“I see.” I stare at my shoes. “You found those, huh?”
Rose puts her hands behind her head again, looking up at the watermarked ceiling. “It’s not like we didn’t already know you were hiding something.”
“Well, the romance writing thing.”
She scoffs. “You love romance. You defend the genre all the time. You weren’t worried about us finding that out; you were worried we’d discover your alias. Your shameful past.” The sarcasm she lays on the last sentences is heavier than the cell door bars.
She’s right about me not wanting anyone to know. For a variety of reasons. Now that they know, I’m feeling a multitude of emotions. Though looking at my friend relaxing back in a jail cell like she’s on a picnic, the main thing I’m feeling is confused.
I look down at my hands, folded properly in my lap. “Aren’t you… aren’t you mad?”
“Of course I’m mad. I can’tbelievethose assholes at Heartbreakers got off with just being banned and a warning. If it wasn’t for your stripper ninja skills, one of us would have a black eye for Jackie’s wedding.”
“It was just a spinning mount,” I mumble.
“What it was was awesome.” She laughs, eyes still on the ceiling. “I asked Angela for a copy of the security tape. I want to see it in slow-mo.”
My confusion doesn’t fade. “I meant, aren’t you angry atme?” I place a hand on my chest. “For not telling you I’m a wanted felon?”
Rose turns her head to me. “I’m mad at myself for not figuring it out.” She rolls her eyes. “’Cause now that I know, I mean”—she snorts—“it’ssoobvious.”
“It is?”
She nods, then drops her hands to sit up, wincing when the wall pulls at her hair. “Also, save the drama for your books. You aren’t afelon. According to your letter you were unjustly accused, right?”
“Well, yes, but legally I’m—”
She waves her hand, cutting me off. “Legally schmeagally. You’re innocent, and we’ll prove it.” She shrugs. “And if not, I have the best lawyers money can buy. We’ll figure something out.” She taps her chin, giving me side-eye. “But just in case, how do you feel about conjugal visits?”
Twenty-Six
Grand Gesture
Ian
“Getyour ass out of bed and make some calls.”
A TSA agent gives me a surprised look. There aren’t many people at the airport right now, and my voice echoes in the cavernous security area. I managed to catch a seat on a flight heading to L.A. with a layover in Houston. But it leaves in ten minutes.
“What?” Mitchell’s voice sounds like he swallowed gravel.
I weave around a young couple with large backpacks hiked up on their shoulders and stride toward the gates. “Trish has been arrested, and for every minute she spends in that cell I will add another zero to how much I’m going to sue you for.”
“How’d she get arrested?”
A weird visual montage of strippers and supervillains brawling is a vortex of glitter flits through my mind before I shake it off. “Doesn’t matter. Get on it.”
“Kincaid.” He sighs. “It’s two-thirty in the morning. No one is going to be up.”
“Thenwakethem up.” I bypass a guy in a sweatsuit wearing headphones almost as large as his head and continue jogging down toward my gate. “You just cost yourself a zero.”
“Hey, wait—”
I hang up, jogging to the gate where one lone airline employee is waiting to close the door. “Just made it, huh?”
I give him a tight smile and hold up my phone so he can scan my electronic ticket.
I hustle down the gangway only to stop short at the plane door. My racing heart and the cold sweat popping up on my brow have nothing to do with physical exertion.
