“There’s enough to get in a twist,” Aunt Bel cackles.
Pops ignored her. “I hope you’re not making Lani’s life hard for her. You remember what happens if this doesn’t work.”
“Why her?” The question burst out of me before I could stop it. “Of all the damn people, Pops, why her?”
He looked wholly unaffected by my mini outburst. “Because she’s a damn good journalist and an even better writer. Have you bothered to look up her credentials?”
“No.”
Aunt Bel snorted.
Pops ignored that too. He leaned forward and tapped my laptop. “Open it. She’s all over the Internet. She’s not a wannabe, Brett. She’s the real thing.”
I kept my eyes on him as I opened the laptop and tapped the space bar to wake it up. The screen whirred to life, and I only dropped my gaze to log into Windows. The moment the desktop loaded, I double-clicked my browser icon and brought it up.
Lani Montana, journalist
I hit the ‘enter’ key and watched as thousands of hits came up. “Where do I start?”
Great Aunt Bel rose and walked around the table before Pops had a chance. “On her bloody website, boy!”
“And that’s enough Downtown Abbey for you,” I muttered, clicking the link to her website.
“Downton.”
“What?”
“Downton,” she insisted. “It’s not Downtown Abbey. It’s not in central Miami, brat.”
“Pops, why is she here?” I turned to my grandfather.
He raised a shoulder in an ‘I don’t know’ motion and joined me behind the laptop. “Click here,” he instructed. “The bio. And read.”
I clicked and I read.
Lani Montana is a freelance journalist from Whiskey Key, Florida. An Arizona State summa cum laude graduate, Montana studied journalism and English literature.
After interning with the Phoenix Weekly, Montana garnered accolades for her work with San Diego Daily and the San Francisco Times covering topics as varied as local and national news and celebrity and industry gossip.
Currently situated just outside of Los Angeles, California, Montana continues her coverage on celebrity and entertainment industry news as well as the crime beat for the LA Today to the popular online journal, the Southwest Times.
The page went on to list her contact details and some links to her most notable articles.
I rubbed my hand over my mouth. Shit. She was as smart as I always knew she was. Freelance or not, she had steady work.
Why was she leaving that behind just to come home?
Pops reached over me. He swept his finger over the mousepad and clicked on one of the stories. “Read this one.”
As soon as the page loaded, I did as he said. It was a coverage for the Southwest Times on a murder victim. The body was found on train tracks twenty miles outside of L.A., and she covered it for them. I was nothing but disgusted as I read the details of the victim’s decapitation, but Lani made it sound almost poetic.
She had a way with words that was kinda magical.
I’ve never been much of a reader, but as my eyes took in her words, I knew I could have read her articles forever.
Cheesy? Perhaps. But, fuck. She could write. She could write her way out of a fucking execution.
When I didn’t say anything, Pops took his chance. He rapped his knuckles against the table, said, “Exactly,” and then strolled right on out of the kitchen.
I finished reading the article, and when I was done, looked up.
Great Aunt Bel slammed the lid on the cookie jar and shuffled backward, half a cookie in her mouth, muttering about how she’d kill me if I told.
I threw her a wink and clicked on the next link on Lani’s webpage.
From: William Walker
To: Brett Walker
Subject: Fw: Re: Article One
Read this.
(Download attachment)
I hit the link on the email and downloaded the PDF attachment. The email itself was forwarded from Lani’s email address, but my father had deleted any trace of the email she’d sent him.
The downloaded completed. I stared at the box at the bottom of my screen asking me if I wanted to open the file. A sick feeling churned in my stomach—after today, what would this say? Dad gave no indication with his two-word email.
Was it good? Bad?
I had to read it. I knew that. I didn’t have a choice. If I did, it never would have been sent to me in the first place. Dad would have handled it and I...Well, I’d probably fucking ignore it.
I took a deep breath and clicked on ‘Open.’ The file loaded up within seconds, and I shifted to get comfortable in bed as the words appeared on my screen.
-Here is article one. Attach notes as necessary.
I assumed the note at the top wasn’t for me, but it was tempting all the same. I read on.
Former high school all-star quarterback, Brett Walker, has long been the name on the lips of the people who live in Whiskey Key. Protected by his name and his family’s status in the Key, he’s long gotten away with behaviors others would have been called out for.
Harsh.
It is, however, in recent months that his name has once again become a common topic of conversation. One can barely walk into the coffee shop or grocery store without hearing how he was rude to the girl behind the checkout desk or how he never called any number of girls back after one night of pleasure.
His womanizing is, of course, the biggest blot on his family’s reputation.
Like his father before him, William Walker was married by the age of twenty-six and a father by the age of thirty. As a teenager, he took an active interest in the family business, and his keen eye and quick mind helped take it to the next level, until Henrick Walker retired and handed majority ownership to his son.
This was the expected path for Brett Walker, destined to be shared with his twin sister, Camille.
While Camille seems to be taking an active interest in the business, the same cannot be said for her brother.
Wasn’t she supposed to be making me look good, not affirming to the town that I was a total fucking asshole?
It’s widely recognized and accepted that Brett Walker has little to no respect for people of the opposite gender, yet that doesn’t stop women flocking to him. Presumably they hope to be the ones to change him, but thrown-out numbers littering the library trash can at Walker House scream that the male Walker heir simply cannot be tamed.
He himself believes that women who fuck on the first night will only fuck him over in a few years’ time.
That was a point that could seriously damage my sex life. Not that I was allowed to have such a thing under the terms of my new behavior, but still.
Of course, it all depends who you ask. While rumors must have a shred of truth to start, rumors are easily twisted. Words can be misheard or misunderstood, and all that leads to is a web of untruths that can seriously hurt a person and those around them.