Montaine (17 page)

The speed with which the
story of my tryst with Trent had reached all corners of the internet was truly
astonishing. By the end of the day, it had shifted from the special preserve of
porn-watchers and gossip hounds to the realm of social commentary about women
in the workplace, and particularly women in the world of sports journalism. I
clicked through one article and blog post after another, swallowing down a
rising wave of panic as my need to know the true scope of my humiliation overcame
my fear and reluctance to confront it.

Some writers and
commenters naturally derided me as a pointless piece of fluff, a slutty piece
of trash, or a gold digging reprobate who snagged the internship only to sink
my dirty claws into the rich and famous Trent Montaine. I was a conniving
traitor to the cause of female empowerment, an unqualified dingbat trading sex
for professional advancement, and the reason that women should steer clear of
the world of sports, which was and should remain strictly male turf. One blog
even quoted someone by the name of Andy Hawker, whose name rang only the
faintest of bells in my recollection, but who was apparently a classmate in one
of my journalism seminars:

“We all thought Kat Raney
only got that job because she’s a chick. I wonder if she slept with him in
order to nab the internship in the first place. I wouldn’t be surprised. It
explains a lot.”

Other sources were more
forgiving toward me, but less so toward Trent. He was described as a cold
womanizer who used his position to take advantage of a young and innocent girl.
At one point in the video, my small voice could be heard saying, “I want to
make my boss happy.” That clip played on site after site like a sick highlight
reel. I’d spoken in jest at the time, but to the wider public, my words dripped
with obvious insinuations of sexual harassment and the inappropriate leverage
of a powerful man over a much weaker woman.

We were everything to
everyone. We were a microcosm of gender disparities. We were a disgusting
symbol of cultural decline. One commenter eloquently referred to me as a “duuuuuuuuuurty
fukkkkkkking hoooooooooore,” and another proffered the enticing invitation to sit
on his dick while he bit my tits and choked me. Plenty of women vowed to send
Trent their “video resumes” in hopes of a “top position” at the magazine. One promised
that she could give him a much better time than “that fat disgusting bitch of
an intern.”

If my tear ducts had not
already run dry by this point, I might very well have cried a thousand times
over a thousand such vicious, twisted, and brutal insults.

The single bright spot
came from an article in the
Times
that quoted a source at the magazine,
described only as a “senior member of the staff.” This source expressed nothing
but admiration for both Trent and myself, saying that my reputation had been
“unfairly tarnished” and that I fully deserved to have my story featured on the
cover of the magazine. He mentioned the contest and noted that he had served as
an impartial judge and had selected my story without any pressure whatsoever
from Trent Montaine. He added that he was greatly disappointed that we live in
world where private life is not permitted to remain private, and that it
reminds him oddly of life under the all-seeing eye of the communist regime
during his youth. “Trent Montaine and Kat Raney,” he said, “are two fine,
young, talented people whom we should celebrate rather than destroy.”

I knew this unnamed
source had to be Miklos. Heaven bless him. He earned a very special place in my
heart in that moment.

With the final batch of
articles, the tide turned. Writers began to criticize the media for its
fascination with the sexual activities of consenting adults and its quest to
ruin lives through the endless echo chamber of social media.

I closed my laptop and
sat in the pitch dark of my room. The only sound was the quiet ticking of the
clock on my nightstand. I pondered all of the articles and posts that I had
read. Throughout all of the comments and speculation and unnamed sources and
rumors, not one of them even hinted at the plain and unremarkable truth. Not
one of them guessed the straightforward reality that lay behind the popping
flash bulbs and flying accusations.

Trent and I were simply
two people who had fallen in love.

“Are you ready for this?”
Trent held my hand in front of the revolving door of the
KTFO
building
on Monday morning. A smattering of photographers perched on car hoods nearby. We
studiously ignored them while their shutters clicked.

“Yes.” I breathed deeply
and exhaled slowly. I closed my eyes and tried to steady my racing pulse. I
willed my legs to move but remained rooted to the pavement. I was reminded of
my very first day at the magazine, when I had similarly stood on the sidewalk
and anxiously watched the spinning portal to my future.
It’s now or never
,
Miklos had told me back then. It was only a month ago, but it seemed like
another lifetime.

“It’s now or never,” I repeated
now with a determined step.

Trent continued to hold
my hand as we rose in the elevator to the fourth floor and walked through the
glass doors to the magazine’s offices. The room was full. Everyone had rushed
to work in the hope of a little excitement and fodder for further gossip,
something to tell their friends over dinner later that night. As soon as we
entered, their chatter fell silent. Heads popped up from desks, faced turned in
our direction, and eyes drifted to our clasped hands.

“Nice to see you all here
bright and early,” Trent said in a booming baritone. “Don’t let me disturb
you.”

I released my hand from
his grip. He raised a questioning eyebrow.

“I’m fine,” I whispered.
I wanted only to return to the status of a lowly intern rather than the focus
of everyone’s curious attention. I began to wind my way through the maze of
desks with my shoulders gathered inward and my head bowed.

The deep and threatening
tones of Trent’s voice halted me mid-stride just before I reached my chair.

“Stop right there.”

When I turned, Trent was
not looking at me. He faced the glass doors to the lobby. I followed his gaze
and saw Kill standing in the open doorway with a cardboard box balanced on his
palms. He settled the box at his feet and crossed his arms over his chest. His
eyes glinted with an evil glee. A catlike grimace turned his face into a pale, leering
mask of delighted hatred.

“You and I have business.”
Trent stepped deliberately toward his former friend. His brow lowered with
menace. His arms bent at the elbows in a posture of combative readiness.

“Do we? What kind of business?”
Kill spoke with a mocking sing-song innocence. His beady eyes projected a
condescending disdain.

“You know exactly what
kind of business.”

“You’re the boss, Mr.
Montaine. Why don’t you enlighten me?”

With bullet speed, Trent
closed on Kill, gripped his thin throat, and slammed his scrawny body against
an adjacent wall. Kill released a swift puff of an exhale as his back hit the
plaster. He scratched at Trent’s rigid fingers and gasped for breath. His skin
achieved a purplish shade of red. The toes of his oxford shoes squeakily skated
for traction on the slick linoleum floor.

“You think you’re a big
man, Kill? Do you feel like a big man now?”

The rest of the room
watched in stunned quiet. A few other writers rose from their seats but then stood
paralyzed with indecision. No one leapt to Kill’s defense. No one wanted to
become the next target of Trent’s rage.

Kill’s eyes bulged and
watered. His cheeks ballooned with each helpless attempt to draw air into his
strangled windpipe. Trent slammed his back against the wall again, raising a
cloud of paint flakes. Then just as quickly, he released his grip. Kill’s legs
collapsed beneath him. He fell with a hard thud and a wheezing cough.

“Get up,” Trent
commanded.

Kill stared up at him with
a burning fury and massaged the red striations on his neck. He perched on one
knee and rose to his feet. His face was still mottled with the strain of each
hoarse breath, but his lips parted in another sarcastic leer that showed his
sharp yellow teeth.

With another burst of
lightning quickness, Trent’s fist swung out from his side and pounded into
Kill’s face with a crackling smack of knuckle on bone. Kill’s head jerked like
a ragdoll. He staggered backward, once again careening into the wall and sending
paint chips flying. He blinked several times, his eyes unfocused, and shook his
head as if caught in a tangle of cobwebs.

“Enough!” shouted an
unexpected voice from the edge of the room. All heads turned to see Miklos,
dapper as ever in a light gray pinstripe suit and a pale green shirt. His
perfectly shined shoes ticked rapidly across the floor. Within seconds, he
stood beside Trent and placed a restraining hand on his forearm. “Enough,” he
repeated more gently.

Trent relaxed his
shoulders. His eyes, moments earlier consumed with a boundless rage, now looked
down on Miklos with a plea for guidance.

“You, pack your
belongings and leave,” Miklos said to Kill, whose cheek was already swollen
from the force of Trent’s punch.

“That’s what I was trying
to do when our fearless leader here got in my way.” He bent to retrieve his
cardboard box, which had been upturned and shoved sideways during the struggle.
He turned toward the hallway of offices.

“Wait,” Trent said,
walking a few steps forward. Kill noticeably flinched at his approach. “Why did
you do it? Why, Kill?” His tone was wounded.

“I don’t know what you’re
talking about,” Kill responded with a shrug and a sniff.

“Don’t be a little shit,
Kill. You took that video. You released it to destroy me and to destroy Kat.
Why? Why do you care? What is your problem? What do you hope to gain from all
of this?” He spread his arms wide and shook his head. “I just want to
understand. Then you can go on your way and never come back.”

Kill stared hard at Trent
for nearly a full minute and then shrugged again. “I still don’t know what
you’re talking about.”

“Fine.” Trent nodded and
flexed his biceps. His canvas of tattoos, bared to the elbow under the rolled
sleeves of his light blue shirt, undulated with each shift of his rippling
muscles. “I have one more question, though.” He paused, taking one firm step
forward. “Who is Hades?”

My heart beat wildly in
my chest. The blood rushed into my ears, temporarily blocking any sound. I
placed a steadying hand on my chair to prevent myself from fainting with the
sudden surge of fear-spiked adrenaline that rocketed into every extremity.

A pleased grin broke
across Kill’s face. His thin lips stretched wide. His pale eyes danced with
genuine enjoyment.

“Now, that’s a question I
am perfectly willing to answer,” he said with a cheerful clap. “So, you know I was
at the warehouse fight with Hades. I give you credit for figuring out that much
of the story. I really didn’t think you were smart enough.” He crossed his
forearms over his stomach and spread his feet wider apart. Each heel click
echoed loudly in the tense hush. “Let me tell you the part that you haven’t yet
guessed.”

He stepped in a wide arc
around Trent, who now resembled a cornered lion. Trent stared at Kill with a
barely contained ferocity. Kill clearly savored the chance to prolong Trent’s
uncertainty and stoke the fires of his anger.

“Does Hades seem at all
familiar to you, Trent?” He tilted his head to the side and gripped his chin
between his thumb and forefinger in a gesture of professorial inquiry.

“You know that he does,”
Trent seethed. “Just tell me who he is.”

“Now, now, I’m getting to
that,” Kill said with a dismissive flutter of his fingers. “Patience was never
your strong suit. You’ve spent years covering your body with those ridiculous
tattoos. The four elements. Balance in the universe. It makes me fucking barf.
And here you are, a coiled spring ready to pounce.” He clucked his tongue.
“Tsk, tsk. What would Rosie think if she could see you now?”

At the mention of Rosie’s
name, Trent’s eyes widened with a dawning realization. He flipped his head
toward Kill and squared his shoulders.

“Ah! I see that you are
getting closer to the truth! Have you guessed it? Should I tell you?” The words
slithered from Kill’s mouth with a reptilian hiss. “Hades is none other than
our good friend of days gone by, Mr. Peter Haverford.”

“Why?” Trent’s voice was
faint and rasping.

“Really? Why? Have you forgotten
that you nearly beat poor Peter to death back in college?”

A few shocked gasps could
be heard from the assembled audience. Trent shifted his gaze to Miklos, who
merely raised his eyebrows. Trent gave an almost imperceptible nod, just the
slightest dip of his chin in confirmation of the truth of Kill’s accusation.

“I was the hero who
courageously came between you and Peter and prevented you from murdering the
boy in cold blood.” Kill now strutted in a wide berth like a ringmaster
relishing the rapt attention of the crowd.

“That’s not the whole
story,” Trent mumbled. His eyes searched the room and met mine. I wanted to
save him, but I didn’t know how.

“See, the problem was,”
Kill continued, “that Peter didn’t remember you. Your assault put him in a coma
and wiped clean any memory of that night. He had no idea that you were the one
who attacked him. That is, until I told him.”

“Why?” Trent repeated
weakly. “Why now? Why the elaborate plot with the fights? Why not just confront
me one-on-one? Why go after Oscar?”

“Oscar was collateral
damage,” Kill spat with disgust. “It’s unfortunate, but that’s another ruined
life on your hands. As for the fight, who doesn’t love a little drama, right?”
He looked around the room with a satisfied air.

“And as for the timing,”
he continued after a brief pause, “that was really just a coincidence. I recently
interviewed a trainer out of the Bronx. He mentioned Hades, this beast of a
fighter who’d recently appeared in his gym out of nowhere. Through a little
research, I made the happy discovery that Hades was our old pal Peter Haverford.
With a little more digging, I learned that he’d been cut loose by his powerful
family after a few too many violent outbursts. Peter was definitely the black
sheep of the proud Haverford clan. Turns out he was never was quite right up
here,” he tapped his cranium, “after that beating you gave him. So I tracked
him down. We had a nice chat about the past. I told him that you were the one
who destroyed his life all those years ago. He wanted revenge. Imagine that. I
hatched a plan to take you down at the fights. The rest is history.” He slapped
his hands together as if shaking off a coating of dust. “Everything would have
gone exactly according to plan if that idiot Oscar had not gotten in our way.”

Trent lunged with a
furious growl. Kill jogged out of reach and wagged a chastising finger.

“Peter killed Rosie,”
Trent seethed. “That’s why I attacked him. You skipped that part.”

“Oh, really? Did he?”
Kill asked brightly. “Do you have proof of that, Sherlock?” He lifted his lip
in a hateful snarl.

“What did I ever do to
you, Kill?” Trent’s voice was quiet. “Honestly, what? I’ve been your best
friend for fifteen years.”

“My friend.” Kill huffed
once through his nose. “You’re not my friend. I’m just the dipshit who lives in
your shadow. The rich and successful Trent Montaine who has the world at his
feet. The handsome and desirable Trent Montaine who can fuck any woman he
wants. You didn’t keep me around because you valued my friendship. You kept me
around to be your puppet, your lapdog, your object of pity.”

“That’s not true. You
know that’s not true.”

“But the joke’s on you,
isn’t it?” Kill ignored Trent’s protest. “Your investigative skills were not
sufficient to find out Hades’ real identity. I suppose that makes me the better
journalist.” He stood with his feet spread wide, hands on his hips and elbows pointed
outward. “You were right about one thing though.” He raised an index finger and
pointed it straight at me. “That little piece of ass, Kat Raney, is a pretty
good journalist too.”

I felt the blood drain
from my face. I knew what he was about to say. My heartbeat stuttered with
terror.

“She figured it out. She
knew that Hades and Peter Haverford were one and the same. I’m surprised she
didn’t tell you.” Kill’s tone dripped with venomous sarcasm. He turned to me.
“You should really be more careful about deleting the browser history on your
laptop, my dear. That was a nugget of gold just waiting for me to uncover it.”

Trent spun on his heel.
His eyes sought mine across the room. “Kat? Is that true? How long have you
known?”

I opened and closed my
mouth. Words failed. Tears stung my eyes. I managed a few shuddering breaths.

“It’s true,” I finally said
with a trembling voice. “I found out a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t want to
tell you. I couldn’t.”

Trent’s jaw hung loose.
He looked at me, then at Kill and Miklos, and then out over the sea of curious
faces. Without another word, he turned and stormed through the glass doors.

“Trent! Wait!” I stumbled
a few steps forward and crashed into a desk. I heard the ding of a departing
elevator. He was gone.