“This isn’t a meeting,” I say casually, kicking out the chair beside him and lowering myself into it. “Frank just set this up to get you out here in a neutral territory so we can talk.”
Disappointment floods his expression as he realizes I’m on a first-name basis with the great Frank Cannon, while he is not. There will be no Oscar-worthy film role forthcoming for him.
“Clarke Webber,” I announce her name again, setting off a small pang in the middle of my chest. The woman who broke my heart because she refuses to be brave enough to work past this with me.
Tripp jolts at my mention of her, and his gaze slides away from me as he mutters, “I didn’t make that new meme.”
“Ah,” I drawl with a wry smile. “You do know who I am then?”
He nods like a petulant child, still refusing to meet my eyes.
My foot shoots out, kicking him lightly in the shin. “Helps if you give me your attention because what I have to say is important.”
“What do you want?” he snaps, finally giving me his regard.
My voice is soft, but penetrating in the silence of the room we’re in. “I want you to suffer.”
Tripp’s eyes grow so large I’m afraid they just might pop out of his head. I find I like the fear on his face. I throw the folder I’d been holding on the table in front him, then nod at it.
He gapes at it like a huge black spider will erupt from the inside if he dares to touch it.
“Open it,” I growl.
He jerks and leans forward, gently taking the edge and flipping the folder open. The eight-by-ten glossy photo of him passionately kissing a woman outside of a seedy motel shines like a beacon. Tripp blanches at the irrefutable proof that he’s a cheater.
Turns out, the investigator I hired turned up two interesting things about this man. He’s a philanderer of the worst sort who routinely cheats on his wife—the woman he proposed to and married on Celebrity Proposal—and he desperately needs his wife to survive as she’s the breadwinner in the household. After her brush with fame on the reality TV series, she ended up becoming a reporter, then an anchor with one of the national celebrity news stations, while Tripp’s career tanked down the toilet.
Closing the folder, Tripp snarls. “So you’re going to expose me?”
“Not if you make this right,” I say blandly.
Not that he ever could make this right to Clarke. The damage has been done, and the hurt he inflicted on her was too powerful for Clarke to overcome.
Right now, a lot of this is about me and my anger for not only what he did to Clarke, but also for how it has now affected our relationship.
Or lack thereof, as the case may be.
“What do you want?” he asks hesitantly. “A public apology?”
A bark of laughter erupts from me, sounding almost maniacal as I shake my head. Tripp shrinks away from me.
Still chuckling, I say, “No. Clarke would absolutely hate that. She hates attention, unlike you. She’d never want that revived in any way, shape, or form. She’s everything you’re not and therefore, you couldn’t understand the type of damage you inflicted on that beautiful soul, so you could never make it right with her. I’m afraid what I want is going to hurt you a bit.”
Tripp’s complexion turns a nice shade of green as he swallows hard. “What do I have to do?”
“Simple really.” I sit forward in the chair, bracing my elbows on the armrest so I can look him straight in the eye. “You’re going to donate $200,000 to a literacy charity that’s near and dear to Clarke’s heart. You’re going to do it anonymously because I don’t want you getting any credit for it. Clarke would absolutely hate hearing your name, even though it would be to benefit a great cause she loves. Now, you’re going to make that donation and you’re going to provide me proof in the form of your bank statement and a receipt from said charity. Oh, and you’re not going to claim it on your tax return as a deduction. If you do that, I’ll destroy these photos.”
“You’re fucking crazy,” Tripp scoffs, getting a little daring with me now that I’ve threatened his purse strings. “No way—that’s most of my savings.”
“Yes, I know.” The investigator I paid very good money for was able to illicitly gather Tripp’s financial information. The asshole has a little bit more than that in his savings, but not much. “It seems B-rated actors don’t make much money in Hollywood, but I have it on good authority you made $200,000 for being on Celebrity Proposal. As such, I think that’s a sufficient amount to set things right.”
Tripp’s upper lip curls, his anger and sense of entitlement getting the better of him. “All because of some girl who gave it up?” He sneers. “I didn’t make her drop her panties.”
In all my years of professional hockey—gliding swiftly on the ice in a breakaway or targeting someone for a hip check—I’ve never moved as fast as I do now.
I have Tripp pulled up from the chair by the lapels of his jacket, spun, and slammed into the plexiglass window that overlooks the streets of downtown Los Angeles. His head cracks hard against the thickness, and I pull my arm back to deliver a vicious uppercut into his soft belly.
He doubles over, but I haul him up straight again, my fist cocked back for a second strike.
The conference room door flies open and I glance over my shoulder to see Tacker standing there. He had either been watching through the window or felt the shudder from me slamming Tripp into the glass. Either way, he gives me a pointed look and merely shakes his head as if to say, “Don’t do it.”
Tripp is gagging and wheezing, and I scoff at how pathetic he’s acting. With a sigh, I spin him back around and shove him into the chair. Tacker backs out of the room, shutting the door.
I squat beside Tripp’s chair, resting my hands on the armrest. He refuses to meet my gaze. “I’m not asking you, Tripp. I’m telling you that you are going to do this, or your wife will receive those photos. And then you’re going to be out of a marriage, which appears to keep you in a pretty cushy lifestyle from what I can tell. On top of that, Frank Cannon is going to blackball you to the entire industry if you don’t make the donation. You won’t be able to cut a toilet paper commercial after this.”
He still refuses to meet my eyes, but I know he heard my message.
I stand, towering over him. “You’re lucky.”
That gets his attention, and his head tips back with a hateful glare.
“I could have ruined you in so many ways. I could have just sent that stuff to your wife. I have the connections to blackball you forever. Hell, I could have driven you to homelessness if I wanted to. I’m giving you an easy out by letting you make a difference to people with that donation, and that’s going to satisfy my need to beat you to a bloody pulp. Because that’s really all I want to do.”
“Whatever,” Tripp mutters, once again not able to hold my stare. “Are we done?”
I reach into my pocket, then pull out a card with my email on it. Tossing it on the table, I instruct him, “You have two days to get it done. Send me the proof.”
Without another word, I whirl away from him and head for the door. Just as I open it, he grumbles, “This is blackmail, you know?”