22
Jack
Ishould have seen it coming, really, though I think I can be excused given that the list of ways I could embarrass myself never included being the second participant in a celebrity sex tape. My head’s not on straight.
So in the morning, I get up, put on the pair of khakis Stef made me buy and my Wild Eagle polo shirt, and march straight to Harper’s office. I ignore the stares and whispers from my coworkers as I go by.
“Jack—” Marci starts toward me as I walk through the staff kitchen, but I pretend I don’t hear her and keep going.
I knock on the office door, and Harper’s muffled “Yes?” is the only reply. I let myself into her office. She’s on the phone, her back to the door, hunched against her desk, but when she turns and sees me, her eyes go big and she drops the pen she’s been clicking restlessly with her thumb.
“Hang on,” she says. “He just walked in. I’ll call you back.”
I sit gingerly. The chair feels like it’s made of matchsticks, but the falling feeling might also be my whole life crumbling to pieces.
We sit in silence for a minute, aside from the occasional click of her pen.
Guess I’ll be the one to start.
“I can only begin to imagine the hassle this is causing you and the rest of the company. And I know that giving guests blow jobs”—we both wince as I say it—“is pretty much a nonoption in any circumstance, but all I can say is that I legitimately didn’t know who he was. I thought the other man”—what had David called him? Vin?—“was the VIP, and the man I was with was his bodyguard. He let me think that. And it doesn’t excuse my behavior. But if I’d known who he really was, I might have reconsidered, or at least...” I grapple with how to phrase this. “Been a little more discreet. I’m sorry.”
Harper blinks rapidly for a few seconds before she takes a slow inhale, then lets out an even slower exhale.
“I appreciate your apology,” she says. “It was only brought to my attention recently that there might have been a misunderstanding about Mr. Morgan—by which I mean Mr. Marshall—and his real identity. You know the policies from corporate are very strict on what we’re allowed to disclose about our guests, but Jack, I can honestly say I think those policies were written with the assumption that someone like Damian Marshall would be instantly recognizable to everyone, and we’d all agree not to discuss it.”
“I don’t watch a lot of movies,” I say, then go cold when I realize Damian asked me the same question. I must have seemed so ridiculous to him. Some deep-woods hick who didn’t know anything.
“Yes, I can see that,” she says. “Jack, I’m so sorry. This whole situation is... unfortunate.”
That’s a very polite way to put it. “If you need me to pump bilges or prep bait for the rest of the summer, you won’t hear a peep out of me.”
She was on her way to a sympathetic smile, but as I speak, the smile makes a sharp U-turn and vanishes again.
“I...” Her voice is raspy, and her picture-perfect composure cracks. “You can’t stay.”
“Oh.” My vision goes blotchy for a second as I take in her meaning. “Oh.”
She straightens up in her seat. “It’s not really even about the sex. You wouldn’t be the first or last at a place like this with a guest of his status. But the optics here are...” She wrinkles her nose. “I’m sorry. But the logo is literally right there for everyone to see. We aren’t even technically open yet, and—”
“No.” I hold up a hand. “No, I get it.” Should have expected it, if I’d been able to think straight at all.
“I’m sorry,” she says, and she really does sound like she means it. “Maybe next season. There are other resorts in the family. No one can even see your face in the video, and—”
“Thanks,” I say. “But I’m not sure I’m cut out for this job.”
“There’s a plane heading out this morning. If you could be on it...”
I should be humiliated, but mostly I’m relieved. That is, until I’m on that plane, and a tall dark frame appears in the door, and Damian’s smile drops as he sees me.
Just great.
The first twenty minutes are silent except for the drone of the plane’s engines. Damian is sitting behind me. His friend is sitting in the seat opposite mine with a pair of oversized headphones and his weird green-lensed sunglasses on. He keeps his face turned away, and that’s fine by me. I try to give him the same courtesy.
But soon enough, Damian is in the narrow aisle between the two seats, speaking softly to Vin. Vin mutters something that sounds distinctly like “not a good idea,” but it apparently can’t be that bad, because the next thing I know, they’re doing a complicated dance to swap seats, even though the space really isn’t big enough for that. Finally, Damian is sitting next to me, and he is very close.
“Jack,” he says.
I consider ignoring him, and I’d be within my rights to do so, but since I can practically feel his breath on the back of my neck, it’s nearly impossible to do it convincingly. So I set my jaw and turn to glare. It must be effective because he swallows hard before he speaks again.
