“And that’s stopped you when?” she asks.
“Fair,” I walk over to the cabinet and pull out a bottle of whiskey. Then I pour a shot into two glasses.
“You got any good news for me?” I ask. “About Decker.”
“Yes and no,” she answers.
“How can it be yes and no?” I ask, popping a couple of ice cubes in her glass.
“I have news. But I don’t think it’s news you want to hear.”
I turn around with narrowed eyes and hold the glass in her direction. “Try me.”
She takes the glass from me and swirls it in her hand. “I didn’t find anyone specifically working for Decker in an attempt to dethrone you.”
Okay, well the no part of that answer is definitely disappointing.
“But?” I ask.
“But…I did unveil an interesting little piece of information you might be concerned about.” I want her to go on, and because Jocelyn is Jocelyn, she draws it out. “Dylan Decker…is Ellie’s ex-boyfriend.”
At first, the words don’t quite register. Because what the fuck?
“Where the hell did you hear that?”
“Everywhere,” she says. “He used to work with her at the Suerte. That is until he derailed her career by cheating on her with the secretary and basically gaslighting her out of her position.”
I struggle at first to wrap my brain around it. But unfortunately, the dots connect. The night we hooked up six years ago, it was Decker she was talking to at the bar. I told Decker to leave. Decker that caused the spilled drink and her tears. She even said it herself. She was fresh out of a relationshipgone wrong. A relationship that cost her her career. Her career at Suerte.
“Fuck,” I mutter as Jocelyn sips on her drink.
“Yeah. You know…it almost makes me wonder…” she goes on, slowly pacing the floor like a caged tiger. “Do you think…? Well, maybe I’m getting ahead of myself here.”
“Think what?” I demand.
Jocelyn is quiet, then she clicks her tongue. “Do you think it’s possible…that she’s working for him?”
“What the fuck do you mean?” I shout.
“Maybe…she’s the snake.”
“Impossible,” I say.
“Is it though? I mean…Ellie has access to all of your hotels. She talks to security every morning. The baristas, every morning. And when you take her to the Opal Room–”
“She stays within an arm’s reach of me at all times, per the contract,” I cut her off.
“Except when she’s in the bathroom. The same bathroom the girls use.”
I still haven’t taken a sip of my whiskey yet. I’m too busy wrapping my brain around it all.
“Listen,” she says, dragging a hand from my biceps down to my elbow. “I’m not saying she is, but…it makes sense. Doesn’t it? It would be a pretty wild coincidence.”
She’s not wrong. But at the same time, I don’t want to believe it.
And yet the walls of my heart know better. My rationality knows better. I’ve never been one to romanticize anything. I’ve never given anyone the benefit of the doubt. Nothing else makes sense. It tracks perfectly.
I toss back the whiskey neat and slam the glass on the counter. Meanwhile, Jocelyn knows well enough to see herself out. It’s a miracle I didn’t chuck the glass at the fucking wall.
