His Last Love Page 4

  “What are you talking about? I make little pro and con lists.”

  “You moved to Texas. Your job is in Colorado working for your brother.”

  Reagan rolls her eyes. “There were extenuating circumstances.”

  “Yeah, the fact you wanted away from Knox rather than telling him how you felt.”

  My eyes widen, a little worried the two women are going to get into an argument the way each of them scowls at the other. Reagan’s mouth opens like she has a snazzy comeback, but then she laughs tugging one shoulder in the air. “Yeah that wasn’t very smart. But hey it worked out in the end.”

  The tension evaporates. “Isn’t it sad the Golds are almost over? This might be our last one together unless Knox participates and you and Remi decide to come cheer him on.”

  Marley looks at Reagan for a moment not saying anything. The little bit of skin under her eyes reddens and I wonder if she’s getting ready to cry. “Of course we would come and cheer Knox on if he comes back. When he comes back.”

  “You better be my sister-in-law when you do it.”

  “Hell yeah I better be,” Marley says. “What about you, McKenna? Are you sad to be almost done?”

  “Yeah? What are you going to do after this?” Reagan chips in before I answer.

  What am I gonna do after this?

  “This has always been a temp job.” I wanted a marketing job, not whatever this job has become. “I’ve heard many of the assistants get job offers after they go home. Normally for marketing or PR firms. The Golds were supposed to be my steppingstone to something permanent.”

  The truth of the matter is I haven’t had a lot of time to network myself to the agents and other PR firms who are here. I spend most my time running around for the athletes. I have no idea what I’ll do when I get home. I highly doubt Asbell will offer me a position to work with the Gold Medal committee when I get back to the states. I haven’t had the best track record.

  And as much as I don’t want to admit it, there are some downsides to going home. What will happen to Oliver? Maybe we’ll be a Winter Games fling? Lots of them happen and then you go home and go about your life. Maybe we’ll email or something. He may live in California too, but it’s a big ass state and he’s probably not there often. I learned this morning he has a second home in Utah where he stays most of the time so he can practice. I’ve never been one for long-distance relationships.

  Actually, I’ve never had a long-distance relationship, but I imagine I’d be pretty bad at them. So even though less than twenty-four hours ago I was ready to go home and never think of this place again, now a growing part of me doesn’t want to leave.

  How the fuck did that happen?

  There are only a few days left of the Winter Games and then so much of my life will change. It’s a bit scary and also a little thrilling. I can do whatever I want. Well…not anything. As much as I’d love for the Travel Channel to offer me a gig visiting glamorous winery locations, so far that hasn’t happened. And I have bills to pay.

  “Oh!” Marley shouts, saying it so quickly she almost jumps off the couch. “I forgot I wanted to ask you. What’s up with Isaac? Does he really get to compete in the fifty-kilometer event?”

  Ugh this is not a conversation I want to have. “It looks that way. You know how it is. They want to deal with him back home rather than here. Asbell probably doesn’t want a bunch of reporters asking why he doesn’t compete.” It’s not like they could break his leg or make up some kind of injury. The media is a bunch of hounds. They’d figure it out eventually.

  “Typical. They’re more concerned about their image than anything else.” Reagan pops open the top of her Styrofoam container and pulls out a red Twizzler. “Do you remember in the 2014 Olympics when the bobsled team panty-raided the girls floor like they were a fucking frat?”

  “Such a damn mess,” Marley replies.

  What is she talking about? I never heard about panty raids. Oh, I guess that’s the point.

  And where in the hell did she get a red Twizzler? This damn hotel has everything. I’m over here trying to lick a protein bar off my breakfast banana and these two have red Twizzlers.

  “Do you want a Twizzler?” Reagan asks, handing one across the space as it flops around wildly in the air. “You can have one. You don’t have to give me the look like you’ll can eat it out of my hand.”

  My face flushes. “Thanks,” I say taking the red twisted fruit wonder. “I miss real food so much.”

  “Girl, come with us next time we eat. Nobody eats the athletes’ crap. The least they could do is feed you real food. We’ll sneak you in.”

  “I don’t think I can.” Such a sad thought, but the realization of having to work with Oliver as closely as I am the next few days means I’ll be stuck eating with the athletes. I finally get an invite to all the good food and I can’t use it.

  Marley bites off the end of her to Twizzler and keeps talking. “Yeah, nobody knows what an asshole Isaac is. The world needs to know. He’s been a bully for as long as I remember.”

  “He gets away with it because they cover it up. All the athletes get away with too much shit.”

  The phone the US Committee requires I carry around rings in my back pocket. Probably Asbell making sure I have my eye locked in on Oliver. For good measure I search the practice hill, but he must already be at the bottom because I don’t see his signature orange jacket.

  When I check the phone, an unknown number scrolls across the screen. “Hello?” I answer, completely forgetting to use the official greeting we’re trained to answer with.

  “Is this McKenna Marston?”

  “Yeah…”

  “Are you in charge of Oliver Slade? I have something that might be of interest to you.”

  “Yeah, what’s that?” We’ve been warned fans will tell crazy stories to try and meet the athletes. If this guy’s next comment is I need to bring him to the cafeteria or something, I’m hanging up.

  The caller coughs. “I recently purchased a very interesting set of pictures. Ones that don’t portray Oliver in the best light.”

  Oh shit.

  “For a price I may be willing to make sure they don’t get printed in tomorrow’s gossip column.”

  Of course. We also received a six-hour training on this situation. Apparently it happens a lot. Thank God I paid attention. Even with all the training, my stomach drops and I panic trying to remember all the steps we learned in New York. What the heck is step one?

  “How much do you want?” Marley and Reagan perk up in their chairs and listen to my conversation closely. I mouth the word Asbell and then stand, walking to the other side the room.

  “Fifty thousand.” The caller is quick to answer.

  “I can’t do fifty thousand. The most I could do is thirty.” Yes, it happens so often there’s actually a standard for how much money we’re allowed to pay for a picture. The events in Oliver’s room this morning are starting to make a lot more sense. I bet another thirty thousand I know exactly what pictures this guy has.

  “Meet me in the standard parking lot at 5:30 this afternoon. Column C2. And don’t be late.”

  Ugh. Could this day get any worse? I pop the last of the Twizzler in my mouth, the red goodness coating my teeth with a layer of sugar. I need to hunt down thirty thousand dollars.

  “Can you ladies watch Oliver for me? I have to go to Asbell’s office real quick.” I point to the direction behind me, feeling like I’ve asked them to watch my new puppy with a pee problem. It’s not a complete lie. Asbell will deftly want to talk about this in the privacy of a closed room.

  I don’t even wait for their answer and take off for the front doors to catch a cab back to the athletes’ building.

  There is no time to waste. I need to make sure Oliver stays off the front page of TMZ’s website. If that happens I will be on a plane back to the states.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The area my mysterious caller told me to meet him in his is one usually reserved f
or hotel staff or other locals who actually have vehicles to drive. Some of the spectators rented cars, but this area does not normally see this level of tourism, so those of us who did not absolutely need a vehicle were asked to abstain. From the look of the mostly empty lot, it seems people listened.

  A gust of wind whips its way to the second level, and I stand by the column I was directed to. With a scarf bundled up around my face, and a hunched-over guard waiting in the shadows, this whole thing reminds me of a scene out of a movie or the handoff for the Nixon documents.

  I stomp my feet trying to bring back some warmth to my toes and check my watch. My own personal Deep Throat is late. He gets exactly five more minutes and then…well frankly I don’t have an “and then.” I don’t know what I’ll do. I can’t let these images go to the media, but I also can’t stand out here until I get frostbite. I like my toes.

  A cough echoes through the underground parking garage, and I search around finding the source. It’s a few columns behind me. Also labeled as C2.

  “Deep Throat?” I ask, slowly walking in the direction of the cough trying to be casual and not scream in panic.

  No one laughs, but I could swear it is the same cough I heard on the phone. Although I guess in a way all coughs sound the same even if this one is phlegm filled like the other.

  I’d been so focused on getting the money and making it here on time I haven’t had the opportunity to properly freak out over what I’m about to do. It’s not until right now I realize how stupid this is. People die in parking lots. Raped, robbed, murdered — I don’t want to be any of those things. What am I doing here alone?

  Okay, I’m not technically alone. Dexler and Asbell required a security guard to come with me. He’s stationed around a corner, but he’s so damn far away I could be kidnapped before he made it to where I am. Five minutes ago I told him to keep his distance because I was feeling confident, but now? Now he needs to get his ass over here so he can shoot someone if he needs to.

  “Do you think this is funny, Miss Marston?” A tall man wearing a black beanie over his hair and a pair of large blacked out sunglasses steps away from the wall.

  My first reaction is to come back with something snotty. After all he’s the one who made us meet in the dank parking garage. But, I don’t think it’s the time to get into it. He could have a gun.

  “No, I don’t think this is funny. Do you have the pictures?” I stop a few feet from him not wanting to get too close.

  He breathes deeply, causing himself to cough. “Of course I have the pictures. Why would I get you all the way here if I didn’t have pictures?” he asks, as if I’m the complete moron, but I distinctly remember a situation similar to this one where the person did not bring actual photo proof. Not all journalists are smart. If he even is a journalist.

  From the inside of his jacket he pulls out a long manila envelope and hands it to me. I open the top and allow a few traditionally size photos to fall into my hands.

  Fucking Oliver.

  I flip through each picture. At first glance anger bubbles over in my stomach causing my free fist to clench, crinkling the envelope.

  Laid out directly in front of me in photographic proof is Oliver san shirt fast asleep in his bed. Next to him, sharing the space on his pillow, is the beautiful woman I saw leaving his room this morning. In one picture she lies there, her head facing him, with her eyes closed as it looks like she sleeps peacefully beside him.

  But something is off about the photo. Who smiles while asleep?

  I flip through the photos again. They’re all of Oliver sleeping. In one or two of them, the mysterious girl’s eyes are open and she stares lovingly at the sleeping athlete beside her. Nowhere in the stack of pictures is there one of Oliver with his eyes open. Or anything where they are engaged in activities of any sort. Even talking. Let alone the sexualized scandalous sexual pictures I expected.

  The more I look through each of these photos, the more I believe Oliver’s story. Although, what athlete sleeps so hard you wouldn’t notice a woman lying next to you taking pictures? It seems a little unbelievable. A bit too perfect. But if this mysterious woman was all about getting pictures and selling them for money, she would have made him take one together. A smiling selfie or lovers cuddle.

  Except there isn’t one.

  Something is not right. Twirling a piece of hair on my finger and thinking quietly, I do my best to remember the scene from this morning. There’s isn’t anything new from what I already remember.

  Ultimately, I guess it doesn’t matter. Even if they are fake pictures they don’t look good. One chance to print these and the story will be all over the Internet by tomorrow morning. That is not publicity an athlete needs to wake up to on the day of their big event. Even if this is an elaborate scheme to earn some money, there’s nothing I can do but pay it. At least until the US Committee takes a no hostage approach. Which I don’t see happening.

  “Fine, I’ll pay the money. But I want all the copies.” Asbell was not happy when I went to his office and asked for thirty thousand dollars to buy off suspicious pictures for Oliver. I’m pretty sure Oliver’s going to get a bill for this expense when he gets home. With interest.

  Asbell planned to come with me to make sure I didn’t screw this up either — his words, not mine. But there was some kind of scuffle between two women athletes. Someone slept with someone else and he had to break it up before any real damage was done. Pro athletes don’t pull hair and slap. They know how to throw a punch and have the muscles to do it well. He did, however, look me directly in the eyes and tell me if I didn’t guarantee I got every single piece of photo evidence, I’d find my ass on a plane back home. Then he took Dexler with him and left me with the skinny security guard who listened to me when I told him to wait in the shadows. He’s obviously setting me up for failure.

  But for the first time, I don’t want to find my ass on a plane back home so I need to hurry and get this fixed.

  “So the rest of them? USBs. Negatives. Where did you get them developed?” I ask tapping the stack of photos I have against an open palm. He’s not getting these back, but I’m also not fool enough to believe he doesn’t have more.

  The mysterious man smiles. “You do know what you’re doing after all.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a Ziploc baggie with two grey thumb drives inside.

  As he passes the thumb drives across the space to me I hurry and snatch a photo of him with my phone. It’s not the greatest picture. He still has on his huge sunglasses. But I hope it will do what I need it to do.

  “What the fuck?” He takes a step toward me.

  Okay maybe it wasn’t that good of an idea. Why the hell did I tell the security guy to stay away? “If these photos show up anywhere, I’ll know you didn’t give me all the copies and I will find you.”

  The smile he had from earlier turns into a frown. “You get the last of the negatives when I get my money.”

  That’s what I thought. I pull the envelope containing thirty thousand dollars — it’s much lighter than you would expect — from my purse and hold it up in the air. “On three then?”

  I have no idea what I’m doing. Who thought it was a good idea to leave me in a parking garage with an envelope of money? How many other assistants have been left to tasks like this?

  He rolls his eyes, but pulls out one loan thumb drive. “Fine.”

  “Wait, where did you get them developed?” I tuck the money back toward my chest.

  “In my room of course. This isn’t my first rodeo, honey. Now toss me the money.”

  “One. Two. Three.” I throw the envelope of money high in the air. It makes a tall arc next to him.

  He on the other hand whips the thumb drive at my head. I’m carrying a purse, a huge manila envelope, and a Ziploc baggie full of other USBs. Nobody’s expecting me to catch this thing. Least of all me. The drive smacks me in the chest and then drops to the floor. I bend down to pick it up and add it to my Ziploc baggie when the emerge
ncy exit door alerts.

  I look up in time to watch the mystery journalist duck out the door and head down a staircase. I hope to God my threat worked and these are all the copies because for as much as my words sounded all big and tough about taking his picture, I have no idea how we would actually find him. Or who I would hire to beat him up. Maybe Dexler. If not him he has to know someone.

  **

  It took me less than twenty minutes to take all the photo evidence to Asbell’s office. He was not happy when he saw the thumb drives and immediately pulled open a desk drawer where he had four more baggies full of the exact same type. A lot of swear words were said. Even though I showed him the picture I’d taken of the guy — and he told me none of his other assistants had been smart enough to do that and I should send him a copy — he didn’t give me a raise or anything.

  I guess he also didn’t fire me, so that’s a plus. There were, however, a lot of reminders about how Oliver is not supposed to leave my side. Then he followed them up with questions about where the fuck Oliver was at that very moment if he wasn’t supposed to leave my side. I’m not quite sure the type of person my boss thinks I am, but there’s no clone of me running around. Rather than get into a debate with him about the space time continuum and how I couldn’t physically occupy two spaces at once, I smiled and nodded and then got the hell out of there.

  It put me back in the practice arena in time to pick Oliver up for dinner. Unfortunately, I’m in no mood to eat dinner with a man I recently paid thirty thousand dollars to buy images of him in bed with another woman. Regardless of their legitimacy. I took extra time pushing my tray through the buffet line selecting a sandwich made with fake bread, fake cheese, and fake meat. It’s probably all made of protein powder. I’m not even kidding, they sprinkle the shit everywhere. I guess maybe that’s why they’re all assholes. They haven’t had real food in years. It’s a decent theory.

  I drop my tray on the gray round table Oliver sits at by himself. The small container of mysterious goo resembling pudding plops off the tray and rolls across the table. It was probably protein powder anyway.