Series: Like Us Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 241
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
Nothing.
There isn’t even paparazzi here. They’re all busy flocking Philly and the new Kitsulletti baby. We’ve had the occasional Charlie stan show up, but besides that, none of us can figure out why there’s a live-feed update called “Tom Cobalt’s birthday night out” with our whereabouts. It’s all being posted on a tabloid’s social media.
People keep commenting, pics or it didn’t happen. There aren’t photos, so this Donnelly-impersonator asking my girlfriend to send pics—it smells like spoiled Chicken of the Sea.
“What about that one guy?” Quinn asks me, watching me type on her phone.
I’ve already caught up Quinn, Frog, the Wreath brothers, and O’Malley—the only bodyguards at Duke’s on 10th—on the text-spam Luna just received. I’m off-duty, and none of ‘em care that I’ve popped a squat at their circular table. We’re near the windows and entrance. Out of earshot from Luna and the Cobalts but they’re still visible.
“What guy?” Ian asks with scrunched brows.
“Think he’s referring to Keagan Bell,” I say. “The guy who’d been harassing Luna with texts. It can’t be him though. He doesn’t have her new number.”
“He could’ve found it,” O’Malley rationalizes. “It wouldn’t be that hard.” They’ve all stopped flipping through the menus, their attention rooted on this potential threat.
“He never tried to impersonate me.” I send a message off Luna’s cell:
Who is this?
He’s quick.
215-555-9000
Your boyfriend, silly.
I frown. “This has to be a prank.”
“And a bad one,” Quinn makes a face. “Don’t they know you’re with her right now?”
“I dunno…” My head is pounding.
Frog picks up her phone. “Don’t we have a list of numbers Luna saved as unknown in her contacts? We can see if there’s a match to this one.”
Who even has Luna’s new number? Her family. And security…
The rat in Epsilon. That Bernard temp already got canned. Maybe he wasn’t the one spilling private intel to the tabloids. I peer around at each of them. Are they among me? It’s hard for me to believe. O’Malley, Ian, and Vance wouldn’t risk the safety of these families for a tabloid cash-grab.
I read out the 215 number, then I ask, “Did anyone say anything over comms about me splitting up from Luna tonight?”
“I did,” O’Malley raises a finger. “I said you went out for a smoke with Beckett.”
“I said Luna went to the bathroom with Tom and Eliot,” Frog remembers.
Ian goes rigid. “You think this is coming from inside, Donnelly?”
“It makes the most sense.”
O’Malley nods, “Whoever is in comms range can listen to our frequency and figure out where we’re going without physically having eyes on us.”
“Fuck,” Vance groans.
“What if it’s Novak?” Frog wonders. Ben’s bodyguard. I’ve never gotten along with Chris Novak, but he’s been a bodyguard for too long to pull this fireable offense now. His dad was in security too.
“That’s not his number,” O’Malley says defensively.
Frog reasons, “He stands outside the door of TV and New Media every day and has opportunities to talk to Wyatt Rochester—of Rochester Industries. Who has connections to tabloids.”
“Froggy has a point,” I say. “When I subbed in for Ben, Wyatt talked to me alone.”
O’Malley shakes his head repeatedly. “No. No. We all know Novak. He’d never put any of them in harm’s way for a quick buck. And his dad was around when the Cobalts were toddlers. He’d kill his son if he sold-out the whole team, and Novak fucking loves his dad.”
Ian tells me, “It can’t be Novak.”
“I don’t think it is either,” I mutter.
Luna’s phone pings.
215-555-9000
Just wanna look at some pics of you from tonight.
I grab my phone off the table and type in the 215 number in my personal contacts. I blow back at what pops up.
“What?” Quinn asks.
“Type in the number. You’ve all got it saved.”
“Fucking rat,” O’Malley sneers. “I’m going to strangle him. I’m going to twist his fucking neck for this shit.”
“Right behind you,” Ian heats.
Vance sighs out into a growl and gives Quinn and Frog an apologetic look. The rat is on SFE. It’s a rookie. The one Oscar had a bad feeling about.
Hart McKenna.
I realize, “He’s the floater. Has he floated to Ben’s detail before?” I ask Quinn and Frog. “During the New Media class?”
“Oh yeah,” Quinn glares.
“It’s definitely him,” Ian confirms. “The number is the smoking gun. I’m calling Price.” He rises from the table, phone to his ear.
Epsilon is pissed, but I couldn’t be happier. We’ve finally trapped the squirrely little mouse. I pocket Luna’s phone with mine.
“Gotta celebrate with my girlfriend.” I stand. “Caught the last rodent—outside of whatever’s on O’Malley’s head.”
His mop of dark brown hair stares back at me. O’Malley flips me off. “Go choke on a cheeseburger.”
“No. ‘Cause I don’t trust you’d give me the Heimlich, and I love my life, thank you and goodnight…” My voice tapers off as I lock eyes with a woman outside the diner’s window. It can’t be…?