CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO RIGGS

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

RIGGS

“How do I look?” Duffy marched out of her room, wrapped in one of her dresses. It killed me to see her hiding those curves in ruffled blouses and weird-ass frocks more fit for a runway. And I’m not talking a Victoria’s Secret runway. I’m talking the designer shit I used to see when I accidentally landed on the Fashion Channel in the middle of the night as a teenager while I was high, hoping to catch a nip slip. The kind of weird, asymmetrical, sharp-edged dresses that made you wonder how much pot the designer had been smoking prior to sending out their sketches.

Couldn’t she fill her closet with pencil skirts and edible thongs? What kind of gold digger was she?

A terrible one, obviously.

But she twirled in her tiny living room, looking hopeful, and I refused to kill her vibe.

“Yeah, the dress is very .?.?.” I cleared my throat. “Dressy.”

I was slung on the couch, stroking my dick through my briefs. I was still crashing on the sofa, which worked well for both of us, because it made us remember there was a red line made out of fucking lava, and we were both unauthorized to cross it. “Where’re you off to today?”

“The Social Circle.” She bit her lip nervously, her purple eyes glittering. “It’s an exclusive social club for the rich and famous. They’re looking for an assistant manager. Great salary. Superb benefits. And, of course, this is the playground for the kind of men I want to bag, so Cocksucker could finally be out of the picture.”

“They’ll love you,” I said, and meant it, still touching my cock, in case she noticed and wanted to go for a joystick ride before the job interview. “You’re hardworking, highly motivated, not to mention fucking stunning. Most places just can’t sponsor you at a moment’s notice.”

“I know.” She sighed, then walked over to the shoe rack and pulled out a pair of heels. “It’s so bloody frustrating.”

The offer to have her work for me full time was on the tip of my tongue. Especially now, when she was shopping for her next meal ticket. I’d be able to pay her under the table, take her with me around the world, fuck her, and work. A quadruple win in my books, and a pretty sweet arrangement altogether. The only thing stopping me from doing so was the knowledge I was going to get bored with her in a few weeks, max. I always did.

Good thing Duffy didn’t expect anything from me. When we weren’t working together or screwing each other, we were just roommates who got along well. Nothing more. Nothing less.

“Well.” She blew out air. “Wish me luck.”

“Break a le .?.?. never mind.” I shook my head. “It’d be a nightmare to nail you. Best of luck.”

She rolled her eyes, grabbed her purse, and swatted my shoulder with it. “Check on Charlie, will you?”

Groaning, I peeled myself off the couch and wobbled to the fridge. “Sure. Why not. It’s not like I have a job to do.”

“Has Emmett said anything about the pictures?” She twisted her head to follow me while I opened the fridge.

“Yeah.” I took out the milk and guzzled it straight from the carton.

“Well?” Her purple eyes lit up. I loved that she honestly cared.

“That they were perfect.” I wiped my mouth with my arm before returning the milk to the fridge. “But now I need something else to keep me busy. I’m feeling claustrophobic.”

“He’ll give you another project soon.” Her face was a vision of sympathy and hopefulness. “And soon, this will all be over and you can go back to traveling the world.”

With Duffy out of the apartment, I had plenty of time to burn. I went downstairs and did some grocery shopping for that high-maintenance neighbor of ours and tried to ignore my traveling itch. The only way to scratch it was to board a plane and get the hell out of here. But I’d promised Duffy I’d be here to help her with the visa application. Responsibility sucked balls.

On my way back to the building, I stopped by a diner and grabbed Charlie some coffee and apple pie. Then I went up to check on the old man. I knocked on his door, feeling like a fucking sitcom character from the seventies. Neighborly visits didn’t exactly scream the rock star life. He didn’t answer.

It was possible he’d gone out somewhere.

.?.?. but it’s also possible he’s bit the dust.

Stifling a grunt, I rapped on his door again. “Charlie, it’s Riggs. Answer.”

Nothing. It wasn’t like Charlie, who usually fell all over himself when I visited like I was the pope or something. I punched the doorbell, growing both uneasy and pissy with myself for giving two shits about this whole thing.

“Open up, Charles, or I’m kicking this door down. Gotta keep the tradition alive.”

It seemed like half my time in this building was spent tearing doors down and then paying to put them back up. Was there an Olympic sport for that kind of thing?

When there was still no answer, I let go of the paper bags, took a step back, angled my shoulder, and smashed against it. The flimsy door flew open. I stepped over the brown bags I’d left on the floor earlier and waltzed inside. It had only been twelve hours since I’d last checked on him, and the place reeked.

Oh, fuck, if he died, I was going to be stuck here forever, answering police questions.

I looked around, relieved to see that the sulfur smell was coming from boiled eggs he’d left on the counter and not his decomposing body.

“Charlie?” I asked, moving around the apartment. It was bigger than Duffy’s but still small enough to cover in less than two minutes. “You sick fuck, who boils eggs and keeps them on the counter?”

I walked into his bedroom. Empty. I dashed to the bathroom and opened the door. Something hard and heavy pressed against it from the other side, making it difficult to open all the way.

Shit.

Carefully, I squeezed through the gap in the door before stepping over a .?.?. what the hell was it? A leg. I glanced down. Charlie was lying on the floor, his eyes closed, his arms spread like he was making a snow angel. He looked young and old at the same time.

If he’d kicked the bucket, Duffy was going to be really sad. And to be honest, I would be too.

I crouched down and ran my fingers under his nose. His hot breath fanned over them, faint, but there. I let out a sigh of relief.

I fished out my cell phone and shook my head. “You’re lucky I’m calling an ambulance and not the police. I would’ve killed you twice over if you’d messed up my day like that.”

The next hour moved fast. Charlie was taken to the hospital in an ambulance. He was still unconscious, and the paramedics told me they weren’t authorized to give me any information about his health, since I wasn’t next of kin, but that I could visit him once he was in the books. They also said I “did the right thing.” Like there was anything else to do when you find your neighbor unconscious on the floor.

I shot Duffy a message informing her about what happened, then proceeded to the Brewtherhood. The good thing about this bar was that it opened at noon, which made getting trashed not only easy but legitimized.

I was well into my third drink when my phone buzzed with an incoming call. I fished it out of my pocket and frowned. Gretchen’s name flashed on the screen. I couldn’t ignore her for eternity, because maturity or something. Plus, I had a thing or two to say to her.

“Hey, Riggs!” She sounded like a bundle of sunshine, like we hadn’t parted ways with me being pushed to marry her assistant, who she then humiliated on their last day at the office. “How’ve you been, hon?”

“Did you have a personality implant last time you went for a lipo?” I leaned against the bar, squinting. “You sound—”

“Happy?” she chirped.

“Nice,” I corrected.

“Isn’t that a good thing?” It appeared like she was driving. Or, more likely, being driven.

“No.” I picked up my beer and brought it to my lips. “I enjoyed your wrath in bed and never stayed long enough for the conversation.”

She let out a shrill laugh. “I swear, the things that come out of your mouth.”

“The things that get into yours,” I retorted.

That made her laughter die. “Where are you?”

“My usual spot.” She knew about the Brewtherhood because, before she moved to DC, every time I was in New York, we had an arrangement. We’d meet here and then go to her apartment.

“Great. I’m on my way.” She hung up.

She was in New York? What happened to DC? Maybe POTUS had realized she had a radioactive personality and an attitude to match.

Ten minutes later, Gretchen was sitting next to me in the Brewtherhood, looking like the bombshell I’d enjoyed so much over the years. Interestingly enough, she did nothing for me now.

“I thought you were in DC,” I said, wondering if my dick was broken. Gretchen never failed to make me hard. There was something about her unapologetic ruthlessness and six HIIT workouts a week that spoke directly to my cock, which was an avid listener.

“I am.” She turned toward me, flashing some serious leg through her gray pencil skirt. She had that whole sexy-secretary look down to a T. “Aren’t you going to ask how working for the White House is?”

“How’s working for the White House?” My voice was so flat you could use it to cut a fucking salad.

“Great.” She leaned into my arm. “Wonderful. POTUS is a real gem. Such a lovely man. So mild. And he sings my praises.”

There was no nice way of telling her I didn’t give a crap if POTUS was going to divorce his wife and marry her, so instead, I steered the conversation to where it mattered. “So what brings you to New York?”

“Meetings, back to back.” She wiped invisible sweat from her brow. “One of my meetups got canceled, so I thought we’d catch up. We haven’t spoken in weeks! Why is that, remind me?”

“Because you’re a bitch?” I offered, remembering how she’d treated Poppins. “Also, because we only speak when one of us is in town and wants to screw the other.”

She nodded, motioning toward her body with her hands. “And here I am.”

I blinked at her before throwing my head back and laughing. It took me two full minutes to calm down. And in those minutes, she sat there and stared at me, wearing an expression of confusion and annoyance.

“You wanna fuck?” I asked, finally.

She pressed her lips together. “Don’t act like we haven’t been doing it for years, Bates.”

“We had.” I took a swig of my beer. “But aren’t you forgetting a teeny, tiny detail?”

She tilted an eyebrow up. “Enlighten me?”

“I’m married.”

“Married!” Now it was her turn to laugh. “Please, Riggs. We’re both married by name only.”

“But you do recall falling to your knees, begging me to marry your assistant, correct?”

I was starting to lose my patience. We hadn’t discussed her little showdown with Duffy in all the weeks since it had happened, and now she wanted me to fall into bed with her?

Gretchen batted her long eyelashes, and all I could think about was how her eyes were boring blue and not exotically purple. “Yes. As an arrangement.”

“Well, it’s been arranged.”

“Not to save my ass, that’s for sure.” She was starting to drop her sweet charade and show her true colors. “Something else made you say yes. You made it clear you didn’t care about me or my career the night she caught us.”

“The why isn’t important. The fact that I did it is.”

“Again.” She sipped her wine through pinched lips. “How does it matter? The marriage isn’t real!”

“It matters because I’m not going to cheat on my wife, who is waiting for a US visa, just to wet my dick,” I bit out.

Now that I’d verbalized it, I realized I hadn’t screwed anyone other than Duffy since that night she caught me with Gretchen. Not that I thought that the US government was the moral police. Half the politicians had affairs, drug scandals, sex tapes, and DUIs. But there was no need to pile more difficulties on Operation: Getting Duffy a Visa.

Meanwhile, Gretchen’s face looked like it was about to melt into her wineglass. Abhorred didn’t begin to cover it. She looked like I’d just informed her that I’d given her gonorrhea.

“Don’t tell me .?.?.” She touched her neck delicately. “That you’re having an affair with her?”

“Can you have an affair with someone you’re married to?” I wondered aloud. “Kind of like being a fuck buddy with your girlfriend, no? It’s all baked into the cake.”

“So it’s a yes!”

“It’s a ‘no fucking comment,’” I corrected. Then, realizing Daphne might expire if she thought her boss knew she was sampling her leftovers, I added, “I should be so lucky.”

Gretchen flew up from her seat, shaking her head, her eyes wide. “No, no. Don’t give me that. There’s no way you’re not having sex with her. Are you two living together?”

Feeling a little concerned Gretchen was going to out us, I stood up too. I grabbed my wallet and threw notes onto the bar, covering both our bills. “Don’t forget this whole mess started because you were afraid Duffy was gonna run to the press and rat us out,” I warned.

“You didn’t answer my question.” She blocked my way out with her body. As if that would help if I wanted to bulldoze past her.

“You didn’t answer my unspoken one,” I countered.

Her nostrils flared, and she took a step back. “Are you asking if I’ll do something to hurt Daphne’s chances of being granted a visa?”

“I’m making sure.” I folded my arms over my chest.

“Well, no. I’m not that person. But now that I have a government job and rules to abide by, I can’t chance a scandal. I reserve the right to—”

I raised my hand. “Stop it right there. You have no rights. None whatsoever. You lost your rights when you decided to fuck someone who wasn’t your husband. You’ll keep your mouth shut and stay out of our life.”

Ourlife? Dafuq was I saying? We had no mutual life together.

“Or?” She tilted her chin up, her eyes tapering.

Seriously?

“Or I’ll be the one singing to the press about our affair. I’ll spare no detail, Gretchen. The props, the frequency, the faces you make when you come .?.?.” I let loose a spiteful, sly grin. “Trust me, I can be very chatty when prompted.”

She took another step back, her eyes glittering with rage. “I can’t believe the bitch got you.”

I grabbed my phone, having had enough bullshit for the entire day. “There’s only one bitch in this story, and I’m looking at her right now. Duffy may not be everyone’s cup of tea—hell, who in this world is?—but what you did to her the last day of her job is unforgivable. And the worst part .?.?.” I shook my head, chuckling. “Is that you didn’t even ask for forgiveness. Your narcissism looked really good up close when we were screwing, but from every other angle? It’s really ugly. Have a good life, Gretchen. Or better yet—don’t.”

With those parting words, I shoved the door open and made my way to the subway. I knew Gretchen would never contact me again. Her ego was too big to sustain this kind of blow. Which worked out well, because her ego was also too fragile to survive the tell-all interview she knew I’d give the Enquirer if she messed with Duffy’s visa somehow. I had nothing to lose.

Or so she thought.

Because now I was starting to wonder .?.?. did I have something to lose?

Was Duffy mine to lose?

I don’t know, idiot, is she? Because last I checked, she is still talking about Cocksucker in the present tense and scheming how to work somewhere where she could bag a millionaire.

One thing was for sure. I had feelings toward my wife. They weren’t always positive, but they were in existence.

And that was becoming a very big problem.