My lips curve upward.
Ryke nods in agreement, his jaw hardening. “I gave him part of my liver, and this is what he does?” His distraught eyes rise to me, for understanding, for anything that’ll make it better.
I do have more knowledge than them, but it won’t ease his pain. What no one but Rose may know and what Jonathan may not fully understand himself: he reacted today based off fear of abandonment. He can give reasons like I’m trying to stop Connor from seducing my son all he wants, but it’s more than that.
It’s about Jonathan feeling like I’ve taken his position in Lo’s life. For guidance, for connections, for money—Lo comes to me. When I’m around, Jonathan is unneeded. There’s nothing worse than being useless when you thrive off being useful.
He felt inferior and powerless, probably for the first time ever.
Greg, his best friend, is kind-hearted and malleable. I’m calculated and stoic.
When I meet men like Jonathan, I usually step back and try to appear non-threatening. I fake it because they can’t put up with how I normally am, but I’ve never had reason to do this with Lo’s father. He served no value to me. I didn’t need anything from him. I didn’t want him as a connection. If we were at odds, I thought it made no difference.
I didn’t regard Jonathan Hale as a variable in my life. He was nothing. And the nothing I disregarded turned out to be the something that I should’ve paid more attention to.
That’s why this happened. There is no other reason than this.
As I look at Ryke, I realize I have the opportunity to shed light on the situation, or I can leave it how it is. They can believe that their father is a bigger bigot and asshole—or I can show them that he’s just utterly imperfect.
I don’t like Jonathan. I hate him, in fact, but I pity him more—and maybe it’s this pity that has won me over. Or maybe it’s because I really see no point in revenge.
Either way, I begin to share my thoughts that won’t rid the hurt he’s caused, but it’ll at least put to rest the villain in their eyes.
39
CONNOR COBALT
I casually suck on a cigarette, inhaling deeply. Scott watches the color of the smoke that leaves my lips: filmy, translucent gray rather than a plume of white.
He’s constantly making sure I’m not playing him. I remember his extremely opinionated comment a month ago: real men don’t hold smoke in their mouths. And I unfortunately have to abide by this.
“You realize there are two cameramen on the eastern balcony of that apartment complex.” I tap ash into a tray and then sip my whisky to drown the cigarette taste.
Scott takes a large swig of his bourbon, barely acknowledging the apartment complex that overlooks Saturn Bridges, a Philadelphia bar that’s been flooded with people since we arrived at 1 a.m. He also chose to stand on the bar’s deck patio, potted plants partially concealing our view of the street.
Scott wanted to meet in public, the same day that the news broke about me, further reminding me that he loves money only one degree above notoriety.
I’m aware that this isn’t the best look for me: Connor Cobalt is seen without his wife at a local bar the same day it’s revealed that his marriage is a sham! Rose plans on picking me up, so the “without wife” comment will disappear.
It doesn’t help that the world believes Scott is Rose’s ex-boyfriend. I’m not sure what the public will think about me meeting him. It’d make more sense if they knew the truth: he was the producer of Princesses of Philly.
“I’m secure in my sexuality,” he reminds me for the second time. He puts his cigarette between his lips, and I rest my forearm on the iron railing, a fern brushing my hand. “So who was it that spread the lies?” he wonders.
This is why he asked me out today. Curiosity.
He also believes the accusations are entirely baseless. He’s weaved enough false webs for the public that he must not take anything in the tabloids at face value.
With another sip, the liquor burns my throat. “Do you plan on giving them a handshake?” I ask with a growing smile, my voice lighthearted, even if it’s not what I feel.
Scott shrugs with a smugger smile. Go ahead and smile, you fool. “I just never want to piss off whoever you did.” He raises his glass in cheers to that. I do the same, and we drink in unison. Then he licks his lips and nods. “So…do I know him?”
I let the embers eat my cigarette. “No, and trust me, you don’t want to be dragged into this mess.” Trust me is a declaration that he’ll cling to, waver over, until he asks—
“Why spend time with me?” He combs his fingers through his slick, dirty blond hair, doubt in his furrowed brows. “Why try to help me convince your friends to be a part of a season two?”
I suck on the cigarette again and blow smoke into the air, my posture more like Loren Hale—slumped and apathetic—than like me: domineering and overconfident. “I honestly thought you were into Rose,” I begin my speech in an easy-going tone. “Like—really into her. I was jealous of what you had that I didn’t, of what you could offer her that I couldn’t. And there was a moment where I thought that she liked you way more than me, man.” It’s all a lie, obviously.
He sports an entitled smile, as though women are flocking to his side and feeding him grapes. “I could’ve told you that she wanted to fuck me on day one.” He’s attempting to piss all over me, but he’s the idiot with opinions that don’t match the facts.
Rose never wanted to fuck him, not even for a moment.
He chuckles into his next swig.
I always try to find another road before I put myself in this situation, but I need his trust and there’s not another lane to go down. I see no other legal way to achieve my goal than this.
I laugh. “If you did tell me on day one, I would’ve hated you a million fucking times more.” It’s like we’re reminiscing about our deep-seated loathing of one another, exactly what I want.
He laughs too and pats my arm. “I would’ve hated me too.”
I blow out smoke again. “Look, I don’t hold anything against you. After I figured out that you had no interest in Rose, I didn’t give a shit.”
“The sex tapes—”
“Genius,” I tell him, my lips rising into a brighter grin. If you have nothing real to say, Richard, then why speak at all? I hear Rose’s quick-tempered voice. It has to be this way, I think before I proceed. “Those tapes gave me the exposure I needed to profit off a diamond corporation. You helped me, man.” These words rip through me, and I know they’re not going to be the worst ones. “Rose may be upset, but she doesn’t matter.” That’s complete bullshit, Richard. My stomach twists unnaturally. “I had to hit you so she wouldn’t throw a little tantrum about ‘why didn’t you stick up for me’ afterwards, you know.” I roll my eyes, as though everything Rose does irritates me. As though I struggle to put up with her every single day.
How do I know who the real Connor Cobalt is? she asks. You’re different around certain people.
Don’t ever leave my head, I think. I need these constant reminders. I need to feel the guilt, remorse, every human sentiment that I used to abandon. When they leave, when I’m left hollow and detached, I’ve lost too much.
Scott’s lips part in complete realization, as if I gave him the missing puzzle piece that forms the whole picture. “So if I asked you to help me plant the cameras for the tapes—”