“I did! I must have hit send when I caught my phone! Oh my God! I am a klutz!” My eyes widen as the full ramifications of what just happened sifts like dust through my wine-numbed brain.
My phone rumbles with a text. I’ve never heard a more ominous sound. Biting my bottom lip, I read Nathan’s response. A single question mark.
I might be sick.
“That text didn’t just go to Benjamin,” I say, biting my thumbnail as the full weight of what just happened lands. “That went to a group chat. With Nathan West. Fallon!”
And now I know what it looks like to watch color drain from a face. “Oh my God! Meens! I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”
“What am I going to do?”
There’s a moment of stunned silence and then, just like that, an idea forms.
“I don’t like that look,” Fallon says.
“What look?” I ask, pulling up Nathan’s contact info.
“The one that says you think you know how to solve a problem but maybe should talk this idea of yours through before you do something impulsive.”
Still chewing my thumbnail, I stare at the call button, then, after a quirk of my head to my best friend, I stab the thing and put my phone to my ear.
FOUR
Nathan
Alert:
Search term “Nathan West” mentioned one time online:
Holy Villain Era, Batman! Former Do-Gooder Nathan West Builds Lair on Sketchy Cove. You’ll Never Believe What He’s Up to Now!
I sit at my desk, staring at my laptop, flicking through Fallon Mae’s latest hit piece on me while sipping whiskey, the “never again” promises I made myself this morning overpowered by the indignation of yet another shitty article from a woman who sounds like she hates me. My head throbs from the growing realization that I owe Mina Blake an apology after our meeting this morning. Probably Bancroft too, though I think Mina took the brunt of my frustration.
What would Fallon say if she knew I was home alone tonight, instead of out with another “dazzling and spectacular” starlet?
In my modest house?
At my modest desk?
Worrying what my interior designer thinks of me instead of living some insane lifestyle of the rich, famous, and potentially evil?
Does that sound like a man entering his villain era? Not to me. And I should know. I’ve been spending time with that type a lot lately.
What would Fallon say if she knew all those nights out were calculated moves to secure donations to expand the Reversal of Fortune Foundation, the charity I’ve worked at since high school? What would she say if she knew the women were for Dom? That I’ve deemed myself damn near celibate after being taken advantage of by Blossom? Would she still condemn me? Or would she be more understanding? Or maybe my famous parents negate the fact that I’m a human being with feelings and imperfections.
I know Fallon’s type. She grew up poor and resents all the opportunity I had, that she didn’t. And you know, I could understand that resentment, if she channeled it into something positive. A drive for more. A desire to better herself or, better yet, the world around her. Instead, she turns everything I do into a failure, publishes it for the world to see…and sounds gleeful while doing it.
My phone buzzes and I grab it out of habit. I’m not in the mood to talk to people tonight. I’m not in the mood for much of anything tonight. I almost put it right back down on my desk, but Mina Blake’s name catches my attention. The hot mess express I caught pep-talking herself this morning. It would have been cute if it hadn’t been so hopeless. Endearing, if she hadn’t immediately lumped me into a box labeled “other” with that comment about a man like me deserving to get what I want.
There’s something about the woman that makes me…what?
She sets off my internal alarms…but why?
Something tells me I should stay far, far away from her.
Despite that being true, curiosity wins and I read Mina’s message anyway, one that came into the group chat with Benjamin, the architect my cousin Mason recommended after giving me a dissertation on the wonderful, up-and-coming interior designer he adores working with.
“What the fuck?” I murmur, bringing the screen closer to stare at a text talking about crushes, drinks, and biting asses. My mind instantly supplies an image of Mina’s luscious rear end and I chase it away with a swig of whiskey.
“Hello, hot mess express,” I whisper, reading the text one more time before sending a single question mark in response.
It’s not like she left me a lot of options with that one.
Seconds later, my phone buzzes with a call from Mina. I let it ring once. Twice. A third time. Once more and it’ll go to voicemail, which is definitely the best outcome.
I accept the call at the last minute.
“First of all, please let me apologize for my unprofessional behavior,” Mina says after I answer. “I can assure you; this is not typical of me.”
Her words are too bright. Her optimism forced. She’s panicking, and…drunk?
“And second of all?” I prompt, then cringe. That came out harsher than I intended. I’m swimming in uncomfortable waters here. Dom knows how to handle situations like this. Not me. I shouldn’t have answered the phone.
“I, uh…” There’s a long pause followed by a deep sigh and then, “I have a favor to ask you.”
“A favor?”
