He blows a stream of air across his lips. “What do you take me for? A one-reporter kind of source? Hell no, baby doll. Haven’t I taught you well? I know everyone.”

“I think I know a way out of this. If there’s a reporter you trust. A reporter who wants to expose the truth.”

Cam nods several times as I tell him my plan. Then he turns to Tess. “Tess, baby, will you bring me my phone?”

“Gladly,” she says.

* * *

Within thirty minutes, the ball is rolling. Cam is juggling phone call after phone call, and pretty soon it’ll be my turn to talk. I’m bubbling over inside, giddy with all the possibilities, but strung out on nerves too as I listen to him prime the pump with an online media reporter who he says moves faster than a comet. He covers the phone with one hand, and mouths, “I love this son of a bitch. He’s an eager mo-fo.”

Tess squeezes his arm, proud of her man.

Then I remember my man. My husband.

I dig around in my purse for my phone, but when I find it there are no missed calls from Trey. With the way he’s been on edge for the last week, I figured he’d have checked in by now. I walk over to the window so Cam has some airspace for his calls, and I dial Trey.

He answers on the fourth or fifth ring. But he’s silent, just breathes out a hard, heavy sigh.

“Hey, I have to tell you what’s going on,” I say.

“Oh.” That’s his only reply.

“It’s about Mr. Stewart. And I think it could be good. At least, I hope it will be,” I say, crossing my fingers.

“Okay,” he says, but his voice is dead. It’s as if he’s been turned inside out with emptiness.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You sound terrible.”

He exhales, and it sounds like air leaking out of a mattress.

The little hairs on my arms rise. “What’s going on? You’re freaking me out. Where are you?”

“The Lion’s Den,” he says, and my blood goes cold. That’s what he calls his parents’ building, but only when he’s referring to the pull the women there exerted over him.

“Did something happen?”

Another long, deep exhale. “I think I fucked up, Harley. Big time.”

I close my eyes, and press my hand against the wall to steady my swaying heart. Oh god, please don’t tell me he cheated on me. I don’t think I could take that kind of damage. I’d never forgive him, either. “What do you mean? Did you cheat on me?”

He scoffs. “No fucking way.”

“Then get out of their building and come see me. Now. I’m at Cam’s house.”

“What?” He nearly shouts into the phone, and I have to hold it away from my ear. I give him the address, and he tells me he’ll be here soon.

I return to the epicenter of the apartment, to the virtual war room—Cam’s couch and coffee table. After he finishes his call, he points a finger at me. “It’s showtime, baby doll. Henry from the HuffPo wants to talk to you.”

“Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath before I call Henry and tell him that I’m Anonymous, the author behind the recent bestselling tell-all sex-tale, and that I was blackmailed into writing it by the editor-in-chief of the publishing house.

Chapter Thirty

Trey

I enter the building of my wife’s former pimp. Technically, this should bother me. But I am wrecked, and all I can think about are those green eyes.

Scratch that.

There are other thoughts invading my brain now, too, smashing into each other like mad bumper cars. Like the fact that Teddy is about two and a half, and the math adds up. Like the fact that she let me fuck her free-range, telling me she was on the pill. Like the fact that she said her husband never had sex with her. Like her saying Teddy is artistic, too, because that’s what Sloan and I talked about—sex and art, art and sex. She was the only one I remotely felt a thing for. She was a painter, and we had that connection, and we talked about creating.

What if we created a kid?

How fucking irresponsible can I be? Knocking up women, left and right. I deserve a million scars. I should be locked up. I need to put my dick in jail.

When I reach the second floor, Harley is holding open the door. She lets it fall shut behind her, so we’re standing in the hallway outside Cam’s home.

This is more surreal than a Dali. But then, that’s my life these days. This month. This year.

She reaches for me, brushes a hand through my hair. Her touch is so soft, so sweet, and I don’t deserve it.

“What’s going on?” she asks, and I can hear the potholes in her voice. They match mine.

I lean against the wall, bang the back of my head against it twice, three times. “I ran into this chick I used to . . .” I let my voice trail off. She knows what I mean, and she grimaces. “I saw her in the lobby with her—” I stop talking, and it’s as if I’m being cut by words. They are slicing my throat, turning me mute.

Then she gasps. “Oh my god. The kid with the green eyes.”

My jaw drops. “You saw him?”

“Before we went to San Diego. When we were having dinner with your parents and I lost my earring in the lobby. Oh my god. He has eyes just like you,” she says, and her face turns pale.

I hold my hands out wide. “I know,” I say, the desperation coating my voice. “And Sloan, she made these comments that made it seem like he was my kid. What the fuck am I supposed to do? I’ve finally started feeling like I’m ready to be a father to our baby, and then this. What the hell? What if I have a kid already that I didn’t know about? And shouldn’t I be here, trying to help raise him or something?”

“Slow down, Trey. Just slow down. Did you talk to her? Did you ask her?”

“No,” I say as if that’s a crazy idea. “I just ran into her. How was I supposed to ask her?”

“I don’t know, but even if he has your eyes and looks like you, you still need to just ask her.”

“And then what?”

“And then, deal with it then,” she says, parking her hands on her hips. She no longer looks white as a sheet. She no longer seems scared. She is so strong, and I want to siphon off just one-tenth of her courage.

“But what if I’m going to be a terrible father?”

She shoots me a sharp-eyed stare. “You’re not. You’re going to be a great father. But Trey, you don’t even know if this kid is yours, and we’re standing around conjecturing, and it’s kind of ridiculous. You need to man up, and go talk to Sloan.”

I cringe when she says her name. Because I hate that Harley even knows the name of someone I used to sleep with—as if all my shame has been dug up with a shovel and tossed in front of me. “Fine. I’ll go there tomorrow.”

She juts her chin out at me. “Tomorrow? She just went into her apartment tonight. It’s eight-thirty, and she has a two-year-old. She’s home now. You go take care of this now,” she says pointing wildly to the street, making it clear I need to get my shit straightened out.

“But what if . . .”

“What if what?” She stares hard at me. “I don’t want to play ‘what if’ games. I want you to find out, and then we’ll deal with it.”

I let out a breath I barely realized I was holding. “We’ll deal with. Together, right?”

She smiles once, and shakes her head. “I’m married to you now. Yes, together. Didn’t you once tell me there’s nothing on this planet we cannot get through?”

“Yeah, when you were worried about your memoirs after I redid your ink.”

“Well, I’m taking care of my memoirs now.”

“You are?”

“I have a plan,” she says, and then holds up her index and middle fingers, crossing them as she tells me her idea, and it’s daring.

“That’s ballsy.”

“I hope it works,” she says, a touch of nerves invading her bravado.

“It will,” I say, giving her the confidence I wish I felt in myself.

“You go take care of your stuff, and you call me later.”

* * *

This time I don’t stand frozen by the elevator. I walk purposefully down the hall to her door. I shut off my brain. I tie up my heart. And I stuff any fear down the garbage chute.

I raise my fist to knock.

Ten seconds later, I can hear someone sliding the chain, unbolting the door, and opening it.

Sloan answers, with her brown hair piled high on her head in a twist, a slouchy sweater revealing a bare shoulder, and a glass of red wine in her hand.

Music plays softly from inside her plush apartment, and I think it’s Sade’s Never As Good as The First Time. Talk about the lion’s den. More like an alligator pit.

“Trey, how are you? Do you want to come in?”

“Yes, please,” I say.

She opens the door all the way, and I cross the threshold into her home. It’s entirely different from when I used to visit her after school. Back then, her place was stark and sleek, with chrome bar stools lining the kitchen counter, and gray couches with sharp edges. Now, the masculine hardness is gone, and it’s all soft femininity—vases of fresh flowers line the table, the couch is a lush cranberry color, candles are lit, and artwork hangs on the walls.

“Teddy’s asleep. Can I offer you a glass of wine?”

“No, thank you,” I say, and it’s the first time she’s ever offered me alcohol. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since I’ve been old enough to drink. She sits on her soft couch, and folds up her long legs under her.

I follow her into the living room, but don’t join her on the couch. I shift back and forth on my feet, glancing around. “So, um, do you live alone now?”

“Just Teddy and me,” she says. “And it’s wonderful.”