Only the devil, p.14
Only the Devil, page 14
“Well, here you go.” He sets the saran-wrapped loaf on the corner of the desk.
“Oh. Well, thanks. I’ll eat it later.”
I set the package in my backpack. Daisy might like it. Could be dessert for tonight, after we… ah… A flashback hits of us leaving the office yesterday and I shift, discreetly adjusting my pants.
“Are you married? Dating anyone?”
It’s an odd question right out of the box, but I answer with a cordial, “Yeah. Girlfriend.” That’s the story, and after last night, it’s a step closer to the truth I suppose.
“Just asking ’cause my girlfriend’s bestie would’ve loved it if you were single. Would’ve been great too as she’s always around.”
He wheels a chair out from under the long table against the wall and sits, knees spread wide, assuming an extremely relaxed posture with his arms resting on the armrests.
“Well, I’m not married, but I’m taken.”
“Does your girlfriend cook?”
Another strange get to know you question.
“We tend to order in,” I answer, realizing that when it comes to cooking, I’ll probably be the one hitting that anvil. “What’d you do before?”
What’s your experience? That’s the real question. And are they gonna order you a monkey suit too?
“Security.” His gaze travels beyond my head. “Off and on. Temp work for a while.” He slaps a palm down on his thigh. “What’ve we got here? Jillian said we need to come up with a recommendation for the department.” His fingers tap against the armrest. “Some department, huh?”
“It’s true.” I lean over the computer and bring up the document I started with an outline of recommended security cameras. “Yesterday was my first day, but these are locations I’ve identified that would benefit from a bird’s-eye view. Figure we can mount monitors on the wall here and…”
I swing the monitor around and he leans forward, eyes narrowing on the screen. “Looks good to me. You’re the expert. I’ll go along with your recommendation.” His gaze drifts to the black and white wall clock. “Suppose one of us should go out to greet people, huh?”
“I’m not sure greet’s the right word,” I say.
“Yeah, you know what I mean. We can work on the recommendation for the security department later this morning, when it’s quiet.”
“Sounds good to me,” I say.
“How many on staff do you think we should recommend?”
“Weaver told me they budgeted three. I don’t see an issue with that.”
“Yeah. I honestly feel like the two of us is overkill.” Russell’s face morphs, lips scrunched, eyes bulging, as if to say, you-have-to-agree-with-me-dude.
I agree with him but focus on what I think is actually his real point. “We’re in for some slow days. But as boring as it might be, we’ve got to keep alert.”
“You really think some crazed loon is going to show up with an AK-47?”
That’s a specific weapon choice. “I’d say the risk here is about the same as at any other financial services firm.” Unless they’re doing some really shady shit like Daisy’s convinced is true. “Did you have anything in the stock market back in ‘08?”
He rolls his lips together and shakes his head in the negative.
“Me neither. I was too young. But I served with some guys who took a serious hit. Guys who’d been carefully socking it away. It’s not a stretch to see how someone might go ballistic; seek revenge on someone. Thing is, there’s a risk to any investment. We’re talking about looking out for the irrational.”
“You think we should wear vests?”
I squint an eye at him, thinking he has to be joking.
“My girlfriend suggested it.”
“Where’d you work security before this?” I ask with a smile to emphasize I’m jesting.
He gives me an exaggerated evil eye and I chuckle.
I’m staying positive and laughing it off, but the fact they hired someone else right after me? That tells me everything I need to know about how serious they are about this security department. Good thing this is a fake gig, because if this were my day-in, day-out future, my morale would be taking a nosedive right about now.
He digs out a stack of papers from his messenger bag. “I’m supposed to go through these.” I glance at the papers and see the Sterling Financial logo at the top.
“I’ll head out front, stand by reception. Why don’t you finish your paperwork, and when we’re done, we can take a loop together. I’ll show you around. We can discuss the best approach for us to divide and conquer. Sound good?”
“Works for me,” Thompson says.
I stand behind reception, tracking faces, wardrobes, conversations, and passing cars. I catalog each face—a nervous accountant tugging at his collar, the admin who checks her phone twice before entering the building, the guy in a blue tie who rushes in with sweat spots in his pits, and a sports jacket over an arm. Before I know it, ninety minutes have passed. If you pay attention to the details, the time flies.
When I’m about done with standing, I open the door to the security room to find Thompson sitting back, phone in hand. Looks like he’s playing one of those candy games on his phone.
“You ready?”
With a low sigh, he pushes up and places his phone in the pocket beside his pen and says, “Sure.”
This guy does not have a military background. I don’t even need to see his resume to be certain.
We go for a loop around the building first. I track the parked cars and scan for any occupants. There are none.
Thompson pulls out his phone on the far side of the building and taps away, responding to a text.
We approach the side door that’s locked and I point at it. “This is one of the exits that we need to wire. Surveillance on the inside. Movement detector.”
He nods, and I use the master key to unlock the door. It opens into the stairwell.
“You taking the stairs?” he asks.
“Yeah.” Wasn’t planning on flying.
“I’m gonna go get those papers. I’ll meet you on the fourth.”
“No need. That’s pretty much the lay of the land. I’ll meet you back in the security room.”
“Sounds good.”
The door closes and it occurs to me that Thompson is the clock-in-and-out type, which is good, because after hours I should have free rein to review security footage. It’s bad because he’ll probably always be around, and if I see a suspicious meeting, I’ll need to make a note to go back to the tape, or possibly text Quinn to check whatever it is out.
I take the stairs two at a time for the hell of it, exit on the executive floor, walk the corridors, then take the stairs down to the third floor. I’ll do a last sweep of the second floor before the lunch crew hits the space.
When I approach Daisy’s office, I slow in the doorway. She’s applying lip gloss, and I watch as she snaps open a little mirror and checks her work.
The morning light catches the gloss as she presses her lips together, and I find myself leaning against the door frame. She tilts her chin up, checking her reflection, and something low in my gut tightens.
Her straight, dark hair’s down today, and she tucks one side behind her ear. She stretches her neck, and it hits me. She’s checking for a hickey.
Her fingers trace along her collarbone, then higher, fingertips grazing the spot where I lost control last night. Heat crawls up my neck as I remember the sweet taste of her skin there.
Yeah, I spent quite a bit of time sucking and biting, but I didn’t do anything assholish like mark her up for the office. It’s hot as balls out there. It’s not exactly turtleneck weather.
I rap my knuckles against the door and she drops the gloss and mirror into a small black leather handbag.
“Hi. I was just getting ready for lunch.”
I check my watch. It’s early in the day.
“Are you ready?” The deep male voice crawls up the back of my neck and the sensation isn’t good. I turn to face the boss.
“Ryder. Hi there. How are things going?” Phillip smooths one of his suit lapels.
“Good.”
“Excellent.”
Daisy scoots past me with a small, bashful smile and heads out with Phillip Sterling.
Sure, I know she thinks he’s pond scum and she’s trying to catch him doing something illegal—but it doesn’t change the fact that watching the two of them step into that elevator makes my stomach knot. My jaw clenches as the elevator doors close behind them and I flex my fingers, forcing them to relax. Mission first, I remind myself, but the tension in my shoulders doesn’t ease.
I especially don’t like it when I catch his slimy-ass perusal of her as she steps to the side, and when I round the floor and peer out an empty office window down on the street and see him hold the door for her in a black sedan, eyeing her backside like she’s a piece of steak. My hands curl into fists knowing he’s eyeing her with skeezy appreciation. Every instinct I have screams that this bastard just moved Daisy to the top of his hunting list—the kind that ends with NDAs and hush money after the fact.
My hands press flat against the window. The glass fogs under my breath. Every muscle in my body coils tight, ready to move, but there’s nothing I can do except watch this predator circle closer.
CHAPTER 18
DAISY
“Beautiful and brilliant,” he says, arm stretched across the back of the curved booth, as he swirls his wine in his free hand.
Charisma. That’s the word that comes to mind as I sit across from Phillip Sterling. Understated. Sublime. He’s a man who has aged well, and he reeks of money and success. He sits across the table seemingly mesmerized by, well, me. It’s easy to see how he could win over investors or convince employees to follow him even after a financial failure.
The question is…is this man a crook? Did he knowingly rip off unsuspecting novice investors like Alvin Reed? Or does he genuinely believe he’s going to make his investors millions? While I’ve been working on the architecture schema for the system he’s requesting, I’ve been researching, attempting to understand what to look for to determine whether he deliberately built a losing scheme. But the more I study it, I’m not sure anyone purposefully builds a program destined for failure. It seems like a situation that starts out with noble intent, and spirals into desperation.
If that’s what happened here, then is he really the scum I envisioned when I first set out on this endeavor? I’m getting to know Toby, one of the sales guys, and he’s upbeat. I don’t think he’s purposefully swindling anyone. He’ll occasionally join in at lunch along the lines of “reeled in a big fish” and “hooked six figures,” but he’s a sales guy with a fishing fetish. Given he spends hours without a single bite, his metaphor seems apt.
But then there’s Jocelyn’s death—someone covered it up. Did Phillip plan a cover up to prevent further scrutiny of a business on rocky ground, or did he cover it up because he killed her? Am I having lunch with a murderer?
Phillip practically insisted I share a glass with him, and that’s fine and all, but ritzy, boozy lunches aren’t my thing. In most of my jobs, I left the wining and dining to the other suits that managed me. At least not until ARGUS.
Rhodes is more my speed—a T-shirt wearing guy in a sports jacket who’d take me to a Thai hole-in-the-wall with mismatched chairs and the constant hum of an overworked air conditioner. Where you can hear the conversation at the next table and the cook shouting orders, where everything smells like ginger and garlic.
Less than a month in, and I’ve been to a conference with Phillip, followed by dinner, and I’ve been to meetings followed by lunch, but he’s always pulled in others to join us and the conversation has been droll. He’s always struck me as someone who surrounds himself with people who admire his status.
For whatever reason, he didn’t invite anyone to join us today, and I’m thankful his phone is keeping him preoccupied. But then he sets the device down on the table and I reach for my water, hoping he’s not expecting me to carry the conversation.
“Your work is impressive.”
And this is where a suit like Sterling gets himself in trouble. Yes, I’ve explained my idea for how to accomplish what he wants and the high-level architecture, but there’s no way he gets it to a degree he can grade it. He’s full of it.
“Thank you.” I toy with the corner of the napkin in my lap, a little concerned our food has yet to be delivered. This is going to be one long lunch.
The napkin feels like silk between my fingers. It’s the kind of luxury that makes me think of paper towels and how much more practical they are.
The restaurant reeks of old money—leather banquettes so buttery soft they probably cost more than my old car, and that cloying blend of cologne and truffle oil. Crystal stemware catches the light from chandeliers that belong in a museum, not a place where people eat lunch.
“Now, tell me about you.”
The corner of my lip itches, and I scratch, buying time to answer the kind of question they lob at interviews.
“You want the sixty-second elevator pitch?”
He smiles and his light blue eyes glimmer.
“I’ve already had the appetizer. I want more than sixty seconds.”
If this were a date, I’d be up and out of this booth with that slice of cheese. But it’s not a date. This is the way Phillip rolls. Only he’s not Velveeta, he’s more like French Brie. “There’s not much to say.”
“You’re beautiful, yet you hide it.” His fingers hover near my temple, ostensibly brushing away an imaginary eyelash, but lingering a beat too long. My skin crawls. I lean back, disguising the recoil by reaching for my water glass, pretty sure there was never anything there to brush away.
If he’d known me a few years ago when I went through an eyeliner stick every two weeks, maybe he’d have a point about hiding the natural beauty. But now…I feel like I’ve evolved into a what-you-see-is-what-you-get chick.
“You have such potential.” His eyes trace from my face down to my collarbone before returning to meet my gaze. “With the right...guidance, you could command any room.” The way he says guidance makes my stomach twist, and I tug my blazer closed, suddenly feeling exposed despite being fully dressed. “But you don’t need to impress others. Your mind is impressive. And that’s why I invited you to lunch.”
There’s something in his tone—the same cadence a car salesman uses when he’s found your weakness. I press my back against the booth, creating distance, but he interprets it as relaxation and leans forward, claiming the space I’ve abandoned.
“Spending too much time with people aiming to impress you?” That might have come out a little too snarky, but we don’t have our food yet, and I have no idea where he is going with this, and he needs to tone it down.
“Ms. Jonas, I’d like to offer you the position of Chief Technology Officer.”
That’s a sharp change in subject, but a welcome turn. I process the title—a suit role. “That sounds impressive,” I say, reaching for my wineglass. This gig’s temporary, but I can play along. “Is this a new position?”
“Created just for you.”
He can’t mean that. “Sterling Financial is evolving into a tech company, so it makes sense that you would have a CTO.”
His lips spread into a smile that reveals teeth, and a solid dose of ick climbs my spine.
“For the first year, the base salary would be twelve million, with stock options.”
I almost spit out my wine—almost.
“Yes, it’s a generous offer,” he says, looking incredibly pleased. “You can hire a team as needed.”
Once I stop choking, I evaluate his math. I’m sure he’s received estimates from firms to build the system he wants, and if I can do it for him by managing a few worker bees, promoting me may be a steal.
“The bids you got to build the system—came in high?” I’m more curious than anything. Why not show me the bids? Is he afraid I’d ask for more money? I’m already doing the work. And does he know enough to structure a project proposal?
He toys with the knife lying on the tablecloth. “Like I said, beautiful and intelligent.” His smile leans into predatory. “Your boyfriend is a lucky man. Though I have to wonder...” He pauses, swirling his wine, letting the implication hang in the air like smoke. My throat constricts. I know that pause. It’s the same one my mother’s ex-boyfriends used before suggesting I was “mature for my age.”
I force a smile.
If he weren’t so sleazy, this wouldn’t feel so revolting. Would it?
He raises his wine glass and sips, but I can see the smile behind the crystal.
Thank god Jake pretended to be my boyfriend. I’m fairly certain if he hadn’t, Phillip’s hand would be on my thigh right about now. So, so, so icky.
“I met with the board. Told them our plans. What you’re building. They believe to sufficiently sell our new tool, we need to expand our C-Suite. Are you familiar with the phrase?”
“The Chief Suite?” I answer, using one of the more diplomatic answers in my repertoire, at least compared to Stooge Suite, Masters of Coin, Top Brass, Head Honchos, or Ego Bitches.
“Of course. You come from ARGUS. Of course you’re familiar. We’ve got a bright future, and you can be an important part of that future. Cha-ching, cha-ching.” That noise right there should have me running, but I recognize it as his salesman schtick. He thinks that’s a winning noise, and hell, maybe it is. “We’re talking big time, Daisy. What do you say?”
“I’ll need to see the offer and think it over.”
“Do you have another offer you’re considering?” He shifts, his arm no longer thrown on the back of the booth, those light blue eyes studious. Any hint of flirtation gone.
“No, nothing like that,” I answer somewhat truthfully. I mean, sure, if I wanted, I could go back and ask Rhodes to match, but I don’t know what ARGUS can afford. And twelve million strikes me as obscene. Greedy.
“How is your mother doing?” The question splashes like ice water. I have never mentioned my mother to this man. “Still living in that same apartment in Van Nuys?” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. The conversation has shifted—it’s now a demonstration. He knows where my mother lives. He’s done his homework. “Isn’t she approaching retirement age?”
