I haven’t even entertained the idea of an on-air position. In the furthest recesses of my mind, I briefly considered that it could be an option years from now after I’d put in my time researching hard-hitting topics.
“I want you to understand that if you don’t nab an exclusive with Kavan about the night his father died, you will still have a position at Marks Creative.”
Why do I feel as though that’s his way of telling me that I may be knocked back down the ladder to RumorMel?
“I’ve been doing this for a very long time, Juliet.” Mr. Marks smiles. “In my experience, when a person like Kavan Bane reaches out to the media, deep down they want to share their story. They may frame it one way, but with compassionate and careful guidance from the journalist, they just may see the light. After all, releasing a burden as heavy as the one he carries could very well change his life.”
“And mine,” I whisper.
“Exactly.” His eyes shine. “Take it slow. Get to know the man from the inside out. A lot can be gained by observing, and since you’ll be by his side gathering research, I believe you’ll deliver an article that we can all agree will benefit everyone.”
An exclusive on the death of Ares Bane from the man accused of his murder will benefit Mr. Marks most of all. It will up his bottom line because he’ll sell a hell of a lot of magazines in print and digitally.
“As I said yesterday, I’m available night and day for you, Juliet.”
My gaze drifts to four framed pictures sitting on a shelf behind him. One is of him and his wife. I recognize her from the many searches of Mr. Marks that I did before I was interviewed for RumorMel.
The image next to that is of Mr. Marks and his son, Grayson. I know him from his award-winning poetry. Margot is a fan, so I gifted her a copy of his book for her birthday.
Another framed picture features a dark-haired man and a beautiful woman alongside two identical twin girls and an infant wrapped in a blue blanket. The last image is a woman who must be about my age. She’s standing on a corner, holding a bouquet of roses while she smiles brightly at the camera.
“Family is everything, isn’t it?”
My gaze trails to Mr. Mark’s face. “Your family is lovely.”
“They are,” he agrees. “There is an image online of Kavan and his father taken just hours before his death on a beach in Miami.”
I nod because I saw that photo online last night. I must have spent fifteen minutes staring at it.
Kavan’s hair was shorter, and his blue eyes were hidden behind a pair of designer sunglasses, but all the emotion he was feeling was visible.
He was smiling broadly with his arm wrapped around the shoulder of a man who stood a few inches shorter than him in the sand.
Ares Bane had the same black hair as his son and the same strong jawline.
With the ocean as their backdrop, the men stood side-by-side, obviously happy to be together, comfortable, content in a way that sometimes we can only be with our family members.
Less than five hours later, Ares was dead.
“There’s a story there that is waiting to be told, Juliet.” Mr. Marks glances at the framed photos of his family. “My gut never steers me wrong, and it’s telling me that what happened in that hotel room in Miami needs to be shared with the world.”
My gut is telling me that Kavan Bane would do anything to keep that story hidden forever.
“You’re in a very enviable position,” he goes on, “I know you recognize that and will do your best to take full advantage of it.”
I read between those lines.
My boss wants me to dive deep into Mr. Bane’s past even though I’ve been warned not to by the man himself.
Mr. Marks glances at his watch. “I’ll give you a call in a few days to check on your progress, Juliet. If you need anything in the meantime, don’t hesitate to ask.”
I need to decide if pushing Mr. Bane is worth the risk.
The man controls my entire future, whether he knows it or not.
Chapter Seventeen
Kavan
Mistakes that are repeated are often a source of regret.
I rarely venture into the overcrowded streets of Manhattan, but I did today to meet up with Sean.
I’m on my way home now, taking the route I often take, which is down alleys and up side streets.
Since my father’s death there have been a few times when people who met him have spotted me. Sometimes all I’ll get from them is a sneer. Other times they’ll point a finger and call me a bastard, or a waste of skin, or the most common insult thrown my way is that I’m a fucking murderer.
Those words slide off of me. I’ve learned to ignore the rage in the faces of the people who approach me.
Often, if I move so much as an inch, they’ll run in the opposite direction.
I have no idea if they think I’m going to wrap my hands around their neck to squeeze the life out of them or if they worry that I’ll defend myself with words.
I won’t do either.
Others opinions of me stopped mattering the day my father died.
I quicken my pace to catch up with the woman who has decided it’s a good idea to sprint down the same alley she was mugged in a few weeks ago.
Juliet Bardin, wearing a snug dress and black heels, is trying to make it past the scene of the crime untouched.
It takes me a few broad steps before I’m right behind her.
“Juliet,” I say her name quietly enough that I hope to fuck it won’t send her screaming in search of a savior.
That doesn’t happen.
Instead, she stops abruptly and turns to face me.
Her cheeks are pink, her eyes rimmed with dark shadow and liner. She looks seductive, mesmerizing, and even more fuckable than she did last night in my office.
“Hi.” She bites the corner of her bottom lip. “Hello, Mr. Bane.”
“You’re enjoy tempting fate,” I point out.
She laughs. “I’m prepared this time.”
I glance down when she opens her fist to reveal a set of keys. The blade of one key is sticking out from between two of her fingers as if it’s a weapon.
“I consider myself lucky that you didn’t use that on me.”
She sighs. “I recognized your voice. You have a very distinctive voice.”
It’s deep, some would claim there’s always a threatening note to it, but I don’t hear that.
“What are you doing in this part of the city?” I ask out of pure curiosity.
“Sneaking down alleys,” she answers without pause.
I feel a twisted sense of satisfaction over the fact that she’s not inching away from me. She’s standing her ground, even though I’m confident that she’s had enough time to read about the sordid details of the night my father died.
“There are safer routes to take to get where you’re going, Juliet.”
“I know.” She looks into my eyes. “What’s life without a little calculated risk?”
“Those are wise words from someone so young.”
The lures another laugh from her, but this one is open-mouthed. “Someone so young? How old do you think I am?”
“You’re twenty-five.”
She nods. “You’re twenty-nine.”