Talk to Me (4 page)

MISLEAD (v.):

To cause (someone) to have a wrong idea or impression

about someone or something.

Casey

“Hey, babe,” Mackenzie greeted me at the studio on Sunday. “Which do you like better, the Vikings purple with the bling or the tomboy jersey?”

“Does it matter?” I asked.

“It does if I want to get my Facebook likes up.”

“Facebook likes?”

“Don’t tell me you aren’t working social media,” she said, studying herself in the mirror like usual. “Classic. Maybe you aren’t as smart as I thought.”

During my initiation, I mean orientation, I vaguely remember taking pictures and filling out a questionnaire for my social media presence. I had done nil with it. Most times, this “job” (and I say that loosely) felt more like a college club than the real deal.

Mackenzie turned on her heel, her amber locks perfectly pulled into a high tail that swung with each movement. She stuffed a newspaper under her arm and grabbed a seat on the couch. We were waiting for our weekly meeting to begin. She leaned back and opened her
Wall Street Journal
.

I was stunned.

“Heavy reading?” I asked, making my way onto a chair.

“Not if you’re a finance major,” she replied, not looking up from her paper.

“Oh,” I said, still intrigued. “What year are you?” If she was a finance major, she had to still be in school. Maybe she needed extra money like I did.

“Finished two years ago,” she said. “I’m studying for the Series 7 this week.”

“Going to be a stock broker?”

“Possibly,” she said. “I work at Capital International right now and just want more options.”

“Oh my God, that’s like one of the biggest Fortune 500s in the state.”

“And?”

“Well,” I began. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but aren’t you embarrassed?”

“About?”

“About all this,” I said. “Being a glorified pin-up girl. How do people take you seriously at work?”

“Well, first of all—” She tipped her head in my direction, like she was preparing to explain a complex subject to a small child. “I like being a glorified pin-up girl. I get daily marriage proposals, hundreds of compliments every time I change my hairstyle, the best seats to any sporting event I want, and the chance to do volunteer work with some of my best friends. It’s not a bad gig, K.C. It’s like a new adventure each week.”

“Yeah, but—”

“But nothing. It’s good exposure and it’s all in good fun. If you don’t like it, there are plenty of girls waiting in line. Give it to one of them. And as far as being embarrassed at work, I’m not. People don’t treat me any differently, because I set the lines. They know better.”

“Really?”

“Really. You don’t have to be so serious all the time, K.C. You are young and smart and gorgeous. You have your cake. Remember to take a bite once in a while.”

But what if my cake was one hot piece of man that I wanted to both devour and expose for my own career?

It had been over twenty-four hours since I saw Finn at the marina, and my thoughts had been on little else since. It didn’t help that I was studying him every chance I got — I had watched almost every piece of video in the archives, as well as anything else I could pick up online. I was obsessed.

I recently discovered that after the initial buzz of his retirement wore off, there was nothing on the guy. It was like he was under some sort of protection.

Finn had completely closed himself off and become a loner, really. I needed to break through that. I needed him to open the door… just a crack.

Finn

Anchor/Kiki Stuart:
So how did you two get together?

Finn Daley:
Well, that was a mess for a while. And it didn’t help that I thought she was a Puck Bunny at first.

Anchor/Kiki Stuart:
I do know what that is, but why don’t you fill it in the blanks for those at home. What is a Puck Bunny?

Finn Daley:
Those women who hang around the ice for … ah, wait. Let’s just say a Puck Bunny is the equivalent to a groupie in the music world.

Anchor/Kiki Stuart:
And how did that go over? When you thought she was a Puck Bunny, that is.

Finn Daley:
Not as you’d expect.

“Almost done,” Mia said, putting in the last needle. “Unless there’s anything else bothering you.”

It was only six a.m., but I was an early riser these days. I liked being in that groggy, barely awake frame of mind when Mia worked on me. With what I paid her, she didn’t complain — about the hours or the house calls.

Having money really paid off sometimes.

“There is something else bothering me,” I told her, surprisingly embarrassed.

“Tell me,” Mia said softly.

Mia had been coming out to the house to do regular acupuncture as part of my treatment. Nate got a kick out of it. He was absolutely brutal — constantly mocking me for my new alternative lifestyle. He had something to say about everything: my clean diet, the tai chi and acupuncture, even my new decor. Nate joked that I was living at a fucking spa drinking cucumber water and getting facials all day.

Sometimes he wasn’t that far off. Then again, he had never experienced the effects of tiny needles in the skin. Maybe he would’ve been a little more understanding if he had a taste.

It was life changing.

“It’s a girl,” I answered Mia’s question.

“Okay.” I heard the smile in her voice. “I can help.”

At that moment, I was a mass of needles in my face, chest, and abdomen. And now that I confessed to Mia about a girl, she had a few more places to work with. She started with my ears and I swear I felt immediate release, followed by a warm glow. Then she moved to my center, trying to rebalance the yang of my kidneys. They apparently hold the key to all things sexual.

Christ, maybe Nate was right about me.

The fact that I knew all this alternative crap was disturbing as shit. Still, I needed to do something. Casey Scott had been in my head for days. I thought the walk home from the marina was uncomfortable. It was nothing compared to the long hours of suffering with my racing thoughts, not to mention the most painful hard-on that never seemed to let up. Hopefully the acupuncture would ease my appetite a little.

I thought about calling Zack, Casey’s brother, to get more information about her. But shit, he had to know about the rumors about me. Not so sure he’d be thrilled with my interest in his sister. I hadn’t experienced feelings like this since I was sick. My brain worried Casey could be a trigger, but my body didn’t care one bit.

What were the chances, though, that our worlds would collide like this? It was like fate pushing me toward her.

Jesus, I needed to get a grip.

I let Mia finish our session and then I rested, thinking good thoughts, feeling my body heal, and basically acting like a new age pussy. I needed help.

***

“So do you want to go fishing or what?” Nate called a few hours later.

“Hasn’t Zack winterized your boat yet?” I asked. Nate didn’t live in Stillwater, but he loved the river and kept a boat out here as well. Zack took care of both of us.

“Hell, no,” Nate said. “We still have a few good weeks left and I’m not going to waste them.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Now’s not really a good time.”

“Oh shit, did I interrupt your chi or some shit this morning?”

“No, Mia just left, in fact.”

“Ah, right.” He chuckled. “So you must be all blissed out.”

“Not really,” I told him. “It didn’t help as much as I hoped.”

“Uh-oh, what’s going on?” he asked, all traces of humor gone from his voice now. I hated that I did that to him. As much as he loved to give me shit, he worried about me.

“Well,” I began, “I met someone.”

“What? When?”

“A few days ago.”

“And?” Nate was suspicious now. Ready for me to confess. As much as he wanted to be supportive, I knew he didn’t really trust that I was okay. He was always waiting for me to fall off the wagon.

“Nothing happened. But maybe I want something to.”

“What does the doc say?”

“I haven’t mentioned it yet.”

“Finn, I think maybe you should. Before you do something you regret.”

As usual, Nate was right.

OBJECTIVITY (n.):

An impartial role that a reporter
should

maintain when covering a story.

Casey

In the morning I took my bike out for a spin. A spin down to Finn’s house. Zack wasn’t helpful giving me much information and I exhausted all my resources at the station. It was time to make a move.

I let myself enjoy the ride for the first few minutes. I loved this part of Stillwater. The old English-styled homes nestled along the river, the rugged cliffs, and flowing water.

Up on the ridge, Finn had an enormous monster of a house. White with black shutters that stretched for nearly a block. Yet somehow he managed to make it look homey as well as grand.

Strange. His house wasn’t gated off, but it was tucked away. Maybe people around here just gave him the space he needed. My brother certainly did.

I looped around the cove, studying everything, trying to figure this guy out. I knew, deep in my gut, that there had to be some juicy reason he left hockey. My Lois Lane sensibilities told me I was onto something here.

Completely lost in thought, trying to catch a glimpse of Finn in the wall of windows as I slowly coasted along the street, I didn’t notice the dogs approach from the left. If you could even call them dogs. Two enormous, pony-sized Great Danes announced their presence with a thunderous bark. Followed by a terrifying growling noise, like two possessed demons.

I began to pedal faster, but in all the confusion, I gripped my brake at the same time. A mistake that launched me head first over my bike. I landed in a kneeling position, after doing a full 360 in the air, before falling forward on my stomach. The dogs crouched, ready to charge. I screamed, rolled into the fetal position, and covered my face.

My legs stung like a motherfucker and the dogs were snapping. Yet it didn’t sound like they had moved any closer to me.

I peeked out from behind my hands to find them perched on the edge of the property. They were bound by an electric fence, but I didn’t trust that they wouldn’t decide to break through it if something on the other side of it caught their fancy.

“Nice puppies,” I said. “Nice. Nice. Stay there.”

I picked up my bike and slowly slid on, ignoring the pain. When I took that first pedal, they growled again and the panic was back. I wiped out for a second time, tearing even more skin off my legs.

“Jesus,” a low voice rang out.

Shit, shit, shit.

It was Finn.

“Retreat,” he said to the beasts. They backed up.

He rushed over to me. “Are you okay?”

I nodded, keeping my gaze downward. I wasn’t ready for him to see the victim of the almost-mauling.

“Casey?”

“Hi,” I said.

“What are you doing out here?”

“On a little bike ride,” I told him.

“Man,” he said, wincing at my bloody legs. “You’re hurt.”

“Maybe a little.”

“Let’s get you cleaned up.” He wrapped an arm around my waist and mostly carried me inside.

The Daley house, though enormous, was stylish and inviting. It was decorated in cool tones of blues and grays — simple lines and rich fabrics. The walls were adorned in modern art. I recognized the colorful work of Paul Klee, Rothko, and Miró. It was tasteful, minimal, and strangely sophisticated for someone like Finn. There was definitely more to this guy than there appeared to be.

The kitchen was clean and bright, full of cool stainless steel appliances and sleek maple cabinets. It smelled like citrus and coffee. A red mug, bowl of half-eaten granola, and iPad were abandoned on the table. I had obviously interrupted his breakfast.

He hoisted me up to his counter and I felt light-headed.

“Wait here,” he said. “I need to get some supplies.”

It was a perfect time for me to snoop, but I didn’t want to drip blood all over the place, so I waited, studying each inch of his home within my line of sight.

“This is going to sting,” Finn said as he dumped out the contents of his first aid kit and opened the bottle of antiseptic. “Can you handle it?”

I didn’t want to admit it, but I was terrible with pain. And blood. I tried to divert my eyes because I knew if I caught a glimpse of my injury, I’d probably throw up. I could feel the saliva pooling in my mouth as it was.

“Maybe a shot of whiskey or something first?” I asked. “That should take care of it.”

“Sorry, Casey.” He smiled, lightly rubbing the inside of my calf. “This is a dry house.”

“Really?” I asked, shocked. Finn had quite the reputation for partying. He was always a tabloid favorite. During the hockey season, the weekend gossip programs usually included at least one of Finn’s shenanigans.

“That’s not what I’ve heard,” I said without realizing it.
Shit!
My reporter mind had lost its censor. I’d broken the cardinal rule:
Never let the subject know what you know.
It was crucial for uncovering these types of stories. I wasn’t supposed to know (or care) about Finn’s past. My objective here was to simply begin gaining his trust.

“Really?” he asked — his question laced with an undercurrent of heat. “Well, don’t believe everything you read.”

“Sorry.” I tried to recover. “I didn’t mean—”

Finn busied himself with the first aid kit. It was a move designed to create some distance, but I could feel his brain working.

I desperately needed to defuse this situation pronto, but his laughter interrupted me.

“Ah, I get it now.” He shook his head.

He stopped then, for a fraction too long.

That should’ve been my warning. My warning to run. Because what happened next, well, that could never be undone.