His (A Bad Boy Mafia Romance)(29)

“This is completely different. Those are my words. That’s my ass on the line because of what I saw.”

He laughs in an infuriatingly dismissive way. “Babe--”

“Call me babe one more fucking time and you’ll regret it.” Jesus. I’m pissed, but I’ve never talked to someone like that before. It felt good. Really good. Vince is really rubbing off on me, in all the wrong ways.

“Relaaax. It wasn’t even the entire article. I mean, you’ve got the end somewhere though, right? I need it. I posted it as a sort of teaser for the next online issue of SportsCast Tuesdays. Readers will be waiting for the big reveal. Who is the secret mobster, you know, that kind of shit. I just need a name. I’ll have my people take care of the rest. I’ll even send you a bottle of wine to celebrate when it goes live.”

I take a long breath and force myself to save the tirade of insults and curse words that are coming to mind. None of that is going to do any good. I don’t want his death on my hands, so I do my best to stay calm. “Jerry. The reason I deleted that article was for my own safety. The people I saw are not the kind of people who want their name in news articles. When they see your name on that, there is no way they are going to let you make it to next Tuesday to publish the rest. They are probably going to come after me, too.”

He makes a sound like a train whistle. “All aboard the paranoid express. Sheesh. Look, I’ve got to be on the air in a little so I’ll let you think it over, but don’t take longer than a day or two. I really need that name or I’ll look like a complete ass.”

He hangs up the phone. I stare at it in disbelief for a few seconds before noticing a shadow move at the far end of the parking garage. I glance toward it and quicken my pace. Shit. Is someone following me? Now I really am being paranoid. I walk as fast as I can to the exit of the parking garage and give the rent-a-cop a nervous smile as I pass. He tilts his head and sips his coffee, not looking away from the small TV in his glass box.

I rush through the parking lot, whipping my head toward every sound, even if it’s just tailgaters laughing or a car door slamming as some fans get a head-start on the crowds. When I look over my shoulder, it’s impossible to know who could be following me. It could be any of them, or none of them. My heart is racing out of my chest and it feels like my stomach is doing somersaults. Calm down. You’re just being paranoid. But am I? Vincent already said he was keeping tabs on me, but he also said he wouldn’t do anything to hurt me. Then again, that was before Jerry fucking Washington published the article. Maybe he changed his mind. Vince probably heard about the article getting published before I did. He probably had time to send someone after me.

I nearly scream when my phone buzzes in my clutch. I pull it free and see “Dad”. I never ignore his calls for fear that it’s something serious for once, but it’s too much right now. I ignore the call and keep my eyes forward, flashing my media badge to take the short-path through the tunnels that lead to the field. I feel myself relax a little now. If someone was following me, the chances of them having the clearance to get through to the field are low. Not impossible though. I look over my shoulder again and see no one has followed me through the gate. It makes me feel a little better, but I can’t help wishing Vince was here. Even if it’s him I’m afraid of, I want to feel the solid strength of his body beside me.

The Jets and the Jacksonville Jaguars are already on the field, scattered around and warming up. Players don’t typically do interviews at this point, so most members of the media are just checking equipment and going over their notes or making touch-ups to their makeup. I see the SportsCast commentary crew in one of the press boxes a few rows up from the field. Sometimes I think that wouldn’t be such a bad job. At least their opinions are considered important. They’re not just a pretty face to state the obvious. When I first got the job, I was flattered to be counted among the women pretty enough to fill the role. Everywhere I looked, I saw beautiful women working as field-correspondents, even though I never thought of myself as anywhere near that pretty. Now it just leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, like I’m some pointless dose of sex-appeal to keep drooling sports-fans tuned in.

I notice Aria’s golden hair near the end zone. She sees me right as I see her, and she hurries over to me. There’s something wrong. I can tell by how quickly she’s moving, and the way her eyes look swollen and red as she gets closer. She doesn’t stop moving toward me though and rams into me, wrapping her arms tight around me and sobbing against my shoulder.