“Is there something I should know about Adrianna?”
“The note with instructions was from me to Catherine—I hadn’t realized she’d not taken care of them yet,” says Cullen. “Or that you’d imagine detouring into a personal account was within the purview of a temp’s duties.”
A temp’s duties. Right. A reminder of my place. Yeah, I know the trick. A good defense is an offense that grinds you beneath a combat boot. He knows what those receipts are about, what story they tell—and yet, it’s my fault for finding him out.
It makes sense, really. Hadn’t Jaz and I just discussed the fact that Cullen doesn’t date? That he’s this rich, ridiculously handsome man who’s always lived alone? Logic says he satisfied his sexual needs somehow, and apparently, I’m the how. Well, me and Addie Peterson and who knows who else.
The worst part isn’t even that Cullen keeps sugar babies. It’s that instead of seeing the world with eyes wide open, I’ve been busy blindly dissecting my feelings for this man. Jaz might believe all her speculations about how good Cullen is, and where his heart must be, and how us getting together—really together—would be such a wonderful idea. But me? I should have recognized the script from my mother’s playbook. I’ve certainly seen it enough.
If Cullen is following the playbook, his next move will involve going after me on something unrelated. Diverting the conversation to examine and pound some defect of mine, until it’s me who’s begging his indulgence and understanding.
At my sides, my hands tighten into fists, my heart pounding hard enough against my ribs that I feel each dull thump as I behold the man I’ve recently slept with in a whole new—unflattering—light.
Cullen’s face lifts, his mossy-green eyes flashing with a fury that makes me back up a step despite myself. “I’m still unclear how you went from paying invoices in an inbox to sifting through my personal finances. I’m quite certain I left no bills for Pine Towers for Catherine to cover.” His voice tightens like a spring. “Is this your version of investigative journalism? Get to what you want to know by any means you find convenient? Paint front pages with your version of the truth?”
And there we go.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Red flashes at the sides of my vision, the twist of the conversation giving me whiplash despite my having expected it. “No. Never mind. I don’t even want to follow that line of questioning. What is it with you attacking my career and journalistic ethics every five minutes?” The words spill from me in ragged bursts, barely audible over my heart’s pounding. “I respect your career choice. Do me the courtesy of respecting mine.”
Cullen’s hand grips the doorframe, his knuckles blanching. “Why did you leave New York?” he asks. “Why did the Post, a well-respected publication, fire you outright?”
My eyes widen. Jaden. Apparently, I wasn’t the only visit the asshole had made today. What the hell had he said to Cullen? Would Cullen have believed him? My gaze falls on Cullen’s wall art, the few pictures reflecting memories of the good old days in uniform. There’s a bond between soldiers, my father used to tell me. A bond that’s forged in war and that makes everything in the civilian world look like a washed-out shadow by comparison. Don’t imagine yourself in some competition with the Marine Corps, he’d growl, grabbing me by the front of my shirt, his breath reeking of cheap beer. The corps long since won.
“I was fired because military buddies sweep things under the rug for each other.” I shake my head. “I don’t know what you think you know, but during Fleet Week, I went—”
“I know where you went.” Cullen cuts me off before I can finish my sentence. Reaching into his drawer, Cullen pulls out several photos and scatters them over his desk. The same photos that Jaden had produced to the Post, though he’d been passed out drunk most of the night. Me dancing with the marines. Bile rises up my throat as Cullen stares at the pictures that tell so little of the truth. “Tell me that you didn’t trade on a personal relationship with your fiancé to get entry into an exclusive venue, all while intending to write a story about it.”
“Of course I wanted to write a story. Why the hell else would I have gone to that shithole dive in Manhattan?” I force myself to not look at the photos. To ignore the emphasis on the word fiancé. To stick only to the truth. “But Jared knew that was why I was going. It was his idea.”
“It was his idea to set up his war buddies to be humiliated on the front page of the Manhattan Post?” Cullen’s voice drops dangerously low. “I don’t like being lied to.”
“I don’t lie, Cullen. Not in person, and sure as hell not in print.” I huff. “I obviously danced with the marines. It was a party. What I didn’t do was give up my right to stop. I was there for a story, not an orgy. Jaden had—”
“What drugs were you on that night?” Cullen demands, interrupting me.
“What?” I shake my head in bewilderment. “None.”
“Stop it, Skylar. You said you don’t lie, so tell me the damn truth. All of it.”
I lean forward toward him. “I. Took. No. Drugs. Not that night, and not any other night.”
“You’re sure?” he asks quietly. “You don’t lie, and you don’t take drugs.”
“You wanted to know why the Post fired me,” I say through gritted teeth. “Are you going to listen to the answer, or does throwing random accusations at me scratch the itch enough for you?”
“I already have all the answers I need,” he says. “Excuse me.” Turning away before I can say a word, he takes out his phone and presses something on his speed dial. Instantly, a picture of a drop-dead-gorgeous brunette with bright, attractive eyes—like a cross between the pretty girl next door and a supermodel—flickers across the screen.
“Fuck you, Cullen Hunt,” I whisper, backing away from the door. My eyes sting, my voice threatening to break if Cullen asks whether I really made up allegations of assault and attempted rape just to have a story. But maybe it’s worse if he doesn’t even bother to ask. If he believes Jaden’s version just like the USMC and the Post did.
“Addie, glad you picked up,” Cullen says, shutting the door in my face before stepping deeper into the office to finish his conversation.
I’m numb as I stand there for one heartbeat after another before finally turning on my heel. Striding back into Catherine’s office. Fishing a blank sheet of paper and pen from the drawer.
Then, collecting what’s left of my self-respect, I write out the only response Cullen’s behavior warrants. Two words only, in short, bold strokes.
I quit.
30
Sky
Sitting at my desk in Denton Uncovered, I stare at my police response time story from hell. The more I dig into the research on crime incidents and police response times, the more variables keep popping up, like the heads of some kind of exotic monster. Yes, crime is higher in the poorer neighborhoods. And yes, responses are scarce. But so are the calls to the police to begin with. In fact, best I can tell, the PD only found out about my own incident the same way Cullen had—from the local news. But should they have known? Should a vehicle have been stationed somewhere? I don’t know. The only definite correlation I’ve found so far is one between mistrust of police and socioeconomic levels. I read another set of interview notes with contradicting statements and growl in frustration before sticking the whole package into the drawer. This story is too important not to be perfect, and my mind isn’t working properly right now.