Breaking the Story: Scottie's Adventures, #2

By Ashley Farley

Passion, peril, and a scandal that will rock American politics.

 

Scottie Darden's life is a disaster. Her marriage has become toxic, and her career as a photojournalist has stalled out. She needs a standout story with a unique perspective in order to attract the attention of the main players in the news industry. What she finds is a scandal that could turn the upcoming presidential election upside down. But before she can release her damaging images to the media, Scottie must uncover the truth behind the photographs. She turns to handsome mystery man Guy Jordan for help. When they join the campaign trail in search of answers, their investigation quickly becomes deadly.

 

Hop on board for a wild ride of adventure where desire ignites, lives are threatened, and secrets are revealed.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ashley Farley
• Release date: Mar 17, 2016
• ISBN: 9780986167249

Ashley Farley

Ashley Farley is the bestselling author of the Sweeney Sisters series as well as the stand-alone novels Sweet Tea Tuesdays, Magnolia Nights, Beyond the Garden, and other books about women for women. Her characters are mothers, daughters, sisters, and wives facing real-life situations, and her goal is to keep readers turning pages with stories that resonate long after the last word. In addition to writing, she is an amateur photographer, an exercise junkie, and a wife and mother. While she has lived in Richmond, Virginia, for more than two decades, part of her heart remains in the salty marshes of the South Carolina Lowcountry where she grew up. Through the eyes of her characters, she captures the moss-draped trees, delectable cuisine, and kindhearted folks with lazy drawls that make the area so unique. For more information on the author and her work, visit www.ashleyfarley.com.

Book preview

One

Severe thunderstorms had threatened much of the East Coast for most of the afternoon. Flights were delayed at all the major airports, many of them canceled until the following morning. After a turbulent flight and rough landing, Scottie was anxious to disembark the cramped airplane and head home to a hot bath and a big glass of red wine. For the past three days, she'd been covering the Republican National Convention in Cleveland. The master of ceremonies' voice still reverberated in her head, and her vision's spectrum was now limited to three colors—red, white, and blue. She was not enthusiastic about having to repeat the process for the Democratic convention in less than a week.

Scottie flung her camera bag over her shoulder and wheeled her carry-on suitcase through the crowded terminal, down the escalator, and out into the sultry afternoon. Steam rose off the pavement from the recent rain, and the earth smelled like stewed garbage. A couple streaks of lightning lit up the dark sky, followed by rumbling thunder. As she darted across the road to the parking deck, she noticed a bank of clouds rolling in from the west, the promise for a stormy evening ahead. She located her car in the same aisle on the same level where she always parked. She popped her hatch and was stowing her luggage in the back when she noticed her rear passenger tire was flat.

Damn it! Her voiced bounced off the concrete floor and ceiling of the parking deck. When the image of her AAA bill lying unopened and past due on her desk came to mind, she slumped back against the car. This is great, just great. A perfect ending to a miserable trip.

Removing her cell phone from the pocket of her raincoat, she punched in her husband's number. She wasn't surprised when the call went straight to voice mail. She'd been trying to reach him all afternoon, but he hadn't responded to any of her voice or text messages.

She was too distracted with her phone to notice a man approaching until he was right in front of her. That's rotten luck. Can I help you? he asked, the concern in his voice sounding sincere.

Scottie recognized him from her earlier flights—both the one from Cleveland to Chicago then into Richmond. He was tall, over six feet, with a sandy crew cut and gray eyes. He appeared harmless enough in his conservative suit and capped-toe shoes. Even so, Scottie wasn't in the habit of talking to strangers.

No, but thanks. My husband will be out in a minute. He's collecting our luggage from the baggage claim. Avoiding his gaze, she gestured toward the terminal.

He rubbed his chin, seemingly perplexed. That's funny. I noticed you on the plane. I got the impression you were traveling alone.

So he'd noticed her just as she'd noticed him.

Careful Scottie, she told herself. Remember you're a married woman.

He continued to rub his chin. Unless, of course, the three-hundred-pound black man who was sitting next to you is your husband.

She threw up her hands. Okay, you busted me. Nothing wrong with a girl trying to protect herself from the advances of strange men.

As you should, but I promise you don't need protection from me. I'm as harmless as they come. He held his hand out to her. I'm Guy Jordan.

"Guy? You're name is really Guy, as in that guy."

"That's me—the guy everybody loves to hate."

Ha-ha. She squeezed and released his hand. I'm Scottie Darden. It's nice to meet you.

His gaze traveled back to the flat tire. "Now that we've been officially introduced, are you comfortable with me changing your tire, or do you want to wait for your husband to come?" he asked with a hint of sarcasm in his voice and a little smirk playing along his lips.

Trust me, I have a husband. He's just not answering his phone right now. She waved her phone at him before shoving it into her back pocket. Turning her back on Guy, she began to remove her bags from the back of the car. How hard can changing a tire be anyway? she asked, lifting the hatch on the compartment that concealed her spare.

Not hard at all when you drive a Matchbox. His genuine smile brightened his face. Why don't I hold the car up while you change the tire? We won't even need to use the jack.

She held up a black metal diamond-shaped tool. Is that what this is?

On second thought, you'd better let me handle this. He took the jack from her and set it on the ground beside the flat tire. Slipping out of his suit jacket, he rolled up the sleeves on his starched white button-down shirt. Now, if you'll hand me the owner's manual from the glove compartment . . .

She reached for the door handle, and then stopped herself when she realized he was teasing her. Are you always this fresh with married women you encounter in parking decks?

Only the pretty ones.

She furrowed her brow. There you go again.

I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I totally respect the fact that you're married. No more teasing, I promise. He set the jack under the frame near the flat tire and pumped up the car. How much did you pay for this go-kart anyway, a buck ninety-nine?

She ran her hand over the roof of her Mini Cooper. I'll have you know, I just traded my 4Runner for this fuel-conserving, high-performance machine.

Why would you do that with gas prices at an all-time low? he asked, as he loosened the lug nuts.

We have the ozone layer to consider, you know. I'm guessing you drive a Suburban.

I live in DC. I don't own a car.

Washington, huh? So he'd been in Cleveland attending the convention just as she'd suspected. His muscular body filled out his suit better than any politician she'd ever met. Did the airline reroute you to Richmond because of the weather?

Yep. The storms are more severe the farther north you go. Washington, Baltimore, Philadelphia, they're all getting hit hard. I'll probably spend the night in Richmond, and drive back in the morning. Any chance I can shack up with you? His expression was serious, but his gray eyes lightened with mischief.

Scottie burst out into laughter. You're incorrigible. You know that?

That's what they tell me, he said with a wink.

They bantered back and forth while they worked. Scottie helped by handing him tools and holding the lug nuts. Within minutes, he'd swapped out the tires and secured the flat in the rear compartment.

You can't go far on this spare. Fifty miles max. Removing a plaid linen handkerchief from his pocket, he mopped the sweat from his brow and then wiped the grease from his hands.

I'll deal with it in the morning. She slammed the hatch shut and turned to him. All kidding aside, I don't know how I can possibly thank you.

I'm guessing your husband wouldn't approve of me buying you a drink.

"Brad would be grateful to you for helping me out of a bind. I'm the one who should buy you a drink, anyway. A loud rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. But we should both get where we're going before the weather worsens."

Okay, then. I hope our paths meet again someday.

Seriously, Guy, thank you for coming to my rescue.

He bowed slightly at the waist. The pleasure was all mine, m'lady. And with that, he slung his coat over his shoulder and wheeled his suitcase off toward the rental car lot.

Two

Rush hour traffic crawled through downtown Richmond, taking Scottie more than an hour to make what was usually a twenty-minute trip. By the time she pulled into the empty space behind her husband's silver Tahoe, in front of their row house on West Avenue in the Fan district, the rain was coming down in sheets. Pulling the hood of her raincoat over her head, she grabbed her bags from the back and made a dash for the door.

The lights were turned low in the living room, and candles flickered a soft glow from the mantle above the fireplace. Through the Sonos speakers stationed throughout the house, Al Green's deep sexy voice filled the rooms with songs from her romantic playlist, the one she reserved for lovemaking with Brad. If she'd been married to any other man, she would have assumed the candles and music were a romantic welcome home greeting. But Brad was not one for frivolous expressions of love, such as bringing her flowers or taking her out for dinner on their anniversary. The only candle she'd ever known him to use was the one in the bathroom he lit when he did his business.

She heard people talking upstairs—her husband's husky voice and the unmistakable sound of a woman giggling.

No wonder the bastard didn't answer his phone.

Fury burned in her chest and adrenaline pumped through her body.

How dare he light candles for another woman in my home.

Removing her camera from her camera bag, she adjusted the settings for indoor lighting and tiptoed up the stairs. Hugging the wall, she made her way past the nursery and down the hall to the master bedroom. She peeked around the doorjamb, and was stunned at the sight of a brunette beauty with bountiful breasts perched on top of her husband in their queen-size bed, the antique mahogany rice bed she'd slept in as a child, the one her parents gave them as a house-warming gift when they bought the house.

Bitch! Bastard!

Positioning her finger on the shutter, Scottie stepped inside the room and aimed the camera at them. Say cheese! She pressed the shutter and held it down. The camera snapped a continuous stream of photographs, capturing her husband's shocked expression and the woman's lips as they curled into a smug smile.

Shoving the woman aside, Brad made a move to get out of bed, but his feet got tangled in the sheets, and he fell to the floor. I'm sorry, honey. I can explain, he said as he struggled to free his feet.

No explanation needed. Scottie motioned at the brunette, who hadn't bothered to cover herself up. The fact that you have a slut in my bed says it all. She snapped another photograph of her husband lying on the floor, helpless and hopeless. A parting shot to remember you by. Definitely not your finest hour.

Scottie flew from the room and down the stairs. She grabbed her bags from the entry hall and hurried out to her car. She pounded the steering wheel. That bastard! she screamed. How dare he cheat on me. When she noticed Brad standing in the doorway, she started her car and zoomed off down the road. Tears blinded her vision as she sped through the neighborhood backstreets toward the interstate.

She was halfway to her parents' farm in Goochland when she realized that running home to Mommy and Daddy was not the most grown-up way to respond to the crisis. She knew she could count on her parents' support. They hadn't liked Brad from the beginning, never seen the drive and determination that had initially attracted their daughter to the premed student from California. Barbara and Stuart Westport were not the type to say I told you so. They would wipe her tears with one hand while dialing the divorce attorney's office with the other. Her parents would be understanding, all right. Problem was, she wasn't ready to own up to her failure.

She whipped the Mini off the interstate and circled around to Broad Street, heading back toward downtown.

Scottie and Brad had gotten married a year after graduating from the University of Virginia. He'd taken a part-time job as a bartender to allow for more time to study for the MCAT. But that part-time soon became full-time with all thoughts of medical school forgotten. In the months since Christmas, Brad's take-home pay had dwindled to near nothing. When she questioned him, he claimed that business was slow, that the new hotspot around the corner on Shockhoe Slip had stolen their regular customers. She suspected her husband might be using drugs, but she had no way of proving it. While it hurt like hell to see him in bed with another woman, in many ways, Scottie felt relieved. Their relationship had been on a downward spiral for some time. Years even. She was tired of his empty promises. Tired of making excuses to her family and friends for his frequent absences at parties and family events. Tired of coming home after a long trip to find their house littered with beer bottles and dirty ashtrays.

Her cell phone lit up on the seat beside her, and Brad's name appeared across the screen. She reached for the phone and powered it off. The next time she communicated with him would be through an attorney.

Scottie contemplated her options for a place to spend the night. Already approaching the fifty-mile mark, she couldn't drive much farther on her spare tire. Her best friend, Anna, had been avoiding her since Christmas, since Scottie had inadvertently placed Anna's husband in danger of losing his medical license. The rest of her friends would undoubtedly be spending quiet weekends at home, nursing their babies and making love to their husbands. She could drive to Church Hill to her brother's house, where she knew she'd find a sympathetic shoulder to cry on. But Will would want all the details, and she wasn't ready to give voice to her drama. Tonight, she needed time alone to think. Tonight, she needed to drink tequila.

She took a right-hand turn onto the Boulevard, drove one block, and then turned left onto Franklin Street. She parked under the portico in front of the Jefferson Hotel, handed her key to the valet, and went inside to the front desk. After booking the cheapest room available, she wheeled her suitcase around the corner and rode the elevator to the third floor. The consolation prize to having the smallest room in the most luxurious hotel in the city was the stunning view overlooking downtown Richmond.

Scottie raked her hands through her tangled blonde curls and smeared clear gloss across her lips before making her way back down to the lobby. She found an empty seat at the bar and ordered a tequila martini from the muscled bartender. She took a long sip, savoring the burn and the warm afterglow.

She had every intention of drinking herself blind, then stumbling up to her room and hiding under the heavy comforter until check-out time at noon the next day, but she quickly tired of fending off advances from drunken men. Halfway through her second drink, she was ready to throw in the towel and go across the lobby to TJ's for a burger. And then that guy walked into the bar. Their eyes met and registered recognition.

This time when her heart did a little pitter-patter at the sight of his handsome face and strong body, she embraced it.

Three

Guy navigated his way through the crowd to where Scottie was seated. Well now, isn't this a coincidence? he said.

She looked up from her martini. Unless, of course, you're stalking me.

Ouch. Hostile. He took a step back. What happened to you in the hours since we last met?

She jabbed at the olive with the pick in her martini. Trust me, you don't want to know.

Oh, but I do, he said, placing his hand over his heart. The way I remember it, you owe me a drink for changing your tire. You even said you should buy it.

All right, fine. When the woman next to her got up and left, Scottie extended an empty hand to the bar stool. You might as well sit down. I'll buy you a drink. Then we'll be even.

Guy slid onto the bar stool and signaled the bartender. I'll have a Dewars on the rocks. And bring the lady another of whatever she's having. He glanced down at her glass. "What are you having?"

Tequila martinis. My third.

Whoa. What's with the serious mood? You might as well tell me. I'll keep guessing until you do.

She drained the last of her drink and set the glass down on the bar. Trust me, you don't want to hear this drama.

Why don't you let me make that decision?

She hesitated, unsure of whether she should confide her personal business to a man she barely knew. Why not? she finally decided. Maybe it would be easier to divulge her secret to a stranger.

If you insist, but I warn you, it's not a pretty story. You're the first person I've told, so this isn't going to be easy. But here goes. Scottie placed her hands down on the bar to brace herself. When I got home from the airport, I found my husband in bed with another woman. There. I said it out loud. She slumped back in her chair. Which now makes it real.

His face filled with compassion. That's the last thing I expected you to say. I'm so sorry, Scottie. Why are you sitting alone in a hotel bar? You should be with your family or friends.

Because I needed some time to decompress. And I'm not alone anymore, anyway, now that you're here.

The bartender delivered their drinks and took away Scottie's empty glass. Maybe talking it through with a stranger will help, Guy said.

You helped me out of a bind this afternoon. I'd say that makes us more than strangers.

You could've changed the tire yourself and you know it. He took a sip of his drink. I can't imagine how hard it was for you to find your husband with another woman. Forgive me for prying, but did you suspect he was being unfaithful before now?

Not at all. Brad has plenty of flaws, but I never considered him the type who would cheat on his wife. She stirred her martini, lost in thought. The truth is, I'm relieved. Our marriage hasn't worked for a long time.

You're so young, Guy said. Surely you haven't been married that long.

I'm older than I look.

He raised an eyebrow. I'd be willing to bet another round of drinks you haven't reached thirty yet.

Signal the bartender, my friend, because I'm thirty and a half. Brad and I got married a year after we graduated from college.

His eyes widened. I don't know anyone who gets married so young these days. Why not try living together first?

Because we were young and in love, Scottie said, biting back tears. And if you're trying to make me feel better about the situation, it's not working. I'm well aware of my mistake. Scottie thought back to the early years of her marriage, when her husband's true colors were starting to show. No doubt living together would've been the better option.

He squeezed her shoulder. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. The truth is, knowing people still commit to one another at such a young age restores my faith in the sanctity of marriage. Most unmarried couples I know either fight all the time or cheat on one another every chance they get. And I'm talking about people who are older than thirty.

Must be something about the thirty-year age mark that makes people cheat.

Guy palmed his forehead. I'm striking out here big time. That was insensitive of me, and I apologize.

The remorseful expression on his face didn't escape Scottie's notice. "It's okay, Guy. I know exactly what you mean. Our hookup culture has destroyed our generation's idea of marriage. Why make a commitment to someone when you can have friends with benefits? Call me old-fashioned, but I want