“To Kat?” Sawyer gave a gruff laugh. “Fucking wish. No. She did the happening. To you. To both of you, really. Yet another sex tape. Or an almost-sex tape. Why the hell would she think this was a good idea? She didn’t get away with it the first time. So hey, why the hell not try again?”
Michael’s insides turned to ice. He carefully placed the suit on the hanger and shut it in the closet, his movements clipped, precise. No room for error. Then he turned and stared blankly at the wall behind the hotel bed. “Sawyer, are you saying there’s another video of Kat and that douchebag tennis player having sex?”
Sawyer’s silence was damning, but damning to what, Michael didn’t know.
“Jesus shitting on the pot. You really don’t know.”
“I’ve been on a bus, a plane, another bus, and standing in a hotel lobby for about thirty minutes because the management screwed up the keys and had to get things resettled. My phone’s ringer has been off until just now. I’m not in a mood to be jacked around, Sawyer. Tell me what happened.”
“Kat. And you. In an almost-sex tape. You’re grinding against her, propped up on a desk in some sort of office, with her legs wrapped around you? I don’t know, I don’t recognize the location, but it’s definitely not a bedroom. I don’t know, man.”
Michael’s fist clenched, and his breathing felt tight, like he was running a marathon instead of standing still.
“You keep saying ‘almost-sex.’ So we’re not having sex?”
“The tape cuts out before that, but it’s clear that’s where the little episode is going. Maybe she chickened out before recording the main event.”
“You’re saying she recorded us having almost-sex.”
“Unless you recorded it…”
Michael let his nonanswer speak for him.
“Right. I assumed not.” Sawyer sighed. “Look, clearly she didn’t record it herself this time. It’s too far away, and the camera’s moving, like someone’s holding it and not able to stand still. So no tripod or anything like that. And then a door closes just before the camera shuts down.”
“So someone else recorded us. But where?”
“Fuck if I know. There’s a tennis racket in the corner. I assumed—”
But Michael didn’t need to assume. He knew without guessing. The tennis center. The office Kat had dragged him into before they’d gone at it like monkeys against the wall. Fuck. Shit fuck damn it to all fucking hell.
He swung out and punched the wall, denting the drywall with his left fist. Then he dropped the phone on the bed and howled in pain. He’d never done that before in his life, and now he fucking knew why. That shit hurt. God.
“Lambert. Lambert! Jesus, don’t go missing on me. I can only handle so much shit a day.”
Michael took the phone back. “So you’re saying someone else loaded the video up.”
“Clearly. But…”
“Say it,” Michael growled.
“Look, I get that you two have something going on, but we can’t ignore this is nearly identical to the last time.”
Michael’s vision hazed with fury.
“She obviously got someone else to take the video and upload it. The video is about thirteen seconds long, posted to Instagram from some account that looks like it belongs to a teenager, though that could be a ruse. While you can’t see your face at all, and you aren’t named… her face is clear. And she’s named. What’s that tell you?”
He sat on the bed, set the phone on speaker and laid it beside him. His left hand curled uselessly on his thigh. With his right hand, he scrubbed at his face. In anger. In frustration. In total helplessness because he couldn’t make this shit go away for either of them.
“It tells me,” his agent continued, taking his silence for encouragement, “that she didn’t want to name who she was with. Maybe for protection, maybe because your name is more important than hers in the media and it would overshadow her attention-grabbing stunt. I don’t know. But she’s front and center, the focus of the video, and the captions that go along with it.”
“She didn’t do this,” Michael said roughly. She wouldn’t have.
She couldn’t have.
She… could have. Of course she could have. Anyone could have. To deny that she had the ability was to be an idiot. But she wouldn’t.
She…
No. He wouldn’t do that. Wouldn’t analyze every word she’d said, every little gesture she made as if she were on trial in his mind.
“I know what you’re thinking.” Sawyer’s voice was steadier now, calmer. As if he were attempting to calm a savage beast. Not far off probably. “You’re thinking she’s the victim again. She’s being taken advantage of. She’s got the worst luck known to man.”
The unspoken you poor, na?ve sap was left off.
“You don’t know,” Michael said softly. “You can’t know. You don’t know her like I do.”
“You’ve seen one slice of her. I’ve known her for years. Hell, her own tennis coach just dumped her. They’ve trained together for years. Fucking years, Michael. And he’s done with her.”
“Gary?”
“What? No. Peter, her coach in Florida. He’s done. Washed his hands of her. Embarrassed as hell. Final straw. Insert several Russian curses here that I can’t pronounce.”