The Stand-In (22 page)

Grandpa Ernie, oblivious as ever to the moods of others, held out his arms for a hug. “There’s my other best gal. What did I do to deserve a visit from my two favorite ladies?”

Enid approached and planted a kiss on his bald head. “Hey, Gramps.” She turned to Winn, but her angry gaze still sought out Patrick like a harsh beacon. “Sis, I need to talk to you.”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“
Alone
.”

Patrick took the blatant hint. “Grandpa Ernie, was that a pool table I saw down the hall?”

“You betcha,” he replied, rising out of his chair with Enid’s help. “It’s a humdinger, too. And we have a bar right next to it. The female bartender is sweet on me. If I smile, she might throw a couple of beers our way.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Patrick leaned down and kissed Winn and then helped the old man to the door.

The moment they were out of earshot, she turned to Enid. “What’s with the Medusa glare? You almost turned Patrick to stone.”

“It’s more than he deserves.” She thrust the magazine at her. “Have you seen this?”

Winn took it and unfurled it.
Player
Magazine
. She rolled her eyes. “Of course, I’ve seen it. Who hasn’t?”

“I mean the most recent edition.” Her face softened and fell. “Read the copy on the cover, Winn.”

Confused, she scanned the teasers. This month’s
Player
featured a tribute to Megan Fox. Surprise, surprise. Oh, and an article on which motorcycles attract the most women.

And an insider’s look at the world of professional bridesmaids, penned by Patrick Lincoln.

A nugget of bile appeared in her throat but she swallowed it. “There must be a mistake. He said he killed the article.”

“Killed it, my ass.” Enid grabbed the magazine and flipped to a page somewhere in the middle. She handed it back. “He sold you down the river, Winn. Every last secret. All your dirty laundry, here in print for the world to see. Names. Events. Everything. And I’m gonna kill ’im.”

Winn stared at the periodical in her lap, scanning the two-page expose as she held her breath. Tears welled in her eyes, unbidden and unwelcome, and she swiped at them. She didn’t have the heart to read the exposé from beginning to end right now, but key phrases jumped out at her, as if highlighted on the page.

Winn Busby, failed actress and professional liar
.

Left at the altar by a man she refers to only as Shithead Mike
.

Frequent panic attacks
.

Willingness to do anything to make her brides happy. Does this mean she caters to the grooms as well?

Sounds as if Shithead Mike dodged a bullet
…

The magazine slipped out of her hands. The flap of glossy paper on the tiled floor somehow made her ears hurt, so she covered them with her hands. “Oh, my God…”

Patrick chose that moment to reappear. “Your grandfather’s flirting with the bartender, so I escaped for a minute.” He saw her hunched form and rushed over. “Winn, what happened?”

When he reached out to touch her hair, she slapped it away. “Don’t touch me. Don’t you dare touch me!”

At the sight of his wide eyes, her heart broke even more. “Winn…”

“You fucking asshole,” Enid threatened. “Don’t you ever come near my sister again or I’ll hand you your dick on a platter. Do you hear me?”

“I don’t understand.”

Winn retrieved the magazine and threw it at him, not caring they now had the attention of every senior citizen in the rec room. “I read your article. It’s a piece of shit, but hey, thanks for getting the spelling of my name right. It looks really good in black and white.”

“What?” He thumbed through the pages. “What fucking article?”

“As if you don’t know,” said Enid. “It has your name all over it and details that Winn shared with you in confidence. How could you?”

He gawked at the article, his hand covering his mouth as he read it. “Jake…I can’t believe it.”

Winn tried to stand but a streak of light-headedness rushed over her. Enid helped her up and kept an arm around her waist. “Take me home,” she whispered.

Patrick reached for her, every line on his gorgeous face sloping downward in stunned disappointment. “Winn, please. Just listen to me for a minute. Please.”

“I don’t ever want to see you again,” she sobbed. “Just leave me alone.”

As she turned, she saw his shoulders droop in her peripheral vision. The bastard called her a liar, but he sure knew how to put on an act as well.

And to think she almost told him she loved him.

Enid ushered her out of the room, out of the seniors’ residence, and into her waiting car. Her sister buckled her in, which was good because Winn’s hands didn’t seem to work anymore. They lay in her lap, limp, and as Enid pulled out of the parking lot, she stared out the windshield. Seeing nothing.

* * * *

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lincoln. You can’t go in,” said Nancy. “Mr. Fowler is in a teleconference.”

“I don’t care if he’s in a meeting with delegates from the fucking United Nations. I’m going in.”

He passed the receptionist and pushed his way into Jake’s office. His former friend, indeed on the phone, arched his brows in mild surprise and held up a hand. Patrick didn’t wait. He marched up to Jake’s desk, whipped the phone out of his hand, and slammed it onto the receiver.

“Hey!”

“You printed the fucking article, you piece of shit.”

Jake had the nerve to let out a bored laugh. He stood, walked around his desk, and leaned on it. Crossing his arms over his chest, he said, “Paddy, Paddy. All those years writing about crooked politicians and you were naive enough to believe I’d let go of a good story when I saw it?” He looked him up and down. “You promised me an article. When you didn’t give it to me, I had to improvise.”

“What happened to your journalistic integrity?”

“Says the man who slept with his subject.”

Patrick clenched his fists. “Which is one of the reasons I couldn’t write it.” He fell onto the chair in front of the desk and stared at him. “Jake, man. I came to you as a friend. I explained my dilemma. You used me…and my notes.”

He shrugged.

“Where are they, by the way? I want all my notes back.”

Jake walked to a cabinet, opened it, retrieved Patrick’s leather-bound notebook and tossed it at him. “Take them. I don’t need them anymore.”

“How could you do this? Winn is devastated.”

“She’ll get over it. Sounds as if she’s good at bouncing back.”

“You tarred and feathered her in that piece. Not only did you print the tragedies from her past, you printed lies about her. You made her look like a two-bit hooker.” He stood, clutching his notebook under his left arm. “I want a full retraction and a printed apology.”

“Not gonna happen, chum. Because of your byline, this month’s issue has sold more than any other.” He had the nerve to smile. “Congratulations. You’re a successful writer again. You can send me a fruit basket as thanks.”

Patrick had to close his gaping mouth. “What happened to you?”

“I told you before, Paddy. I’m the same man I always was.” His laugh, a disgruntled bark, surprised him with its bitterness. “You were the one on the high horse, buying your job at the
Torontonian
with daddy’s money.”

“That’s not true and you know it. My father doesn’t even support my career.”

“Yeah, well, you were still raised in a big, old house, full of shiny silver spoons. Some of us had to
fight
to get where we are. I built this magazine up from nothing, and if you think I’m going to retract an article for some has-been hack, you can think again.”

Patrick stood, motionless, unable to understand how he didn’t see this coming. Even in school, there had been a mercenary quality to Jake, a hard edge that he attributed to his painful, early life. But they’d been close, as close as any drinking buddies could be. And when their journalism professors had lectured them, Jake’s eyes had always gleamed with interest and eagerness.

Yes, and a stubborn ambition, too.

He never should have come to him. Jake had always shown an appreciation for sleazy journalism and liked to bend the truth. How many times had he witnessed the man lying to the women he picked up in bars?

And he’d delivered his sweet Winn right into his hands.
Shit
. He’d been so consumed by lust he’d forgotten about his notes, and now she hated him.

However, although he’d made errors, Jake had written the article. Jake had lied for the purposes of his bottom line, rather than respecting whatever friendship they used to have. And he’d never forgive him.

He marched up to the man he used to call friend, reared back, and punched him. He watched, unamused, as Jake sprawled across his fancy desk, scattering papers and pens.

“You’re right,” Patrick spat. “You haven’t changed one bit.” He turned and headed toward the office door. “Oh, and you’ll be hearing from my lawyer. Thanks to
Daddy’s money
, we have a vicious one on retainer.”

* * * *

The night before Shithead Mike’s wedding, Patrick knocked on Winn’s apartment door. Thank God someone had been moving furniture and he’d been able to sneak into the building. He doubted she’d have buzzed him in.

He listened at the door, hearing shuffling inside. “Winn? I know you’re there.” He knocked again. “Winn, please. I just wanna talk to you.”

A door opened but it wasn’t hers. Instead, Mrs. Bobek emerged from her unit, sauntered into the hall, wearing her flowery house dress, and glared at him.

“Oh, hi, Mrs. Bobek.”

She said nothing, just appraised him with her cool, blue eyes. Her lip curled, as if spying someone cut in front of her in the grocery line.

His head aching, feeling as if he hadn’t slept in eons, Patrick exploded. “You can glare at me all you want, lady, but you can’t make me feel any worse than I already feel. I’m an idiot. I know! We’ve established it in so many ways I can barely see for my own idiocy. So why don’t you head back into your unit to watch
Family Feud
or feed your twenty-seven cats? There’s nothing for you here.” He sucked in a breath and pounded on the door. “Winn! I’m not going anywhere until I see you.”

Mrs. Bobek slipped into her apartment, but emerged again, a cordless phone against her ear. She pushed a button on the phone and listened. After a moment, she spoke in her stilted English. “Winn Busby. There is very strange man outside your door. You want I should call police?”

Even from his distance, Patrick could hear Winn’s tinny, “No.” He breathed a sigh of relief.

Mrs. Bobek pushed the button on her phone to disconnect the call. She lowered her glasses and peered over the lenses at him. “I know city by-laws. You keep making noise, I call cops.” With that, she slipped back into her unit and shut the door.

He crept toward Winn’s door and rested his forehead on it. He heard more shuffling, this time right inside the door. She was right there, hurting, and within arm’s reach. It killed him he couldn’t comfort her and apologize face-to-face. “Winn,” he said quietly, but loud enough for her to hear. “I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t write the article. My boss at
Player
got a hold of my notes and made it all up based on a few observations I wrote during the our first days together. I would never have said those things about you.”

He heard a slight bump on the door and wondered if she rested her head there, as he did.

“Busby, you mean the world to me.” He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Dammit, woman, I just want to make sure you’re okay. I love you.”

He waited for a response, any response, but all was silent on the other side of the door. What did he expect? Declarations of undying love? After all, her name had been plastered all over a periodical that served as masturbation inspiration on the best of days.

He loved her, and he’d fucked it up.

Fine. He might not be able to have a relationship with her but he still couldn’t leave until he knew she was okay. “Winn, I’m not going anywhere until you talk to me.” He lowered himself to the hallway carpet and sat opposite her door, feeling a creak in all his limbs. He raised his voice so he could be heard. “I’m going to sit here, all night long if I have to. So if you don’t talk to me tonight, I’ll be the first person you see in the morning. Understand?”

No response.

“Good night, Winn,” he called. “I love you.”

Mrs. Bobek opened her door again and popped her head out.

“Good night, Mrs. Bobek. Sorry for the outburst.”

She sneered and went back inside, shutting and locking her door.

Patrick finally surrendered to the mental fatigue riding his body. He hadn’t slept the night before. Instead, he’d spent a couple of hours trying to get Winn on the phone. She hadn’t returned any of his messages. He’d spent the rest of the interminable evening planning just how hard he’d punch Jake.

His guilt crept up on him at regular intervals, poking at him, like those creepy clowns who touched riders in an amusement park haunted house. He’d hurt her. He would rather have died before hurting her.

Propping his arms up on his raised knees, he rested his forehead on his arms. He’d wait for her. Eventually, she’d open the door and see he never wanted to betray her. She had to forgive him. She just had to.

Patrick closed his eyes, but could still see the tears streaming down her cheeks. He’d made her cry and he’d never forgive himself.

He sat in that position all night long, until the blackness in his soul finally caused him to surrender to sleep.

Chapter 13

Together with their parents

Mike Robinson and Stacy Blair

Request the honor of your presence

at their marriage

on Saturday, the twenty-eighth of August

two thousand and fifteen

Holy Trinity Church

Toronto, Ontario

Reception to follow at the Sapphire Banquet Hall

On the morning of Stacy Blair’s wedding to Mike, Winn waited in the coffee shop across from the Holy Trinity Church. As soon as Margie had arranged for her to be the stand-in bridesmaid, Winn felt it best to reach out to Stacy to resolve any issues in their bizarre relationship. It wasn’t everyday one had coffee with the woman who ran away with one’s fiancé, but Winn was willing to give it a try.