The corner of her mouth curves up in a placating smile. “Fine. But don’t think you’re off the hook—I want the full story. All of it.”
I get to my feet with a grumbled “fine” and slip into my suit jacket. Grabbing my phone from my desk, I slip it into my breast pocket and follow Emily out the door.
I’m not entirely surprised to see that Will’s not at his desk, but I’m hoping he’s just in the bathroom or something because I really don’t want to run into him on our way out of the building. Fortunately, we make our way downstairs without incident and head to a bar just down the block from our building. As soon as we get there I take a seat at the bar and order a scotch; Emily slides into the stool next to me and orders a wine.
“I’m so sorry, Em.” I prop my elbows on the bar and rest my forehead in my hands. I can’t believe this is happening again; except unlike last time, this is all true. Fuck. “I’ll work out a plan to deal with the investors. If I have to step down—”
“Spencer, stop. Look at me.” She yanks at my hand and forces me to look at her. “That’s the absolute last thing I’m worried about now.”
“It shouldn’t be. It’s your job to—”
“Spencer…let’s just…talk? Okay?”
I let out a soft sigh and nod my agreement.
She runs her gaze over my face, her brows knitted together, her mouth twisted into a contemplative frown, as if she’s trying to find something in me that she’s lost. “You never told me you’re bi…”
“That wasn’t anything to do with you,” I assured her. “It wasn’t because I didn’t trust you or something like that…”
“Then what was it?”
I shrug. “There was never really a need to. I didn’t really begin to fully accept that part of me until college and you were off in London by then. I didn’t want to bother you with all of my drama.”
She offers me a sad smile. “You can bother me with your drama any time, Spence, you should know that.”
I shrug. “Yeah well, it really wasn’t that big a deal. I had Sully and Cole—they had a little more expertise in the field than you would have.”
Her mouth drops open in shock. “You and…? You and Sullivan? You and Cole? Sullivan and Cole?”
I shake my head in amusement, a smile creeping across my lips. “Sullivan yes, Cole no. Or, well…actually,” I hold my hand up in a so-so gesture, “I guess we did kiss one time, but it never went any further than that. It was all weird and awkward—we’re like brothers.” I shiver at the memory of that ridiculously awkward kiss.
“But, Sullivan?”
I shrug. “Yeah, we hooked up for a while—that’s actually how we became friends, really. It never became anything serious, though. He was completely hooked on someone else and I wasn’t even close to being ready to commit to a guy, so it was a good arrangement for us.”
“And since college?” she asks.
“There’s been the odd hookup here and there. I always figured I’d tell you if I found someone worth telling you about,” I say with a shrug. “I mean, I don’t tell you when I hook up with women so why should it be any different, right?”
She looks at me with those hazel eyes that match my own, her expression one of sympathy. “This is what you wanted to talk to me about tomorrow night, isn’t it? You found someone worth telling me about?”
I look down at my glass of scotch, the dull ache in my chest increasing to a sharp pain as I think about Will’s betrayal. “Yeah, well, I guess I was wrong about that.” I lift the glass to my lips and down the liquid in one go.
Emily studies me carefully and I can tell she’s weighing her words, trying to come up with the exact right ones that won’t send me flying off the handle.
“Spit it out, Em.”
After a deep breath, she says, “What if you weren’t?”
“What are you talking about?”
“What if it really wasn’t Will?”
I fix her with a sharp glare. “There’s no one else it could have been.”
“Spence—I saw his face today when he realized you thought he was the one responsible for this…I swear it was like his heart had just been ripped from his chest.”
“If he didn’t do it himself, then he told someone about us—every little detail—and they went to the tabloid. Either way, it’s clear I can’t trust him.”
20
Will
* * *
I can’t remember the last time I was this angry. Add in the hurt and confusion and the way my chest feels like it has just been ripped wide open and it’s no surprise I’m a fucking mess.
After leaving Spencer’s office, I head straight for the bathroom to splash some water on my face in an attempt to calm my nerves, but it’s not really working. I’m angry at Spencer for not trusting me, at myself for stupidly getting involved with my boss in the first place, and just generally at the situation I’ve found myself in where I’m likely going to lose this job that I so badly need.
Should have thought of that before you started screwing your boss, Crawford! Yeah, now I’m back to being angry at myself…
When I get back to my desk I start emptying out my drawers. I figure I may as well leave before they figure out a way to fire me; it’ll be less embarrassing that way and comes with the added bonus that it gets me out of the building right the fuck now. There’s a problem, though: I don’t have a box to put all this shit in. Why the hell don’t I have a box? As if I didn’t know shit wasn’t going to hit the fan the moment I started messing around with Spencer… I should have kept an in-case-of-emergency bug-out box under my desk for a quick getaway!
“Will…” I hear Maya’s hesitant voice as she peers around her desk, “what are you doing?”
“Do you have a box?” I ask her, my hands frantically sorting through all the shit on my desk. “I need a box.”
“Why?"
“I’m taking the high road and I need something to carry my stuff in—jeez, I’ve only been here a couple months, how the fuck do I have so much stuff?”
“Will, you don’t need a box, honey,” she says slowly, like she’s a hostage negotiator trying to talk me down.
“You’re right!” I say, my finger flying up in a ‘bright idea’ gesture. “A trash bag would work just as well. I think I have some in the bottom drawer here…”
“No. Will, stop.” Maya comes around the desk and places her hands firmly over mine, pausing me in my actions. “Grab your coat,” she orders, her tone making it clear I have no choice but to do as she says.
Reluctantly, I grab my jacket from the coat stand by our desks and wait for her to switch the phones over to the message service. Then she ushers me along, grabbing her own coat as she passes the coat stand.
“Where are we going?” I ask, trailing after her toward the elevators.
“To get you good and drunk.”
“It’s Monday afternoon,” I point out.