Lewis Carroll, The Letters of Lewis Carroll
Sebastian:
I’m fast asleep when Daniel calls, and it takes several rings of the phone to pull me out of my slumber. When I see who it is, I pick it up, but my eyes stay closed. It was a late night at Seb New York, and I want to catch up on sleep. “Dude,” I protest into the receiver, my voice thick with fatigue. “It’s far too early for a phone call.”
“There’s a photo of you, Bailey and me on the front page of the Post.”
Okay. That wakes me up. I drag myself up to a seated position and wipe the back of my hand over my eyes. “Tell me more.”
“We’re shirtless, she’s in her bra and panties, and the photo was taken in my game room.”
I’m wide awake now. This is bad. This is very bad. Every time I see Bailey’s round ass bent over the pool table, my dick hardens. The three of us have had sex a countless number of times in that room.
“Stone Bradley’s on his way over.”
I know Stone. Daniel’s used him before. He’s smart and discreet, and he gets results. “I’m coming over as well.”
“Be careful,” he advises. “The front of my building is swarming with reporters.”
“I’ll figure out a way.” Daniel’s building has a back entrance. If that doesn’t work, then I’ll just brave them. I pause, not sure if the next question is going to be a sore point. “How’s Bailey taking this?”
Daniel groans. “I can’t reach her. Her phone’s going straight to voicemail. I’m stuck here. I can’t go find her and talk to her, and before you suggest it, neither can you. The paparazzi are going to be wondering who Bailey is. We can’t lead them to her.”
Damn it, he’s right. I definitely don’t want Bailey associated with this mess. In my business, any publicity is good publicity, but Bailey’s in academia and it’s not the same in her world.
“I’m going to keep trying her,” he continues. “I don’t know what else to do.”
I can hear the hopelessness in his voice. “I’ll see you in thirty minutes,” I tell him. “And we can tackle this shit together.”
37
Go wisely and slowly. Those who rush stumble and fall.
William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet
Bailey:
Had I stopped to think about it, I would have realized that there had been warning signs. Dr. Landrieu was late with his work. A couple of weeks ago, he’d presented a synopsis that had been light on facts, and when I’d asked him for his list of sources, he’d been evasive.
I didn’t question it because he’s famous and tenured and I’m just a lowly assistant professor.
I’ve been busy hanging out with Daniel and Sebastian, being distracted by amazing sex, gourmet meals and my steadily improving pool game. For the first time in my life, I’ve placed my personal life ahead of work.
Monday morning, when I get to my office, I realize my distraction has come with a price tag. There’s a message from the Smithsonian Press in my inbox. I open it, absently thinking that their paper review process has become quite fast, only to be greeted with a shock.
I’m being accused of plagiarism.
My heart hammers in my chest as I scan the contents of the email. The peer review process raised some red flags. Further inquiry found entire sections of our paper without merit, with no underlying facts to back up our assertions. And most damningly, the subject of our research is too similar to some pioneering work that the University of Buenos Aires has been doing. A professor there is alleging that his work has been stolen.
Of course, the paper has been rejected, but that’s the least of my troubles. Right now, my department chair is probably receiving an email questioning the ethics of his department. Tomorrow, the president of NYU will get a memo, and as soon as he gets it, I will be fired. Even though my work is rock-solid, and even though Landrieu committed the crime.
I bury my head in my hands and give in to complete, total despair. I don’t hear the knock at first, then it’s repeated again.
I lift my head up to see Sameer at my door, his face radiating concern. “Bailey, is everything okay?”