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“She won’t.” I slammed my suitcase shut. For the first time in my life, I felt powerless. I turned to look at him, heaving. “She won’t understand, because she has a concert she needs to get to. It’s the first fucking thing she’s done for herself in four years, since her daughter was born, and maybe it seems trivial to you or silly, but it means the world to her. And to me. I’m getting there in time no matter what. You understand?”
His eyes were as big as saucers as he raised his palms up in surrender. I shook my head, contemplating calling her and telling her about this mini tornado sweeping its way through rural Dallas, but then I decided against it. I wasn’t going to make excuses. I was going to show up and not bother her with this bullshit, like I’d promised.
I pulled my phone out and called Tate, putting him on speaker. Bruce watched me intently the whole time, the flash of anger and betrayal passing over his face when Tate’s low baritone filled the room like black smoke.
“What is it?”
Yeah, he wasn’t winning any congeniality awards.
“Are you in the States?” I demanded.
“Christ, no. I’m in New York. What would I do inside America?”
Tate Blackthorn was an obnoxious snob. But he was an obnoxious snob with a 747–8 VIP. His private airplane included a fourteen-seat boarding room, two Jacuzzis, and full-size bedrooms.
“I need to borrow your jet,” I gritted out, bracing myself for all the shit he was going to give me. A favor from Tate always came with a hefty price tag. The exterior was hedge-fund baby, but the interior was Napoli-style Camorra.
“Where are you?” he demanded.
“Dallas.”
“Isn’t there a tornado there right now?”
“Mini tornado,” I corrected. “And I promised Dylan I’d be home before five.”
“Is this the part where I’m supposed to care about your fake relationship with your fake fiancée?” he drawled.
Shit, shit, shit.
Bruce heard him and immediately perked up, his shoulders squaring, expression honing into fury. “Tatum,” Bruce boomed.
There was a beat of silence from the other end of the line before Tate sighed. “I forgot it was hick o’clock CT.”
Bruce ignored the quip. “What did you say about Miss Casablancas being Coltridge’s fake fiancée?”
Tate didn’t miss a beat. “I did not say that.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Prove it.”
“You know I can’t.”
“Oh, well then.”
Tate was a ten-out-of-ten gaslighter. Unfortunately, Bruce had already heard him the first time.
Actually, I wasn’t even that bothered. Fuck the deal, and fuck Bruce Marshall. I’d bent over backward for him. If this was what made him pull out of the contract, then he really was a piece of shit.
“Tate.” I snapped him back to attention. “I need that jet.”
“I’m not flying my precious four-hundred-million-dollar private plane to tornado-stricken Dallas just because you found a moderately good pussy to sink your dick into.” Tate spoke slowly, like you would to a stubborn child.
“Irvine is out of the danger zone. I can drive there and have the plane wait for me.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“I’ll owe you one.”