiculous wink.

“Ugh. Don’t do that—don’t talk like her.” I drop my phone into my pocket and lie down beside her one last time. “You really want to do this? Last chance to back out.”

“I should be asking you that. You’ll still get in trouble. For not coming forward.”

“I deserve it.” Her hair’s spread out over the pillow, those glorious black curls I’ve admired from the start. Fun to play with, the way they spring back when pulled. I twirl one around my finger. “Whatever you do, don’t leave this room. I’ll be back for you—or someone will. When it’s safe.”

She turns her head my way, just enough for a sweet, chaste kiss. “I’ll be waiting. No matter what.”