George pulled out his phone and voxed Stella. “You need to fucking call me.” He looked out his window. “Now.”
He selected Patrick next. “Hey, is Stella staying with y’all this week? What happened to her arm?”
His phone dinged immediately. It was Patrick, voxing.
“She’s staying on and off, why?”
“Because I just fucking saw her on TV with a broken hand or arm or...”
“Jamie,” Patrick responded immediately. “She punched him.”
George stared at the phone. When the fuck was she going to tell him that? Jealousy crept up his spine and settled in his throat. Of course she’d told Patrick.
“10-4,” George said and voxed Stella again.
“Stella Eugenia Murphy. I will come back to DC and spank your ass. Call me NOW!” He didn’t keep the anger out of his voice—he wanted her to hear it loud and clear.
“Okay. So I’m trying to get Jamie to admit to everything, but I need to get him somewhere where he won’t suspect that’s what I’m doing.”
Stella and Patrick were sitting at their old stools at Finnegan’s, knocking back beers. It was almost like old times, except that Owen was behind the bar. When they’d come in, he’d given her the third degree about Patrick as well. Stella was positive George must’ve said something to Owen about keeping tabs on her. It was ridiculous, but she understood it, especially after hearing his latest vox, which she was ignoring.
“Okay,” Patrick said, taking a sip of his beer. “How’re you planning on doing that?”
“I’ll get him to meet me somewhere and record him telling me he did it.” She honestly didn’t think it would be that hard; he liked to hear himself talk.
“I don’t know, El.” Patrick shook his head skeptically while examining the cracks in the bar. “You’re going to have to make sure when you’re recording that you only get the parts you want. If it’s clear that you knew he shot you earlier, you’ll be in trouble. If it seems like you knew he was part of the bombing, you could be charged with being an accessory after the fact. I mean, there are so many things that could go wrong.”
“But, it’s really the only way I can get Agent Harris to act on this. I mean, if I’m taking Jack Ryder down, I’ve got to give him this admission. I want him arrested.”
“Well, I guess if you record him there’ll be proof that he told you, but…” Patrick doubted she’d be able to pull it off; it was all over his face.
“Come on, Patrick, give me some fucking credit. I can coax people to talk about what I want them to.” She shrugged. “I’m good at distracting boys.”
“Oh, really,” Patrick mocked, running his fingers up and down his pint of Bass.
“Yeah, really,” Stella said, grinning. “My job of distracting people from what’s really going on will be helpful in this adventure. For example, my current client, who’s fucking a dude even though he’s married to a woman and has two kids—send me in there and the media forgets all questions about him, but wants to talk about death threats and string bikinis. It’s fucking easy.”
“Job kind of sucks, huh?” Patrick ruffled her hair. It was growing out of the bob she had during the trial.
“Kind of.” She nodded and leaned away from his hand. She hated being petted.
“Most jobs do.” Patrick took a gulp of his beer. “You want to stay at the house?”
“Maybe...” She was nervous to stay by herself since she ran into Jamie. While it was hard to have media outside her house at all times, it was also like a security blanket. Agent Gunter had seen her rush back to her house, but hadn’t said a word about it. Everything was so fucking complicated.
“When does George get back?” Patrick asked, throwing down a bill on the bar.
“This weekend.”
“He in Iowa?”
“Yep.”
“You better call him. He voxed me and he was pissed.” Patrick smiled and drained his drink. “See you in a bit. I’ll tell Millie to buy some wine.” He kissed her cheek and left her sitting there contemplating whether she could pull off the only plan she’d come up with so far to deal with Jamie.
“Owen?” Stella called.
“Yes, Stella?”
“I need another one before I go.” Stella lifted her empty glass toward him.
“Of course.” Owen nodded and got her a Snakebite. When he set it in front of her on the bar, he smiled sympathetically. “Rough day?”
“You could say that.”
“What’d you do to your hand?” he asked.
“Broke it. Fell off the treadmill,” she answered, feeding him the same story she’d told the media. Liar. She’d found it easier that once you lied, just keep lying; just fall into the lie and wallow in it. You may end up even believing the story you’ve created for yourself, anyway, and then it will be less likely others will know you’re a liar.
“Damn, seriously?” Owen’s eyebrows rose.
“Yep. It was a sneaky bastard.”
“You know, I don’t care what everyone says about you. I think you and Will are good together.”
Stella’s mood darkened. She already knew George’s family didn’t like her, but shit. “Thanks.” She shrugged and gulped her beer down, now ready to leave. She waved as she walked toward the door.
Stella fell into her car, which she’d named Delilah, and headed home to grab her things and Cooper. On the way she listened to her Voxer messages from George. He was pissed because she hadn’t told him about her hand, but she didn’t tell him because she didn’t want him to worry. Then she made a rookie mistake by holding a press conference and not telling him before then. She and Cooper got in Delilah and made their way to Patrick’s.
She called George and listened to him berate her as soon as he answered.
“Where have you been? I’ve been calling and fucking voxing all fucking day. How do you not tell me that you ran into Jamie and it ended in you breaking your hand?”
She was silent. Stella had no valid reason for not telling him, she just didn’t want to worry him, which was stupid.
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry!?” George’s voice boomed from the phone and Stella pulled it from her ear.
“I don’t have an explanation. I just didn’t want to worry you.”
“So you’d rather me see it on TV with everyone else when you smile your fake fucking smile and tell your pretty little lies?”
“George, I’m sorry. I’ll do better.” She wasn’t even putting up a fight and that seemed to take some of the air out of his fight.
“Stella, I can’t be here and know you’re lying to me.”
“I didn’t lie.”
“Cut the bullshit.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay....” There was a strained silence. “I was running and Jamie was waiting for me. He wants his money. I punched him in the face.”
“Pay him,” George said unequivocally.
“What?”
“Pay him,” George repeated. “Write him a motherfucking check and get him out of our lives.”
“I bought Delilah with it and some shoes,” she said sheepishly.
“I have money to pay him; do it.”
“B-but…” Stella stuttered, not knowing what to think.
“I’m not asking, Love. Pay him.”
She continued to make the dumbest decisions. What was her problem? She reluctantly agreed to pay him out of George’s bank account. By the time she pulled up to her old house, she’d told him she loved him as big as the world and he’d laughed because that’s what Finn always told him. Stella thought they ended the call on the best note possible.
Chapter Fifteen
Bullet to the Head