“Can’t. I have plans,” Jack said, as they neared the avenue.
Nate rubbed his knuckle against his ear. “What’s that? I didn’t hear you. Sounded like you said you had plans.”
“Can’t go. But thanks.”
Nate held up his finger, his brow crinkling. “You never turn down Yankees tickets. You must really like this woman.”
Jack slowed his pace, the observation Nate had made dawning on him. His friend was right. The Yankees were sacrosanct. You didn’t mess with a chance to go to the temple of baseball. And yet, he had no interest in the game. Time was limited with Michelle. The clock was ticking, the second hand racing by faster than he’d like. It was a Saturday morning now, two weeks after their night on the Met Life Tower when they’d agreed to a start and a finish. He could already see the end in sight, and he wanted to make the most of every second with her, especially since she’d be in Paris for some of their thirty days.
“You never even turned down Yankees tickets when you were with Aubrey,” Nate added, and the reminder was like a slap in the face.
“Yeah, well. It’s not like I was some role model for how to be a great fiancé,” Jack muttered.
Nate clapped him on the back. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, man. Nothing that happened was your fault.”
That’s where Nate was wrong. Everything was his fault. Completely and absolutely, and he was ready to linger on that reminder, let it gnaw its way through him like a daily exercise, when he heard a familiar voice.
“Jack fucking Sullivan.”
His eyes snapped up. His sister was marching up to him, slapping her smartphone against her palm, her lips set in a tight line, her nostrils flaring. She wore a short skirt and high-heeled boots. Jack noticed Nate checking out her legs before he too looked up at Casey, her blond hair bouncing high in a ponytail.
Nate raised an eyebrow. “Looks like someone is in trouble with his little sister.”
“What else is new,” Jack mumbled.
When she stopped, she stabbed him in the chest. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Jack gave her a confused look. “Tell you what?”
“Yeah. Tell him what?” Nate chimed in, staring at Jack and playing along with Casey’s indignation.
“Oh hi, Nate,” she said in a normal tone, shooting a friendly smile to his buddy.
“Hey, Case. Good to see you.”
When she turned back to Jack, her eyes narrowed again, and he swore he could see smoke billowing out of her ears.
Nate must have too. He cleared his throat and clapped Jack on the back. “Looks like you two have lots of catching up to do,” he said then tipped an imaginary hat to Casey, whose expression softened once more for Nate as he said goodbye and turned the corner. Casey glared at Jack.
“What do you want to chew me out for, Case?” he asked, holding his hands out wide. He had no idea what her deal was.
Stabbing her finger at her phone, she said, “Why didn’t you tell me you were screwing your shrink?”
His jaw dropped and his eyes widened. He couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d said she was joining the circus. “What?”
“Right here. It’s on Page Six.” She pointed to the phone once more, brandishing it like a weapon. He peered at the screen to see a post on a NY tabloid paper.
“Allow me,” Casey continued. “One of NYC’s most eligible bachelors, Jack Sullivan, was spotted having dinner with a lovely brunette at Sushi Den near the Chrysler Building. The brunette was later identified as Michelle Milo, and a quick Google tells us she’s a psychologist who specializes in intimate relationships. Can you hear the weeping and gnashing of teeth of all the single women in New York? Is she catering to your intimate pleasures, Jack? If she doesn’t, we will!”
He seethed. He’d never been bothered by the things the press said. He’d never cared. Not about himself, and not about Aubrey. They were both used to it. They didn’t even notice. But Michelle belonged to him, not the public eye. He hated that she’d been thrust there without her permission.
“Jack,” Casey said in a measured voice, “This was not the plan when I made that appointment. How did this happen?”
“Oh, right,” he said addressing his sister’s concerns. “She’s not my shrink. I told you that. Weirdly enough, I met her before the appointment and neither one of us knew who the other was, and then when I realized who she was the next day, we agreed I’d see someone else.”
“But you’re seeing her?” she asked skeptically.
“Yes.”
“Romantically?”
Sexually, he wanted to add. But somehow, romantically fit too.
“I suppose you could call it that.”
“And you like her?”
“Well, yeah,” he admitted.
Then Casey squealed, her expression shifting instantly, and she jumped up and down. She threw her arms around Jack. “I can’t believe you met someone you like. I’m so happy.”
He hugged her back. “Let’s not get too excited.”
“I am, though. I am.” She pulled back. “I want you to be happy.”
He was finding that he was with Michelle. Which meant he was sure to fuck it up sooner or later. Knowing himself, he’d be betting on sooner.
* * *
Casey had become a stalker. Later that afternoon she trekked to Conroy’s block to conduct some recon. By three-thirty, she’d paced up and down his street too many times to count. Found nothing. The door to his brownstone had remained closed. She’d snapped a few photos and sent them to her brother with silly captions.
But even if Conroy had emerged, what did she hope to learn? That he wore red pumps on a Saturday afternoon? That he had a mistress he was stupid enough to screw at his own house? She wasn’t a private detective and snooping had never been her forte. She’d tracked down everything interesting she could find online and that had still amounted to a whole lot of nothing.
Besides, Denkler’s people had access to the same Internet and they’d found nothing either.
She left, shaking her head at herself, annoyed that she was coming up short as she tried to gumshoe it on her own. It made her crazy that somehow this politician had decided to go after the clubs they supplied, turning sexual pleasures into the bogeyman of the election. She walked up Third Avenue, yanking out the ponytail holder in her hair then redoing it.
Maybe she didn’t know how to run counterintelligence like her brother did. But Joy Delivered was her baby too, and she’d find a way to protect her business somehow. Fine, in the grand scheme of things, she wasn’t saving the whales or solving world hunger. She was damn skilled, though, at selling pleasure, because she was a big believer in the power of intimacy, and its potential to do good. The world was a nasty, violent place, and if she could bring about happiness through more orgasms, then that was her small contribution. More pleasure instead of more cruelty. More bliss to blot out the urge to do harm. The world would be a better place if people made love, not war.