It drove me nuts. How little I mattered to this woman.
I wondered if I’d ever stood a chance in the first place. If maybe she’d given up on me because I’d always reminded her of my no-show father. Or if I’d messed it up myself.
Arsène clapped my back. It was the first time he’d touched me. That anyone had touched me, really, since Conrad had beaten the daylights out of me. “Sounds like she’s a piece of work. You don’t need her. You don’t need anyone.”
“Everyone needs someone,” Riggs pointed out. “Or so I read in the self-help books I steal from the library.”
“Why do you steal them?” I asked.
Riggs threw his head back and laughed. “What else am I supposed to use to roll up my DIY joints?”
“I need people,” I heard myself say. “I can’t get through this alone.”
This school. This life. This bitterness that cut through my skin every time I thought about Conrad and Arya.
“Fine. Then we’ll be each other’s someone.” Arsène perked up, letting the popcorn bag he was holding fall to the mattress. “Fuck them. Fuck our families. Our parents. The people who have wronged us. Fuck Christmas dinners and decorated pine trees and scented candles and neatly wrapped gifts. We’ll be each other’s family from now on. The three of us. Every Christmas. Every Easter. Every Thanksgiving. We’ll stick together, and we’ll fucking win.”
Riggs fist-bumped Arsène. Arsène raised his fist and offered it to me. I stared at it, feeling like I was on the cusp of something big. Monumental. Both Arsène and Riggs were glaring at me expectantly. I thought about that thing Arya had said all those years ago, in Mount Hebron Memorial, about how money wasn’t everything in the world. Maybe she was right after all. These kids were rich, and they didn’t seem happier than I was.
I raised my arm, my fist touching Arsène’s.
“Attaboy.” Riggs laughed. “Told you Nicholai was one of us.”
And from that moment on, I was.
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHRISTIAN
Present
“Arya Roth must be good in bed, because she sure knows how to screw with a narrative.” Claire ricocheted a newspaper onto my office desk Monday morning.
I was neck deep in going through the documents Amanda Gispen had sent me over the weekend. The discovery stage was crucial for an ironclad case. I knew Conrad’s lawyers were going to file a motion in limine to keep the EEOC’s determination letter out of the case. I’d been so wrapped up in the material over the weekend that Claire and I had gone through the evidence instead of engaging in a screw-fest like we’d planned. The only thing I was in the mood for screwing was the Roth family, and hard.
I glanced at the newspaper’s headline, frowning, while Claire parked a hip against my desk, hovering over me. In the photo in front of me, Conrad Roth was seen hugging kids at a hospital. Apparently, he’d gifted each of them a brand-new gaming console, from the variety most mortals couldn’t get their hands on.
. . . Roth has donated 1,500 GameDrop consoles to the Don Hawkins Children’s Hospital, along with a generous $2 million donation . . .
“This is bullshit.” I rolled up the newspaper and slam-dunked it into the trash next to me. Claire pulled out her phone and swiped her finger across the screen.
“There are three more positive items about Conrad Roth running on various news sites today. The hashtag #NoRothDoing is trending on Twitter. Ex-colleagues are coming forward and talking about how nice and professional he is. Women of power. Arya Roth is working extra hard on Daddy’s image.”
Arya’s name alone made me break out in hives. The woman didn’t just manage to get under my skin; she dug her way into my gut and lit a bonfire there.
“#NoRothDoing is the stupidest hashtag I’ve ever heard, and unfortunately, I’ve heard many.”
“I happen to agree, but it’s working.” Claire sighed. “What are we going to do?”
“Nothing.” I shrugged. “I’ll do my talking in the courtroom, in front of a jury that actually makes a difference. Internet trolls are not my target audience.”
“Should we be more tactical about this? Maybe scare her a little?” Claire perched her ass on the edge of my desk, folding her arms. I rolled my executive chair back, putting some space between us. Claire was a gorgeous, ambitious, well-off twenty-seven-year-old. But she was starting to become a liability, wanting things like weekends away and for me to meet her parents. I’d laid out the rules when we’d started sleeping together, explaining I was so deep in the playboy zone I couldn’t find my way out of it into a healthy relationship with a map, a flashlight, and GPS. She’d said she understood, and maybe she had, once upon a time, but things were getting complicated, which meant I was days away from breaking things off.