"Gordy?" he asked, as a cold chill started to snake through him.
"The one who's so big on Instagram. You've met him, I'm sure. He's right over there. The one in the baseball cap." She turned, her arm up to point. Then she dropped it with a, "Huh. I don't see him."
She turned back to Lyle with a shrug. "I guess he left."
But Lyle barely heard her. Because now he knew why he recognized Gordy. He'd seen the bastard in the lobby of the Stark Century Hotel the night he'd first met Laine.
And when he'd followed her to the elevator, he'd passed a man in the hallway. A man in a baseball cap.
Gordy took the picture. The one that started it all.
Lyle was certain of it.
Just like he was certain that the little cockroach was on his way to Laine's house right now, probably with a half dozen others racing there behind him.
And somehow, someway, Lyle needed to get there first.
15
"Okay, but you still haven't told me what the note actually says."
Joy's voice over the phone is far too rational. And I'm not in a rational mood. Call me unreasonable, but I tend to get cranky when a man I spend the night with skips out without even saying goodbye.
And, no, leaving a note on the kitchen table really doesn't count. Especially not one that says I enjoyed last night more than I can say. Thank you for being such a perfect girlfriend for the night. -- Lyle
I mean, really? "For the night?"
That couldn't be any more of a kiss-off if he'd scrawled fuck you and have a nice life across the bottom.
"I should never have let you talk me into this in the first place," I continue, because I'm working myself into a truly righteous rage. "How could I have been so stupid? Easy ten grand, my ass."
"Slow down and rewind, or I swear I'm going to tell Cass I can't work today and come right over. As it is, I have fifteen minutes before my first appointment, and I want details."
"Fine." I suck in a breath, then catch her up, giving her the quick story about how Marjorie had called and I'd agreed to be his paid date for the night.
"It's not real," I say. And then, because I'm a completely hopeless moron, tears actually prick my eyes. "But we had a really good time. I mean, sure, he was paying me to be his pretend girlfriend, but it was fun. And it was real. And then when we got back to my place--"
"Oh, sweetie, that's the job. They take you out, they show you off. Then they take you home and bang your brains out. It's pretty much a time-honored tradition."
"That's not how it was," I say, except maybe I had it all wrong. "He wasn't paying me for sex. Just for the date. But when we got back here--"
"Oh, really?" Her voice rises with interest.
"Dammit, Joy, do you want me to tell you or not."
She makes contrite noises, and I lay out what happened. "And when I told him I wanted to put the brakes on, he--"
"Went all asshole on you?"
"Joy..."
"Fine, fine, fine."
"He was great, actually. Total gentleman. Completely understanding. Except it turns out that it was all a big act, and--"
"Maybe it wasn't an act," Joy says. "Maybe he really was happy to just be there for you. I mean, you're likable. But in case you've forgotten, he doesn't go in for repeat performances, and yet he went two rounds with you. He probably figured it was time to get gone before he made you a habit."
I frown, but say nothing.