“I want to get involved. I’ve not been involved for way too much time,” I said. “You know reading that article sent me straight to your place that night six months ago with only one idea in mind, right?”
“I had an inkling that had something to do with it.” He smiled. “The thing is, I was barely able to publish it.”
I felt guilty once again. “I know, because no one wanted to talk to you.”
“Finding sources was hard, but that’s always the case with a story like this,” David said, putting me a little bit at ease. “But one of theLA Misconductsproducers tried everything in his power to prevent me from getting the story out. I think he’s the one who ultimately managed to get me fired. Even after the article was published, he maintained it was total fabrication and that Henry was a model citizen and a victim.”
“What producer?” I suddenly realized. “Do you remember his name? Could that be Archie Eisenberg?”
“It could, I guess.” David’s brow furrowed in thought. “Name sounds familiar. But I’m not sure, to be honest. I’m usually good with names when I’m working on a story but forget them the moment it gets published.”
“He may have gotten you fired, and you don’t remember his name?” I’ve never understood David’s ability to be cool with everything and everyone. But not holding a grudge against the person who cost him his job was even more inexplicable to me.
“I don’t believe in holding on to negativity,” he said.
“I don’t think you realize how boho, Californian, tree-hugger that sounds!”
“Is that a bad thing?” he asked, a knowing smirk on his face.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what happened before,” I told him then. I needed to come completely clean with him.
“I’m sorry you couldn’t trust that I wouldn’t put you before my work,” he said. “That wouldn’t happen. You know, right?”
“I do now.”
We stared at each other for so long. I felt butterflies flutter in my stomach and had the feeling of being a silly twenty-something-year-old flirting with her best friend again.
“This is new,” I said, referring to the blue-inked tattoo on the left side of his torso. Of course, I’d seen the body art depicting a bird of paradise flower before, but I never was able to inquire about it because of our self-imposed silence pact.
“I got it when you left me,” he said, eyes still fixed on mine, electricity crackling in the air between us.
“I didn’t leave you. We decided to part ways,” I said, stubborn as always.
He shook his head slightly. “We’ll agree to disagree.”
“In any case”—I dismissed a squabble that wasn’t going to be settled easily—“I like it.” I went to trace the lines of his tattoo, but I knew exactly what that would trigger. And we had a lot on our fucking plates.
So, against my best and most hedonist feelings, I extricated my fingers.
“There’s something else we need to talk about,” I said.
His eyes widened. “Tell me nothing else happened to you.”
“No, no, no,” I appeased him. “It’s something else about the case.”
“The case?” he said, one of his eyebrows arching in amusement.
“You know, this murder we’re trying to solve to clear your name and so you can write an article or two about it and win a Pulitzer or something.”
“That’s what we’ve been doing these past two days? Trying to get me a Pulitzer?” he said, chuckling.
“We’ve also attempted to get the cops off your back,” I said. “And we’ve been using this whole thing as an excuse to flirt like crazy and spend time together.”
He grinned triumphantly. “So you’re admitting it,” he said, relief plain in his voice.
“Of course, I’m admitting it. The only reason we’re not fucking over that chair or in the shower right now is because we’re in even more shit than you realize.”
“You’re going to need to back that up with some serious facts because it sounded like a paltry excuse.”
