Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
I take another breath, let it out.
I do that three more times, and when it doesn’t help, I mutter, “Fuck it.”
After tossing my phone in my purse, I wipe my hands on my jeans and exit my car.
The small coffee shop is in an area of Pittsburgh I’m familiar with as I went to high school not far from here. When I step inside, I search the tables and immediately see the reporter, Carmine Betta. I recognize him quickly only because he’s with my mother, and I’m stunned to see her here.
They’re sitting at a back table that seats four, and my mom waves at me with a big smile. My stomach pitches, and I almost turn and march right back out the door, but Carmine stands from his chair and beckons me toward him. With leaden feet, I wind through tables only half-filled with patrons, given we’re past the morning rush.
“Ms. Kisner,” he says, sticking out a hand as my mom stays seated. “Carmine Betta.”
He hands me a business card, and I glance at it before shoving it in my purse.
“Hi,” I say, shaking his hand and then wincing that I didn’t wipe my sweaty palms once more. He doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he’s too much of a gentleman to point it out.
And for that matter, the guy doesn’t seem like a sleazy tabloid reporter, although I’ve never met one before. He’s well dressed, although casual, with dark jeans, a white button-up shirt, brown corduroy jacket, and a green plaid cashmere-looking scarf. He wears rimless bifocals, and his dark wavy hair is liberally sprinkled with gray. I’d peg him in his late fifties.
“Please… have a seat. Can I get you a coffee or something?”
“No, I’m good.” I sit down and turn to look at my mom. “What are you doing here?”
My tone is a little brittle, and she pulls back slightly. Heavy makeup covers her bruising well, although I can still see the swelling in her cheek. I wonder if Carmine knows the sordid details as to why my mom needs this money.
The reporter sits and pulls his own coffee closer. He crosses one leg over the other. “Thank you for meeting me. I understand you’re dating Hendrix Bateman.”
Shit. What did my mother and Randy tell this guy? It never occurred to me to ask what she said.
I don’t dare look at her because I don’t want this guy to know that I’m unsure of myself. “I want to first say that I’m not agreeing to an interview about any Titans player or the organization at this time. Everything here is off the record, or whatever you call it.”
Carmine holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Of course. This is just a meeting to see if you have something worthwhile and what our terms would be.”
“Terms? I understand you’d pay ten thousand for a story.”
“For an exclusive story chock-full of interesting information that no one else knows,” he clarifies as his hands drop.
“I don’t have that for you.”
Carmine smiles knowingly. “Of course you do. The question is whether you’re willing to give it up. If it makes you feel better, I protect my sources at all costs. That means I wouldn’t give up your name, even if a judge ordered me to do so upon threat of going to jail. In other words, I’d go to jail before I’d give you up.”
“What does that matter?” I ask bitterly. “If the story you want is a juicy exclusive about Hendrix Bateman, it would be obvious the story was from me.”
“So, you are dating Hendrix?” he asks. When I don’t confirm it, he waves the question off. “It’s no matter. That’s information I could verify easily enough. But let’s discuss whether you have something worthwhile.”
“What exactly are you looking for?” I ask hesitantly, and I hate myself for even putting that question out there. It makes me officially complicit in betraying Hendrix and/or his friends.
“Something the public doesn’t know, but it’s fine if others do. Most likely something that’s known within the organization but has been kept inside for reasons.”
I don’t say anything, but Hendrix has told me all kinds of things, especially how hard last year was after the crash. Not only on him, Camden, and Coen as the Lucky Three, but on everyone trying to rebuild and the immense pressure that came with it.
“Oooh,” my mom gushes, tapping her hand on the table. “Tell him about Stone proposing to Harlow.”
“Mom,” I exclaim in horror as I whip around to face her. “Stop that. That is private and personal.” I turn to Carmine. “You cannot report that. You can’t—”
“Relax,” Carmine says. “You said everything was off the record.”
“And my mom only knows that because I told her. She doesn’t know it to be true, so she’s no good as a source.” I turn to her. “And please don’t add anything else, or I’m out of here.”