Scandalous

Troubled could be forsaken, forgiven, and redeemed.

Trouble was the arms in which Troubled died an unhurried, raw death.

He gave her drugs. He gave her booze. He wanted to have un-vanilla sex with her. In short, he did exactly what I would have done had I been eighteen again.

“You’re shaking,” Dean noted dully, moving over to me and taking away the two dumbbells I used for my shoulder press. They hung in the air for long seconds while I contemplated all the ways I could break Jaime’s teeth so he wouldn’t tell me shit like that again.

“Anyway, so, yeah, are you seeing anyone, or what, Trent?” Jaime asked, finishing his protein shake with a gulp.

I shook my head.

“Why not?” Dean asked.

“Because it’s complicated. Because I don’t think there’s a woman out there who can really understand Luna’s situation. Because I’m busy with work.”

Because the furthest I’d ever gone with a woman emotionally or otherwise was with Val, whom I made a kid with, and she fucked off, and I’m trying to find her, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult not to sink under the weight of pity and expectation. And sometimes, at night, when I lie awake, tossing and turning in my bed, I tell myself that Luna’s turmoil, problems, lack of words, is all her fault and hope she is dead.

“Luna seems to have taken a shine to Edie. I keep seeing them hanging out together.” Dean walked over to the bench next to me, and now we were all either standing or sitting in a circle, sweaty and spent and ready to tackle the day. I plucked the towel off my bench and rubbed it on my face.

“So?”

“So, is that why you’re keeping her? Jesus, dude, pulling words out of you is like performing dental extraction on a hippo. Spill it.”

They all chuckled and stared at me, waiting for an answer. I shrugged, getting up. “Guess so. She is harmless. Just a kid. And Luna likes her. Don’t ask me why. So I let them hang out when Camila is watching.”

“Maybe she can babysit Luna while you go out on dates. She seems to be strapped for cash for some reason,” Dean—always too fucking perceptive—suggested.

“Maybe. If I were dating. Which I’m not.”

“Which you will,” Jaime amended, burping loudly. “Mel has a friend from her dance studio. She teaches ballet. Beautiful, smart, divorced with one kid.”

Here we go again. Ever since I became a single dad, people tried throwing divorcees with kids at me like beads at Mardi Gras.

“Single parents are not a fucking cult,” I gritted my teeth, adding, “and it’s a no.”

“I don’t think Mel asked for your permission, bro. She is just waiting for Katie to get back to her about her class schedule to see when she’s available.”

An ambush. Perfect.

The last thing I told them before I went back up to my penthouse for a shower and a long afternoon of watching shitty movies and flipping through the pages of all the useless reports Amanda had given me over the years was, “I’m not interested in dating.”

But, of course, my friends’ wives were much more stubborn than them.

And so much more determined than me.

“YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I want to see you, but not on Saturday. I wish you’d let me come see you at your house. Your mom can’t be that bad, and I miss…us,” I told Bane on the phone at work. He was the only person to listen to me. The only person to care. Mom was too out of it lately to do much more than lie in bed watching television.

“Just say you miss my dick and we’ll call it a day. And a date.” I could hear the waves crashing on the shore behind Bane. He was teaching at the surf club again. Jealousy prickled the back of my neck.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” I rolled my eyes. “I meant as a friend.”

“Yeah. Whatever. I’m here if you need me. Be strong against Daddy Delirious.”

My father had come back from Switzerland all smiles, which meant this particular mistress was a keeper. He didn’t even seem too bothered by the fact the iPad I’d stolen from Trent wasn’t connected to any of his accounts and was utterly useless. He just gave me another assignment, firing orders and not taking one goddamn moment to ask me how my meeting with Theo had gone that Saturday. Or how Mom was doing. Or if I’d taken her to the doctor because her meds were messing her up again.

Bane scoffed. “Fuck Jordan. You keep doing this thing, Edie, where you’re trying to hold the entire universe on your shoulders and sprint with it to the nearest safe haven. You can’t. It’s too heavy. You’ll collapse. Ever tried to see what’ll happen if you let go?”

“No.” I rubbed my face tiredly. “I’ll never let go.”

“Well, then you’ll never be free. Not this year, not next year, not fucking ever.”

The truth hit me in a sensitive place, right between my gut and my heart. Bane was right. My situation was hopeless.

The previous night, I’d cried into my pillow until the imprint of my face settled into it. Not gonna lie—it felt good. I’d tried to remind myself that breaking was necessary in order to rebuild yourself. Only problem was, I had no idea where to start and how to get out of this pickle.

“Talk later, Gidget.”

“Okay.”

He hung up first. Bane didn’t need to see my tears to know that I was tangled in suffocating wires of distress, but he hadn’t invited me out to initiate sex. He should have. I would have slept with him solely for the purpose of pissing off Rexroth, even if only in my twisted head.

And now I was in the office, on the fifteenth floor, at eight o’clock in the evening, about to do something I’d always considered a very hard limit.

Trespassing and burglary. I was looking at jail time if I ever got caught.

Everyone was long gone. It was Monday, one of those summer evenings where the whole world caved into happiness, vacationing or downing drinks at the beach. I relished the quiet, and the fact the next day was a Tuesday, and Tuesdays meant time with my precious Camila and Luna. The fact I got to skip all the dirty work I normally had to do around the office didn’t hurt.

Standing in front of Trent’s door was like facing a firing squad that aimed straight at my conscience. I was running out of ways to justify my behavior, even to myself.

I tried to reason with myself that I wasn’t actually ruining Trent’s life. Not actively, anyway. What was the worst thing that could happen? My father might manage to kick him off of the board of Fiscal Heights Holdings. Rexroth would still hold shares in the company. He would still be a millionaire and have his precious, precious money. He would likely be courted by other companies. So I’d be doing him a favor. He obviously had his priorities all wrong. He’d get to spend more time with Luna. He should fight for her, not with his money and nannies and a team of experts, but with his love.

I tugged at my stupid, out-of-place hoodie, inhaling.

Retrieve the flash drive. I can do that.

Someone was vacuuming the carpeted boardroom while talking on the phone loudly in a foreign language. He was the only person on the floor, and he would never notice me. I was too far. Too hidden. Too careful.

Trent’s office was never locked. Paranoia and anxiety didn’t drive him like they did my father. But that didn’t mean the reception desk in front of his office wasn’t wired like the freaking Pentagon. I’d changed into my black hoodie and a pair of jeans in the bathroom, knowing he could easily spot me on the security camera and also knowing I was going to deny everything he’d accuse me of. For all everyone on the floor knew, I came in that day with a powder blue DKNY dress. Trent could say whatever he wanted—the security footage would show someone who looks nothing like me.

Head ducked down, hoodie covering my hair and face, I pushed the door to his office open in one go, ready to bolt to his desk.

Then froze, heart hammering in my throat.

The sound came to me before the visual. The dry jingle of bracelets hitting one another and skin slapping skin.

Then came the sight that melted my knees into jelly.

A woman, bent over on Trent’s desk, her scarlet hair spilled across her shoulders like fire, one cheek pressed against a stout stack of documents. He was standing behind her, fully clothed, pounding into her while squeezing the back of her neck like he’d done to me the day he escorted me to my car after he’d caught me pickpocketing. Like an animal.

I wanted to move. Knew that I needed to, fast. But I was overwhelmed by everything—my being caught, them being caught, and the realization that I was about to catch on fire with jealousy. I was glued to my spot, unable to tear my eyes away from the scene in front of me. I didn’t have to make myself known. I was standing right in front of them, choking the doorknob with my grip, mouth comically agape. My heart parachuted, making my stomach roll in both agony and thrill.

Trent’s eyes locked onto mine, his hips rolling forward as he showed me how he fucked. Thrusting, moving, demanding. He twisted the tresses of her burgundy hair between his strong, long fingers. And he watched me. Watched as if it was me bending for him, taking him in. I returned his gaze.

“Van Der Zee, you’re here just in time for the eight o’clock show.” His indifferent tone was a contrast to the wild act he was performing for his audience. Me. “I know what you’re looking for, and it is in my pocket. Word to the wise—this game is played by two. If I finish before you make yourself scarce, I will chase you. And I will catch you. Which means that you will sing for me, Edie. You will tell me exactly what your father’s fixation is with me. So, leave.”

This was the part where any sane girl would run for her life. Take his advice, turn around, and make an escape. But I was coming to terms with the fact that maybe I wasn’t completely sane, and that I was undeniably not a smart girl where Trent Rexroth was involved. I dropped my eyes, scanning the woman. Her wide eyes told me getting caught wasn’t her kink, and yet she kept grinding against him. Horror and embarrassment leaked from her features. She looked back at me like she knew me. Like she recognized me. But that couldn’t be true. The redhead looked to be older than Trent, which put a thorn in my gut, twisting painfully. If seasoned was his favorite flavor, he had nothing to look for in me.