Page 10

CHAPTER TEN

Rav is still feeling buzzed on Saturday, so he goes for another run (!), listening to music on his earbuds. First the Nicks, and then—marking a historic first in the life of Rav Trivedi—some classic rock. It turns out the Who and the Stones are actually pretty good for running. He even finds himself breathlessly singing along. Hope you guessed myyyyy name…

He’s so engrossed that he doesn’t immediately spot the crowd of people gathered on the sidewalk outside his building—but they spot him, and they get between him and the door. There’s about a dozen of them, mostly in their teens and early twenties. A few wear New Knickerbockers shirts. Rav is confused. Did they hear about Jack coming back here after the attack? Is this some sort of weird fan pilgrimage? Then he takes in their expressions: flushed faces, accusing eyes. These people are pissed . Rav’s warning lights are going off now. He tries to slip past, but one of them, a meaty kid with ginger hair, cuts him off. “You piece of shit!”

Rav blinks. “Sorry?”

“You should be sorry.” The kid gets right in Rav’s face. “You should be fucking ashamed .”

“You’ll want to step back,” Rav says, taking a page out of Mo’s book.

“Or what? Or you’ll harass me like you did Jack Vale? Or hey, maybe you wanna arrest me on some bullshit charges.” He offers Rav his wrists.

A familiar face appears in the crowd. It’s Carrie Campbell from the Times , and for half a second Rav is relieved to see her. Then he spies the pocket recorder in her hand, light flashing. “Detective Trivedi, can you comment on the allegations contained in Jack Vale’s social media?”

Rav’s stomach drops. “What allegations?”

“Maybe you should check your phone, Detective,” she says coolly. “I’ll be here when you’re ready to talk.”

The ginger-haired kid is still in his face. He jabs a finger at Rav’s chest. “We see you, cop. Do you hear me?” They’re crowding around him now, cursing him out, and all Rav can do is shoulder his way through the scrum. Nobody grabs him or takes a swing, but even so, his heart is pounding by the time he gets to the elevator.

What the fuck is going on?

He waits until he’s in his apartment to pull up Vale’s Twitter feed, and what he finds makes his blood run cold.

Post after post about the Vanderford case, and Jack’s treatment at the hands of the NYPD. Retweets, mostly, from some blogger claiming to have inside information about the investigation. About how the NYPD, under pressure from the powerful Vanderford family, latched onto Vale as a suspect and tried every dirty trick in the book to get him to incriminate himself.

Instagram is even worse. There’s a reel of Jack speaking directly to his fans, urging them to check out the blog. He looks tired and sad, staring grimly into the camera as he explains why he had to speak out. “I just feel sick, in the pit of my stomach. It’s a betrayal, there’s no other word for it. If they can do this to me, imagine what it’s like for someone more vulnerable. Somebody’s gotta hold them accountable.”

Rav makes the mistake of following the link to the full article, and it’s horrifying. Not only does it mention him by name, it all but accuses him of trying to entrap Vale, using himself as bait.

Detective Trivedi did everything he could to catch me with my guard down , Vale is quoted as saying. And I almost fell for it.

Does he really believe that?

Rav’s mentions are blowing up with threats and abuse. He turns his phone off.

He goes to the window and looks out. They’re still down there, staking him out. How the hell did they find out where he lives? He considers calling it in, but bringing cops out here would just throw gasoline on the fire.

It takes a few hours, but they finally disperse. Rav had plans this evening, but he’s in no shape to go out. He’s in no shape to do much of anything but drink and seethe, so that’s what he does.

His head is a million miles away when the intercom buzzes. Warily, he thumbs the button. “Yes?”

“Rav?”

“Who’s this?”

“Um.” A pause. Then, quietly, “It’s Jack?”

For a second Rav is stunned. Then he sees red. All he can think in that moment is how badly he wants to give this bastard a piece of his mind. “Jack,” he says coldly. “By all means, please come up.” He stabs the intercom button and unlocks the door. Then he props himself against the sofa, facing the door like he’s covering it. Distantly, he hears the elevator ping , followed by a soft knock. “It’s open.”

Vale walks in, anonymous in an oversized gray sweatshirt with the hood pulled up. The rush of warmth Rav gets at the sight of him is infuriating, a humiliating reminder of just how far he’s let this man get under his skin. “Hey,” Jack greets him casually, too focused on kicking off his trainers to notice the look on Rav’s face. “Have you heard the news?”

“I’m not sure.” Rav’s tone is icy, but Vale doesn’t notice that, either. Too wrapped up in himself. They always are, these celebrities.

“We’re getting our masters back. The trustees of Vanderford’s estate have agreed to…” He pauses, taking in Rav’s body language at last. “Are you okay?”

“No, I am very much not okay. I am racking my brain trying to understand why you would show up here.”

“I…” Vale blinks. “Didn’t Eloise text you? I thought we agreed I would come by to pick up the notebook.”

“Right. The notebook.” Rav walks over to the kitchen counter, picks it up, and tosses it at him. It lands with a loud slap at his feet.

Vale flinches as it hits the floor. He stares at it for a second. “Wow. Okay.” He gives his head a little shake and picks it up. Then he turns for the door, but not before Rav catches the look on his face, angry and confused and maybe even a little hurt, and it’s such a perfect mirror of what he’s feeling that he can’t hold his tongue.

“Is that really what you think happened?”

Vale’s glance skips over him coldly. “What?”

Rav pulls out his phone, as though the words aren’t seared into his brain. “ Detective Trivedi did everything he could to catch me with my guard down. ”

Vale shakes his head. “What is that?”

“An article by someone called Hayden Beck.”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“Odd, since he’s quoting you. Then, of course, there’s your Instagram post, in which you urge the entire world to read his article. The tale he spun for you must have been very convincing. Just wondering, did it occur to you at any point that he might be completely full of shit? That maybe you should try getting my side of the story before you blew up my life?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Vale says, reaching for his back pocket. “My phone has been off all day. I haven’t looked at it since…” He trails off, staring at his screen for a long, tense beat. “What the fuck?” He taps his screen, and his voice pipes up, mid-sentence.

“—in the pit of my stomach. It’s a betrayal, there’s no other word for it.”

“What. The. Fuck. ”

The look of blank horror on his face is enough to pierce the haze of Rav’s anger. “They’re your posts,” he says, but he hears the doubt in his own voice.

“This isn’t me,” Vale says. “I mean, it is, but… it’s not real.”

“Not real? Are you saying—”

“I’m saying I didn’t make this video, and I never gave this interview. I have to go.” He’s halfway out the door already, wedging his feet into his shoes and furiously texting someone.

“Seriously?” Heat flashes over Rav’s face. “That’s it? You’re out?”

“You’ve made it pretty clear you don’t want me here,” Vale says impatiently.

“I want an explanation. I think I deserve that, don’t you?”

“You’re pissed. I get it. But did it occur to you that this might be completely full of shit?” He waggles his phone. “My accounts have obviously been hacked.”

Rav processes that. “Why would someone do that?”

“No idea, but you could’ve given me the benefit of the doubt before you bit my head off.”

“Right, because you’re showing so much consideration for my situation.”

Vale scowls at his phone, still texting. “What do you want me to say, Rav? I don’t know what this is, but I’m sorry you got mixed up in it.”

“Caught in the crosshairs, more like! I’ve been trapped in this apartment for hours. There have been death threats!”

Vale looks up, startled. “Wait, are you serious?”

“Haven’t you looked at the replies?”

He does now, paling visibly as he scrolls. “Shit. Rav, I… Shit .” He shoves a hand through his hair.

Rav needs to dial it back. “Can you just… sit for a minute?” he growls, rubbing his eyes. “I need to understand what’s going on here. If you didn’t do this—”

“I didn’t do this.” Jack looks him right in the eye.

Rav decides he believes him. After all, would he really come here after publicly accusing Rav of harassment? He would have seen that from the start if he hadn’t been so worked up. “Sit,” he sighs. “Please?”

“Mo is in the car outside…” Jack glances at the door, and then he shakes his head. “No, you’re right. We need to sort this out.” He shoots off another text, and then he perches on the edge of the sofa.

Rav fills him in on the altercation with his fans. “You really had no idea this was going on?”

“My phone was off, and Mo was driving.” Jack sags over his knees and blows into his steepled hands. “This is so messed up. Why would someone do this? A deepfake video, seriously?”

“You’re sure that’s what it is? I mean, of course you are, it’s just…” Rav is watching it again. “It looks so real.”

“Some of it might be. That bit about betrayal—it sounds familiar. Something I said about Vanderford, maybe? Whatever. We’ll put out a press release, but for now I can at least delete this crap from my accounts.”

He spends the next several minutes doing that, while Rav pours a couple of gin and tonics and does his best to level out. He’s still pissed, but he doesn’t know where to point it anymore. Was this even about him, or was he just collateral damage?

“Okay,” Jack says, “I’ve posted about the hack on all my social feeds and asked people to leave you alone. Maybe let’s grab a shot of the two of us together?” They move to the kitchen, where the light is better. Jack throws an arm around Rav and snaps a photo, and then he uploads it to Twitter and Instagram. “There. That should keep the wolves at bay until we sort this out.”

“I appreciate it.”

“It’s the least I can do.” Blue-green eyes skim Rav’s features. “I’m so sorry about all this.”

They’re still standing shoulder to shoulder, neither of them moving away; with each second that ticks past, it feels a little weightier, a little more deliberate. “It’s not your fault,” Rav says, trying to ignore the heat spreading at the back of his neck.

“Maybe, but you were right before. I was so busy worrying about damage control that I didn’t even process what was happening to you. I’m a dick.”

“You’re not a dick.” Rav’s mouth curls just short of a smile. “Surprisingly.”

Jack arches an eyebrow. “Surprisingly?”

“Well, you are a celebrity. I expected you to be a self-absorbed prick, but it turns out you’re a pretty decent guy. For a rock star.”

“You’re a pretty decent guy, too. For a cop.” Those eyes. At this range, they have their own gravitational pull. They’re like a bloody tractor beam, and Rav is caught in it; he can’t pull away. “Seriously, you’ve been nothing but professional and amazing.” His gaze falls to Rav’s mouth, where it lingers.

This can’t be happening. Is this happening?

Jack leans in. “Can I kiss you?” he murmurs.

Dear god, YES.

The thought hits Rav so forcefully that for a second he doesn’t trust himself to speak. Jack takes the silence for ambivalence, and he backs away immediately. “Sorry, have I misread this? I thought…”

“You haven’t.” Rav clears his throat. “You very much haven’t. But I don’t know if it’s appropriate.”

“Okay.” Jack digests that for a second. “But… I’m not a suspect anymore, right?”

“No.”

“And you’re off the case. So if I’m not part of the case, and you’re not part of the case…” He lets that dangle, and maybe it’s those tractor beam eyes, but Rav is having a hard time finding fault with his logic.

“It’s just, those rules exist for a reason, and it’s not just to protect the integrity of an investigation. There are power dynamics at play, and—”

“Rav.” He blows out a breath and rubs his forehead. “Man, this is wild. I’m usually the one stressing about this stuff. Look, I asked to kiss you , and not because I’m feeling some sort of pressure about an investigation that doesn’t even involve me anymore.” He catches Rav’s gaze again, holding it very deliberately. “I consent.” He’s so close now that Rav feels the whisper of his breath when he adds, “I completely, totally consent. Do you?”

“I want to.” He completely, totally wants to…

Jack shakes his head. “It has to be one hundred per—”

“Yes.” Rav is already reaching for him, and the word gets lost against Jack’s mouth.

He kind of freezes there for a second, and when he finally moves his lips, it’s a little tentative. His brain is still scrolling through all the reasons this is a bad idea in big, bold letters, like a Star Wars prologue on fast-forward. But he can feel his discipline melting away as the mouth against his parts, a soft tongue darting out to meet his, and now he’s leaning into it, cradling Jack’s head and deepening the kiss. Callused fingers glide up the back of his neck, bringing a shiver to his skin; they dive into his hair and curl tightly, tugging so hard it almost hurts, and it’s… god , it’s good. Then Jack’s hand slides over his arse, and that’s it: the last thread of control snaps. Suddenly Rav is backing him into the counter, hoisting him onto it, releasing all that pent-up frustration. His mouth is greedy, his hands are greedy, he can hardly think straight for the wash of heat over his skin. Jack is here for all of it, and things are about to get properly out of hand when there’s a knock at the door. They come apart, breathless.

“Jack?” Mo’s baritone sounds from the other side of the door. “You all right in there?”

Rav is so worked up he can’t even speak. He’s going to die if he can’t kiss that mouth again.

Jack beats him to it, cupping his face and kissing him softly. “Too bad we didn’t video this,” he murmurs. “Show them what the real thing looks like.”

Rav lets out a helpless little groan. Because he wasn’t hard enough already.

“Be right there, Mo,” Jack calls over his shoulder. His hands still frame Rav’s face, thumbs stroking absently. “God, these cheekbones.” He sighs, hands falling away. “I should go. My publicist must be losing her mind.”

“I should make some calls as well.” Rav steps back as Jack hops down from the counter. He feels a little lightheaded. “I must say, this is not how I pictured my day ending. You?”

“Honestly, kind of.” The shy smile when he says that makes Rav want to pin him up against that counter again. He contents himself with staring shamelessly at Jack’s arse as he crosses the room to let his bodyguard in. “Sorry, man,” Jack says as he opens the door. “Didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

Mo looks at him. He looks at Rav. “Shirt’s crooked, big guy,” he observes mildly.

Rav glances down. It’s hanging slightly off his shoulder, showing a lot more chest than it should. He tries to pretend he’s not blushing like a teenager while he straightens it. He’s only grateful he’s strategically positioned behind the kitchen counter, or Mo might have noticed something more embarrassing than a crooked shirt.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Jack says.

“Sure,” Rav says. “Yep.” He gives Jack a thumbs-up.

For fuck’s sake.

“Night night,” Mo says, and the cheeky bastard winks.

Rav closes the door and locks up. Then, as he’s walking past the sideboard, he sees it. The bloody notebook.

He laughs like a fool all the way to the bedroom.