“You begged your brother for a job and said you had to get away. I would call that running.”
I roll my eyes at him. “Whatever.” I take a deep breath. Usually at this point I would change the subject just like I did with my dad and Owen. Instead I risk it. I let go of my pride and finally tell someone outside of my circle back in DC what happened.
I take a deep breath and let the words spill. “I was working on a story that could change my career. Something so big it would make national news. It would cause arrests and trials and imprisonment. It would ensure that I would always have a job. Any magazine or news station would be begging for my stories after this one.”
His fingers trail down my side, comforting me as I talk. “What happened?”
“I was on to something huge. I finally got an in. I thought I finally was going to get my evidence. But I didn’t play it safe enough. The man knew who I was. He threatened me. Sexually assaulted me. He has so much power, Car. He said if I were to print the article I wouldn’t live to see the light of day for another week. He said if I tried to find another source, he would blacklist me. I knew his power, his reach. I didn’t want to be blacklisted. I chickened out and didn’t want to risk my life. So I ran. I dropped the story, got fired for dropping it. Then hightailed it to Asheville with my tail between my legs.” I don’t tell him about Alana. And how her death is on my hands.
“You were assaulted?” Carson’s voice fills with anger.
I pause because I know it’s just going to make him angrier. “It had to do with the story, I was playing a part.”
“No story should involve sexual assault,” he growls.
“Well the whole thing has to do with escort rings, prostitution, and politics. So they go hand in hand.”
His hand on my hip grips me tight. “Someone in the government did this.”
I nod. “A senator, but I don’t want to tell you anymore. I don’t want you involved. It’s a sticky situation and ties run deep.”
“Are you still writing the story?”
“I want to.”
“Have you been researching more?”
“When I can.”
The intensity in his eyes deepen. “You need a lawyer.”
“I had one when I worked at The Chronicle.”
“But you aren’t working there. You don’t have a company to back you. If you publish this story as a freelancer, it could be very bad for you.”
I pull back from him but he keeps me locked around him. “Are you telling me to not write it?”
“Hell no.” He pauses, then drags my body so I am flush against him. “You have such passion for it. I watch you when you are doing your investigative work. The way you get so drawn into the narrative. You are dedicated and… fuck, it turns me on.”
I smile at him as I feel him getting hard between us. “Just talking about me being such a hard worker apparently turns you on too.”
“Touching you, staring at you, having you in this bed with me. It all turns me on.”
I lean forward and press my lips to his. Reveling in the taste of him, the smell of him. The way he feels pressed into me. God, those damn feelings are causing butterflies in my stomach.
He pulls away from me. “You should write the article. Don’t let some scummy politician hold you back. You are stronger than that. You’re Grace Prescott, investigative journalist. You should be working for The New Yorker.”
“That’s my dream.”
“Then write the article, Grace. Do what you are meant to do.”
I run my fingers through his hair. “And what about a lawyer?”
“I know a few,” he teases and I pinch his side, causing him to squirm. “I’ll get you the best.”
“You aren’t talking about you?”
He shakes his head. “Although I would love having you as my client and having many secret meetings with you,” he thrust his stiff cock against my stomach as he says it. “I know a few who would be better at representing you for something like this.”