job.
Yeah, he’d taken Joann out. Assuming that she learned her lesson and wouldn’t try to be a bitch around him or Paige again, he’d made nice and given her a media circus worthy of the woman’s legendary status. The press had gone wild when they showed up at The Ivy—something she’d endlessly milked.
So, what the fuck was she up to now?
He could have shrugged as if it was no big deal, but he knew when he was being set up and simply waited him out.
“According to my sources, one of the TV outlets will be running a story that quotes your co-star.”
A stone wall couldn’t have been more immoveable—only instead of guarding against an awkward interview moment caught on film, Edward steeled himself from leaping up and rushing the little prick. He wouldn’t even have to get close enough to smack him before the dude shit himself.
“She inferred to a colleague of mine …”
He snorted derisively at the word. A colleague, my ass. The gotcha-paps would gleefully sell each other out for a buck.
“… that she was crossing do it with a tattooed guy off her bucket list.”
Edward began counting back from a hundred. Anything to control the surge of rage sparked by the mention of the damnable sex video.
It wasn’t him, goddammit, and he could fucking prove it.
Only, to do that, he’d have to reveal his birthday suit with the distinctive ink to the entire world. And that would never happen.
Fuck.
In the video that he’d studied along with his lawyer, it did appear the guy had a tattoo similar to Gideon’s. That alone was the extent of the evidence everyone was basing his participation in the tawdry tape on.
But the wartime tattoo covered his hip and part of a thigh with ink extending to his groin that for lack of a better way of putting it framed one side of his junk. He’d been drunk as shit and on leave with a couple of buddies when they’d stumbled into a tattoo parlor and tried to outdo each other on who could be the most daring.
Shit. He’d gotten damn close with that tribal bullshit, some of it now obscured by the hair surrounding his cock. In the end, he’d gone as far as some ink near his balls and then tapped out.
And that, my friends, was why he knew it wasn’t him in the damn video. That guy’s privates were pornstar shaved, and though some ink was visible, probably Photoshopped in, there certainly wasn’t any ball action going on.
He had no idea who the fuck was out there impersonating him, only sure that it wasn’t Marsh. And it wasn’t Tony Murtaugh because that crazy as fuck dude had inked his entire shaft while Edward and the rest of the guys on hand cracked jokes and covered their junk in horror. Sadly, the memory was burned in his mind along with the knowledge that he could pick out Tony’s dick ink in a faceless lineup. So of all the males on the planet around his age, those were the only two he was sure it wasn’t.
Gideon Shaw…meet a brick wall . Defending, denying, or threatening a lawsuit was only going to extend the life of the salacious gossip and put untold millions in the coffers of Fierce.
He needed Paige. Why did today have to be her day off?
Ah, fuck it. He was done with this shit.
Tearing off the microphone threaded through his shirt, he stood and glared down at the worthless excuse for a celebrity journalist.
“Interview over,” he growled with his back to the camera.
And it was.
Her fingers tapping absently on the steering wheel, Paige gritted her teeth with mounting frustration as the clusterfuck people called driving in L.A. made her slowly mental. In fifteen minutes, she’d managed to go three miles. At this rate, she’d get onto PCH sometime next week.
Living in Los Angeles and going to the beach shouldn’t require an itinerary. It was quite literally ridiculous. That it took ninety minutes on a good day to travel the twenty miles between WeHo and Malibu was insane.
Hoping a drive along the Pacific Coast Highway would be just what she
Yeah, he’d taken Joann out. Assuming that she learned her lesson and wouldn’t try to be a bitch around him or Paige again, he’d made nice and given her a media circus worthy of the woman’s legendary status. The press had gone wild when they showed up at The Ivy—something she’d endlessly milked.
So, what the fuck was she up to now?
He could have shrugged as if it was no big deal, but he knew when he was being set up and simply waited him out.
“According to my sources, one of the TV outlets will be running a story that quotes your co-star.”
A stone wall couldn’t have been more immoveable—only instead of guarding against an awkward interview moment caught on film, Edward steeled himself from leaping up and rushing the little prick. He wouldn’t even have to get close enough to smack him before the dude shit himself.
“She inferred to a colleague of mine …”
He snorted derisively at the word. A colleague, my ass. The gotcha-paps would gleefully sell each other out for a buck.
“… that she was crossing do it with a tattooed guy off her bucket list.”
Edward began counting back from a hundred. Anything to control the surge of rage sparked by the mention of the damnable sex video.
It wasn’t him, goddammit, and he could fucking prove it.
Only, to do that, he’d have to reveal his birthday suit with the distinctive ink to the entire world. And that would never happen.
Fuck.
In the video that he’d studied along with his lawyer, it did appear the guy had a tattoo similar to Gideon’s. That alone was the extent of the evidence everyone was basing his participation in the tawdry tape on.
But the wartime tattoo covered his hip and part of a thigh with ink extending to his groin that for lack of a better way of putting it framed one side of his junk. He’d been drunk as shit and on leave with a couple of buddies when they’d stumbled into a tattoo parlor and tried to outdo each other on who could be the most daring.
Shit. He’d gotten damn close with that tribal bullshit, some of it now obscured by the hair surrounding his cock. In the end, he’d gone as far as some ink near his balls and then tapped out.
And that, my friends, was why he knew it wasn’t him in the damn video. That guy’s privates were pornstar shaved, and though some ink was visible, probably Photoshopped in, there certainly wasn’t any ball action going on.
He had no idea who the fuck was out there impersonating him, only sure that it wasn’t Marsh. And it wasn’t Tony Murtaugh because that crazy as fuck dude had inked his entire shaft while Edward and the rest of the guys on hand cracked jokes and covered their junk in horror. Sadly, the memory was burned in his mind along with the knowledge that he could pick out Tony’s dick ink in a faceless lineup. So of all the males on the planet around his age, those were the only two he was sure it wasn’t.
Gideon Shaw…meet a brick wall . Defending, denying, or threatening a lawsuit was only going to extend the life of the salacious gossip and put untold millions in the coffers of Fierce.
He needed Paige. Why did today have to be her day off?
Ah, fuck it. He was done with this shit.
Tearing off the microphone threaded through his shirt, he stood and glared down at the worthless excuse for a celebrity journalist.
“Interview over,” he growled with his back to the camera.
And it was.
Her fingers tapping absently on the steering wheel, Paige gritted her teeth with mounting frustration as the clusterfuck people called driving in L.A. made her slowly mental. In fifteen minutes, she’d managed to go three miles. At this rate, she’d get onto PCH sometime next week.
Living in Los Angeles and going to the beach shouldn’t require an itinerary. It was quite literally ridiculous. That it took ninety minutes on a good day to travel the twenty miles between WeHo and Malibu was insane.
Hoping a drive along the Pacific Coast Highway would be just what she
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