Page 36 of Cockpit
“That’s such bullshit.” At least that’s what I tell him, but hell if he isn’t somewhat right.
“Uh-huh.” He draws the word out, and the sound grates on my nerves. “If that’s not true, then do the damn contest. Take a few photos. Give them the bio they want. Then step back and let whatever happens, happen. What would it hurt other than maybe pad your bank account if you win?”
“God, you sound just like Dad with all this wisdom.” I shake my head and laugh.
“Not quite. I don’t have all of his perfect sayings down yet—but I’ll get there.”
“Lord, help us.” I sigh and glance at Luke as he slams the door and runs up the stairs as he has some kind of mock battle between the Minecraft figures in each of his hands.
“What about him?” Grant asks as he lifts his chin to where Luke just disappeared.
“What do you mean, what about Luke? What would me going along with this teach him?
“That his dad is cool as fuck. That it’s okay to take pride in yourself. That it’s okay to step outside your comfort zone and do something you normally wouldn’t. How’s that for a lesson?”
“He’s eight. He doesn’t care about that shit.” The lie rolls off my tongue, and I hate that my brother’s words resonate deeper than I want them to. “Plus, you know what a hard time he’s been going through with the not having a mom thing.”
“Not having a mom. Dad being in a contest.” He holds his hands out as if he’s weighing both on a scale. “They have nothing to do with each other. So sorry, try again.”
“Just drop it, Grant.”
“No. You’re being ridiculous and stubborn, so I’ll say it again. The contest. It has nothing to do with Claire. The Hoskins—fuck them—won’t get any info on Luke. Sidney is not Claire. You might get some serious ass as a side benefit. And Luke—”
“That isn’t teaching him anything.”
“Stop thinking about what it’s teaching Luke, and start thinking about what it will be teaching you.”
The floor creaks as I pace from one end of the room to another. Papers blanket the table and chairs, the aftermath of the spreadsheet I was making for my father of advertising dollars. The heat is stifling. My cell is stuck to my ear as I wait for her to pick up.
There’s no way he’s going to think I didn’t set the whole thing up now.
No way in hell.
“What did you do, Rissa?”
“Whatever do you mean?” Her voice comes through loud and clear across the phone connection. Kids play in the background, the wind rustles against the speaker of her cell, and her voice sounds guilty as hell.
“I just hung up with the who-knows-what-number reporter about an article that was written in the Sunnyville Gazette about one Grayson Malone.”
“What about him?”
“Oh, I don’t know. How about h
ow he saved me from a knife-wielding thug?”
“Huh.”
“Huh? That’s all you’re going to say?”
“What do you want me to say?” There’s amusement in her voice.
I walk past the front window, glancing outside to see if the reporter for the local news is still there. The one who’d knocked on the door earlier and asked for an interview and photo.
“How about why you called the Gazette and told them about the other night?”
“Who said that I did?”
“Let’s call it an educated guess.” I put my hand on my hip and look back at the article sitting on my computer screen.
