“It’s offensive. There’s no way she’d even sign that shit.”
“Why wouldn’t she? She signed the previous one.”
I stare at him as those words sink in. “What do you mean she signed the previous one?”
“I mean she already signed an agreement. This is just an updated version.”
“You had her sign one of these? Seriously?”
“Of course I did,” he says. “I had it drawn up the moment I signed you.”
I don’t even know what to say.
He never mentioned it.
Hell, neither did she.
I give this man a lot of leeway when it comes to my affairs. He’s coordinated damn near every part of my life for quite a few years now. I don’t know everything he’s done on my behalf. Pretty sure I wouldn’t want to know some of it. So I won’t say I’m surprised he did that.
But I am surprised she didn’t tell me about it.
“You also need to establish paternity… not that there’s any doubt.” His eyes flicker to me. “There isn’t, is there?”
“No doubt at all.”
“Regardless, legally, you need to do it. And then you’ll need a custody arrangement drawn up with a visitation schedule.”
“Things are working out fine.”
“For now,” he says, “but you don’t want to find yourself in a position where you can’t see your daughter when Miss Garfield runs you out of her life again.”
When. Not if.
“That’s not gonna happen.”
“History tells a different story.”
“You know, I’m pretty sure you’re paid to manage my career, not judge my personal life.”
“It’s all the same with you, Johnny. Like it or not, your personal life affects your career.”
“I don’t like it.”
He stares at me, grabbing that stack of papers and shoving them back in his briefcase. “I have other clients to attend to today, ones I've been neglecting lately because of you. Do you need a ride to the inn?”
“I’m not staying there.”
“Where are you staying?”
“With her.”
“At the address on Elm?”
I hesitate. Elm. That’s where her father lives, the house she grew up in. “She doesn’t live there.”
“Are you sure? Because that’s where the checks are still being sent every month.”
“Positive,” I say. “You don’t know about her apartment?”
“How would I? You don’t tell me anything.”
He sounds genuinely frustrated by that.
“How’d Serena know? She showed up at the apartment.”
“Who knows how anybody knows anything?" he grumbles, shoving his chair back to stand. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride wherever it is you’re going. I still think you're better off leaving town, at least until this blows over, but you're the one who has to live with it, so… you do you, Johnny, and I'll do what I can to work around it.”
I stand in front of the apartment door, torn between knocking and walking right in. It’s not my apartment, but I feel at home here. I go back and forth for a moment before reaching for the knob, my stomach sinking when it won’t turn.
Well, that solves my problem.
Locked.
Hesitantly, I tap on the thick wood.
Footsteps approach, pausing there for a long moment before the locks jingle and the door flies open. BAM. Kennedy’s on me, knocking into me with so much force I nearly fall backward. She hugs me, whispering, “You’re back.”
I laugh. “It’s been like six hours.”
“Felt like another six years,” she says, dragging me inside so she can lock the door. "I keep forgetting to give you a key.”
“A key.”
“Yeah, so you don’t have to knock next time,” she says. “Unless you don’t want it. I just figured…”
“Please,” I say. “I’d like that.”
She smiles softly, walking into the kitchen and digging a key out of a drawer. She holds it out to me, the key in her palm, but I grab her entire hand and pull her to me.
“Thank you,” I say. “For still letting me stay, despite… you know.”
“Despite you beating up a reporter?” She kisses me, a soft peck. “Despite you getting arrested?” Another kiss. “Despite your tabloid-wife showing up and blowing our chance at privacy?”
One more kiss, and I laugh against her lips. “Pretty much.”
I slide the key from her palm, pocketing it. The moment I do, I hear Madison in her bedroom talking to someone.
“Oh, by the way,” Kennedy says, “your sister is visiting.”
I stall there, in the living room.
That’s the last thing I need.
“She heard about the video,” Kennedy explains, “so she came to see you.”
“And what, yell at me about growing up? Lecture me on responsibility?”
A throat clears nearby, and I know it’s her before she speaks. “More like I came to high-five you, but you know, that, too. You should do all that.”
“Grow up and be responsible?”
“Ding, ding, ding.”
I shake my head. “I’m trying.”
She looks like she wants to say something, but she bites her tongue when Madison bursts in. Madison gasps and runs over, slamming into me like her mother did, hugging my waist. “Daddy, you’re here!”
“I am,” I say, ruffling her hair. “Geez, I haven’t had people this excited to see me since my last red carpet.”
“Can I go to the red carpets?” Madison asks.
“Someday,” I tell her. “If your mother says it’s okay.”
“Mommy? Can I?”
“We’ll see,” Kennedy says.
Madison looks up at me, grinning. “She said okay!”
I smile. “Pretty sure that’s not what she said, but nice try.”
Madison is off again to play, and I sit down on the couch, running a hand through my hair.
“I’ll give you two some time to talk,” Kennedy says before disappearing to her bedroom, leaving me alone with my sister.
“Oh, goody,” I say. “Because jail wasn’t enough fun, I get some quality family time on top of it.”
Meghan laughs, kicking my shin to get me to move as she squeezes past to sit on the couch.
“Speaking of family,” she says, pulling out her phone.
I lower my head with a sigh. “Can we not?”
“Dad’s who told me about the situation,” she says. “He sent me a message this morning.”
“Awesome.”
She clears her throat, her voice dropping mockingly low as she imitates our father’s voice, reading his message. “My dearest Meghan, it has been brought to my attention that your brother was involved in yet another altercation with the media. As a staunch supporter of free press, a defender of the first amendment, someone will likely be contacting me for a comment. I felt it was only fair to warn you beforehand. Grant B. Cunningham.”
“Pretty sure James Madison wasn’t all about protecting someone’s right to verbally attack a child.”
“James Madison didn’t even really believe in the First Amendment,” Meghan says. “For him, it was all about holding politicians accountable.”
“There you go,” I say. “Send him a message back and say James Madison would tell him to shove his opinion up his ass.”
“Yeah, sadly, too late for that.” Meghan waves her phone toward me, showing me an article before she reads part of it. “Former Speaker of the House Grant Cunningham issued a statement saying he’s deeply troubled by his son’s behavior. Free press is essential to a free society, the statement reads. Violence against members of the media should not be condoned. While John has a history of outbursts, it is my hope that this situation will serve as a wake-up call for him.”
“That’s rich, coming from him. He probably doesn’t even give a shit how any of this affects my kid.”