pretty young thing. There were plenty of names and faces he didn't recognize, but the few he did... were big. "Shit. No wonder you got sacked." His comment from a few weeks ago came back to haunt him. Then fuck 'em. They deserve what they get. He guessed he deserved what he got, too. To be honest, he hadn't been much better than any of them.
She ghosted a smile, still keeping her eyes on her hands clutching the coffee mug.
"And this is the story that's going to run?"
She nodded. "It's a five-part exposé. Marissa expects there will be news shows following."
Fear spiked through him. "But doesn't that mean you'll have a target on your back?" Jesus, would she have to go into hiding?
She shook her head. "I... had a source on the inside." The fact that she herself was also a primary source was something she'd take to her grave. "So to the world, I'm just reporting. When I discovered what was going on, I was extremely careful."
How incredibly stupid. How incredibly brave. Trace dropped back into the chair across from her. "So now what?" He gestured to the folder. "You want me to admit more shit? That I was caught skinny dipping in my producer's pool with his very naked wife? Yep, did that. That I got kicked out of a restaurant for picking a fight with a patron when I was high? Did that too, although in my defense, the guy was being a douche to his wife. That I was late half the time to filming because I was hungover? True. I could pretty much get away with whatever I wanted because I brought in fucktons of money. Crap movies got green lighted if there was even a rumor I might be taking a part. My name was fucking gold. I -" he pointed a thumb at his chest. "Was fucking gold."
Jeezus, it was like her dark condemning eyes had picked off a scab and now the ugly shit was oozing out like a puss-filled, gangrenous, putrid infection.
"But you know what? Did anyone - even once - when I was late or a no show ask how I was? I'll give you one guess, because you're smart, and you can put the pieces together." She shook her head once, and he slapped his hand on the table, making her jump. "Bingo. So yeah, dig through my past, and pretty much any shit you can dig up is likely to be true."
Let her find out the worst of him. He wasn't so naive to think she'd love him when the dust had settled. She kept staring at him, eyes growing sadder by the second. He had to look away. It was ripping him to pieces. Pushing away from the table he started another pot of coffee. Her silence weighed heavily, but there was no escaping it. The only way out of this nightmare was through it.
When he'd refilled her cup, added the requisite cream, and rejoined her at the table, she spoke, voice thick and raspy. "Was anything you told me true?" It was uttered like the plea of a heartbroken child, and it nearly brought him to his knees.
He peeled her hands from her mug and encased them in his own, pushing away the tiny flicker of hope that flamed to life inside him. "God, yes. As much as I could without giving myself away. I was born Trace Walker McBride. I don't know my father. My mother left when I was four without a backward glance. I barely remember my Grandma Walker, but I remember her smile, and her squishy bosom." He blinked, wetness rising behind his eyes. "I ran away from a ranching job when I was fifteen, beaten by the foreman because he caught me with his daughter and then he refused me my wages. I don't remember much between then and seventeen, when I ended up on the beach - surfing and literally being a beach bum. I was homeless, and I'd sleep under the piers until the cops would chase me away. I was rolled a few times. I learned from the old-timers to keep my feet healthy."
A small smile flickered across her mouth, then retreated.
"Everything I told you at the wedding was true. And it's also true that you're the only person who knows that story. Portia found me under the pier when I was seventeen. I was shivering with fever. She literally saved my life."
"And you fell in love with