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He’s not listed in my texts or recent calls, and when I manually type his number, an “Error: Not Allowed” message appears.
What the heck?
The door to the room opens, and Hayden walks inside carrying two brown bags.
“Good. You’re up,” he says. “I’ll let you choose which bagel stack you want.”
“What did you do to my phone? I can’t contact Joshua.”
“Cinnamon or regular?” He ignores my question.
“Cinnamon.”
“Okay.” He opens a bag and takes his time setting a tray in front of me.
I can’t help but notice that there are cuts and bruises all over his knuckles. Cuts and bruises that weren’t there last night or the night before.
“What happened to your hands?”
“It’s nothing.” He hands me a fork. “I just hit them on someone stupid.”
“Someone or something?”
He doesn’t answer that question either. He fluffs the pillow behind my head and hands me a fruit cup.
“Hayden, what happened?”
“I was looking out for you,” he says.
Then he changes the subject, giving me a look that lets me know that the ship for the previous conversation has sailed. “Let’s talk about your next competition. It’s in North Carolina, right?”
Twenty-Five
Present Day
Hayden
Simon Gaines was a fucking fraud.
The evidence lay ahead of me in black and white, and the numbers didn't lie.
The lengths he’d taken to craft his persona were enough to fill a nine-hundred-page novel, but no sane author would ever pen a story with a plot this insane. (Then again, he was also a “New York Times bestseller,” according to his website, so perhaps he was borrowing a storyline from one of his nonexistent books.)
In addition to renting his Ferrari, his watches, and his suits, he dated a different woman in every city (five and counting), with a complementing wardrobe and personality to match.
In Los Angeles, he was a doting widower dating a nurse named Shelby. In Las Vegas, he climbed mountains and led spiritual yoga sessions with a thrill-seeking woman named Ana. In Indiana, he moonlighted as a part-time stock bro who “hated the thought” of spending weekends away from his girlfriend Yasmine.
The variations of his last name—Gines, Gains, Giannis, were adjusted sufficiently enough to maintain his ruse and keep his lies protected.
If he were any other boyfriend, I would immediately call Penelope and tell her what I’d found. I would say, “We need to talk about your boyfriend. You’ll need to break up with him tonight.”
But in this case, I needed to take a different approach because I wanted her to do more than break up with him.
I wanted her to break up with him, for me.
Pouring myself a shot of scotch, I contemplated how I should handle this. I pulled out one of my stationery sheets and clicked my pen.
Wait. What the hell am I doing?
I picked up my phone and scrolled down to her name. Then I finally opened the series of text messages I’d avoided for the past several days.
Penelope: Hey. Not sure if my images with the dresses came through or not? Which one should I wear? (Can you answer my other messages as well? I would appreciate your help.)
Penelope: I see you giving an interview on TV. You looked at your phone when I texted you. Why aren’t you answering me?!!
Penelope: Okay, let’s pretend like you’ve had a string of bad weeks, and you’ll tell me about it later. *Fresh slate?* *Okay, great* I’m thinking about sleeping with Simon after your gala since things have been heating up. Let me know what you think about my dirty texts/lingerie. [.img.] [.img]
Fuck this shit.
I clicked on her name hit call.
It rang once. It rang twice.
“Please leave your message at the sound of the beep.” Her voicemail sounded instead.
Beep!
“Penelope, I know that it’s three o’clock in the morning, but I need to get this off my chest.” I let out a breath. “I can’t give you any more advice on landing Simon, can’t tell you another sexy thing that you should do, or suggest a new set of filthy words that you should text him late at night.”
I paused. “As your best friend, I’ve reached my limit, and I can honestly say that he doesn’t deserve you. I’m not saying all of this because I’m fucking jealous, or because he had the audacity to say that he makes more money than me. By the way, I still can’t find his name on the Forbes 500 list, and I know damn well that he's renting that Ferrari, but that’s a story for a different day.”
“He’s not who you think he is,” I said. “And the better man has always been right in front of you ... ”
“You have every reason to never give me a chance since you know me better than anyone, and you agree with all the tabloids calling me The Cocky King of New York and the Untamed Playboy of Manhattan. But I honestly believe that you’re better off with someone else, and I need you to see.”
