Only the devil, p.16
Only the Devil, page 16
“No bra?”
I suspected as much but fuck if it isn’t a turn on to discover them bare.
She leans forward, teeth nipping at my ear, her hot breath tantalizing as she says, “Tell you what…let me make your day better.”
Her words are my undoing. Any distance I thought I’d maintain, all the reasons this is a bad idea, even my piss-poor mood—none of it matters. There’s just her, and the way she makes me feel like I’m more than just broken parts with medical discharge papers. She makes me feel wanted—appreciated.
For tonight, I’m going to let myself have this. Have her. And deal with any consequences tomorrow.
Her nails scrape my neck until her fingers thread through my hair, forcing my head back for a deep kiss that I gladly take. Fuck, I like the way this woman kisses.
When she breaks the kiss, I’m short of breath and hard as stone. She slides back, moves off my lap, positions herself before me, and grips my belt buckle, a devious, sexy smile playing on those glossy, swollen lips.
My gaze flicks to the building across the street, glass and metal in the dusk. “Want to take this inside?”
“No. If anyone’s across the way, let them watch.”
CHAPTER 20
DAISY
The employment contract sits open on my second monitor, cursor blinking in the salary field like a digital heartbeat. Twelve million dollars. Even after taxes, it’s enough to change everything—my life, my mom’s life, my sister’s future. All I have to do is sign away my principles—and pretend I don’t suspect my new boss of defrauding people. Or worse, murder.
A week has passed and I’ve been spending more time on completing the architecture for the proprietary system for Sterling than on digging into the collapsed fund or Jocelyn’s death. Of course, there’s little I can do on researching her death as there’s no evidence she died in this office building and the investigation into her death is currently underway with local authorities two hours away.
I promised Phillip I’d respond to his offer for CTO by the end of this week, claiming my lawyer needed time to review the agreement. He doesn’t seem too concerned, as apparently at the executive level it’s quite common for employment lawyers to weigh in on employment agreements.
However, my lawyer is Rhodes’ lawyer, and my counsel comprises three individuals, all telling me to buy time and exit. Quinn’s main point is that I have a good gig with ARGUS and I can trust Rhodes. Rhodes lives knee-deep in denial I’d ever leave ARGUS, and to be honest, guilt gnaws at me when I consider leaving… But come on, a twelve-million base salary? That’s more than Rhodes pays himself.
I tell myself it’s about justice for Alvin, but maybe part of me just wants to believe I’m still one of the good ones and still doing good things.
And then there’s Jake. He’s the one who understands. Right now, we’re both making more money than we ever dreamed possible. He gets me.
Of course, I get him too. We’re both enjoying this temporary gig. Once it’s over, he’ll be back with KOAN, traveling wherever the next gig takes him, until the one day he can follow in his parents’ footsteps and retire in some tropical locale with a beach where the American dollar goes far and the fish are plentiful. His words, not mine.
There’s nothing stopping me from taking the CTO role temporarily. I can put in twelve months, reap twelve million dollars—well, after taxes, let’s call it six—step away, with plenty of evidence after twelve months to prove connections to shady investments and unscrupulous business practices, and return to ARGUS.
With that money, I won’t have to worry about my mom—ever. I can help my sister out as much as she needs. I can afford a place in Aspen if I want and keep working for ARGUS. Perhaps from time to time, Jake and I will connect and fuck each other’s brains out. That painted future—bright, shallow, seductive—holds a certain appeal.
The problem is, I can’t shake the image of Uncle Alvin sitting on the rickety stainless steel folding chair with the frayed nylon straps crisscrossing back and forth, overlooking the dry, cracked pool. I can still remember his dark, wrinkled hands with the clean-cut nails and the lighter skin side of his palms, holding the refurbished laptop a veteran’s group either gave him or sold him at a discount. The blue glow of the screen reflected off his reading glasses as he checked my attendance on the student portal, the device warm from sitting in the afternoon sun that beat down on our concrete patio. The air hung thick with the smell of bus exhaust and the sweet, cloying scent of jasmine growing wild over chain-link fences.
“You got the brains.” I’ll never forget his words, his voice competing with Mrs. Rodriguez’s TV blaring telenovelas through paper-thin walls. “You also got the heart.”
“What makes you think I’ve got heart?” Maybe I was begging for affirmations, for attention.
“You spend your time with an old man like me,” he said, shifting in that rickety folding chair that creaked every time he moved.
By that token, my mom spent her time with quite a few washed-up old men, but I had too much respect for Uncle Alvin to say that back to him. Besides, my mom hated school but harbored big dreams—dreams that were akin to winning the lottery.
“You work hard. Put in an honest day. There’s honor in that. And you know what else?”
The memory is crisp, like it happened last week. Me, settling down beside him, the rough stucco wall scraping against my back through my thin T-shirt, knees pulled up with my homework balanced on my thighs. The concrete beneath me radiated the day’s heat even as shadows grew long across the courtyard. With a pencil in hand—always a pencil, never a pen, because mistakes needed erasing—I shook my head, drinking up every bit of praise like I was stranded in the Sahara and he was delivering water.
“You’re too smart to fall in the quicksand.”
“What do you mean by that?” In our spot in LA, parking lots and cracked concrete surrounded us. The only quicksand I’d ever seen had been on a PBS nature show.
“Well, for me, it was gambling. The dream of a quick hit. It’s a powerful one, as powerful as a hit of heroin. For your mom…”
“She’s working hard for her dream.”
“Is she? When was the last time she went to an acting class? Signed up for an extra role she claims is beneath her? Tried out for a play that isn’t gonna pay anything for the connections and experience? The dream she’s sporting… Ya can’t win the lottery if you don’t buy a ticket. In her case, there’s no ticket to buy. She’s got to put in the effort. The effort is the ticket.”
“And it still might never pay off.” My mom had the same problem I had, never sticking with a job, as she always landed real assholes for bosses.
“True. But with your brains, your heart, you’re not going to fall for that. You’re going to use that brain to get ahead. You’ll put in the effort. The real, honest kind. No dreaming of a lottery for you. No quicksand. You’re going to do good things, Daisy girl. Look here—just look at what your teachers wrote about you.” He’d read off the comments. The comments I don’t recall, but I remember the pride. “I can promise you; my teachers didn’t heap this kind of praise on me. You’re going to do good things, Daisy girl.”
My eyes burn and my throat clogs with the memory.
What would he say now?
I might not have set out to win the lottery, but it’s being handed to me.
My phone lights up, and I read the screen. Mom.
The office door’s closed, and I’m not getting much done, so for once, her timing works.
I answer with, “Mom.”
“Hey there. I thought I’d get your voicemail.”
I lean my head back against my chair, eyes going to the ceiling. I normally set the phone to speaker, but Mom’s the one person I like to keep close to my ear. There’s no need for others to hear what she has to say.
“What’s up?” Does she need rent money? A credit card payment overdue? There’s no way she’s talking me into buying her another car.
“I got a callback.”
I push forward, eyes open, excited for her.
“Mom, that’s awesome.”
“I know!” she shouts, forcing me to hold the phone away from my ear. I can’t remember the last time she sounded so excited.
“What’s it for?”
“A project with Robert DeNiro attached. Can you believe that? I might meet Robert DeNiro.”
“That’s—”
“It’s a minor role. Five lines. An older woman. With makeup, I can look older. And I got this callback without an agent. I hope I get it. I’d love to thrust this in the asswipe’s face.”
I’m assuming the ‘asswipe’ is her former agent who dropped her years ago.
“That’s fantastic. When’s the call back?”
“This Friday.”
Huh. The same day I owe my decision to Sterling. That’s a day to check the horoscopes.
“That’s great, Mom. I’ll be rooting for you.”
“How are things going with you?”
“Good.”
“Doesn’t sound like it. What’s going on?”
It’s unusual for Mom to pick up on anything being off, but maybe she’s more perceptive when she’s flying high.
“Well, I’ve been offered a promotion.”
“Why is that bad?” She’s right to sound confused.
“Well, it’s an executive position. With a lot more responsibility.”
“They aren’t trying to rip you off, are they? You know, give you a better title, a shit ton more work, and the same pay? They always try to pull that shit on me, and when they do, I am out the door. Hasta la vista, baby.”
“That’s not the case here.”
“Really?” The skepticism is warranted after years of being burned by greedy bosses. “How much of a raise?”
“Percentage wise…” If I told her, she wouldn’t really grasp it. “A base salary of twelve million a year.”
“Did you just say million?”
“Yeah.”
“Baby girl, that’s a yes. I don’t care what they want, you take that.”
“But Mom…” I never told her I’m here to vindicate Uncle Alvin, that these people took everything from him.
“Don’t ‘Mom’ me. The answer is yes.”
I lower my voice, even though my office door is closed, and lean forward over the desk. “These are the people who managed the crypto fund Uncle Alvin invested in. I didn’t come here for a permanent job. I wanted to find out…” I let the sentence trail because my instinct is telling me not to say this part out loud—I came here to find evidence of foul play. Of crimes. Crimes they could still be committing, harming victims, others just like Alvin Reed.
“Honey, investments fail. Reed had no business investing his life savings in a high-risk investment. It might not have been technically gambling, but we both know for him, with his addiction, it was gambling. That’s on him. I’m sure if those bosses of yours could have had their way, they would’ve made a mint. Sometimes things don’t go the way you want. But, if they’re offering you that kind of salary, something’s gone right for them. Are you sure they can pay you?”
“Yes, Mom. I’ve been working for them for almost a month now.”
“They let you work remote? How do you find all these remote work jobs?”
“I’m actually in Virginia. It’s where this office is located.”
“Do you like it?”
I half-chuckle at how quickly she’s moved on from my ethical quandary.
“Yeah, it’s fine.”
Technically, I’m in KOAN’s rental. If I take this job, I suppose I should look to find accommodations of my own. Maybe actually check out the surrounding neighborhoods. It’s funny. The thought hadn’t crossed my mind until talking to Mom. Even when she drives me crazy, her voice still feels like home–which, I suppose, makes me think about a home.
“Oh, yes, yes.” There’s a commotion behind her, with a mix of voices in the background. “Honey, she’s ready for me. I’m getting highlights. You know, got to get ready for Friday. You take that job, girl. Don’t think twice. Reed would want you to take that job.”
The line goes dead before I can respond, which is probably for the best. Because what I want to say would shatter her good mood: No, Mom. Uncle Alvin would be horrified.
I set the phone down and stare at my reflection in the black glass. Mom’s wrong about Uncle Alvin—spectacularly, painfully wrong. He’d look at that twelve-million-dollar offer and see exactly what it is: quicksand dressed up in a designer suit. The kind of easy money that swallows people whole. But knowing what Uncle Alvin would want and being strong enough to do it? Those are two very different things.
I stare at the silent phone, my chest tight with frustration. What if doing the right thing means walking away from the kind of money that could secure my family’s future? What if doing good means letting my mother struggle with rent for the rest of her life?
Uncle Alvin believed I had heart, but after he returned from a war, he never had to choose between heart and survival. Lucky him.
Friday can’t come fast enough. At least then, I’ll know which version of myself I’m going to live with—the one Uncle Alvin believed in, or the one who finally gave up pretending she’s different.
CHAPTER 21
JAKE
The hum of her laptop is becoming the soundtrack of my nights.
Daisy sits cross-legged on the couch, glasses low on her nose, eyes darting between her screen and the papers scattered across the table. Every few minutes she chews the end of her pen. I’ve learned the rhythm—she’s not working, she’s arguing with herself.
It’s Thursday night, and tomorrow’s decision day.
“Still can’t decide?” I ask, keeping my tone casual as I tighten the screws on a cabinet door I’ve already fixed twice.
She glances up, eyes soft but tired. “It’s a big decision.”
“Twelve million’s a big number.”
“That’s not the problem.” She closes her laptop and sets it aside. “The problem is what it means if I say yes.”
I lean back on my heels. “Maybe it just means you earned it.”
She studies me for a second, then shakes her head like she doesn’t buy it. “Your beard’s getting ridiculous,” she says, clearly changing the subject. “And your hair. You ever cut it?”
I touch my jaw. “You don’t like it?”
“I didn’t say that.” Her mouth curves slightly. “But it’s starting to look less rugged and more feral woodsman.”
“Guess that’s one way to keep smooth-talking suits off your doorstep.”
She laughs—a short, genuine sound—and it hits me in the chest.
“Sit,” she says, motioning toward the stool by the kitchen island. “I’ll trim it.”
I arch a brow. “You offering to take a blade to my neck?”
“I promise not to nick the jugular. Mostly.” She bites the end of a very short nail, thinking. “I don’t have a blade, but I’ve got clippers and scissors. There was a time when I was too cheap to pay someone to cut my hair.”
“You cut your own hair?”
“From time to time. Now I splurge, but…I used to cut my sister’s hair when she stayed with us. Got pretty good at it.” Her eyes lift. “Do you trust me?”
“Why not? It’s not like the Navy’s known for highly skilled barbers. And the ladies never complained.”
She steps closer, still thoughtful, like I’m a blank canvas and she’s planning her approach. Her steady gaze unsteadies me, if I’m honest.
“You know, you’re the one who has to look at me,” I say. “I can hit the barber this weekend if you’d prefer.”
Her hand lands on my thigh—light, warm—and those full lips purse into a tease. “I am the one who gets to look at you, aren’t I?”
She’s teasing, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty beneath it.
I cover her hand with mine. “Only you.”
Her doe eyes meet mine head on, and I swear a frisson of energy lights my chest. We stay like that, staring at each other, me sitting on a bar stool, her standing close, the air still, full of an unspoken promise.
She’s the one who breaks first, bowing her head and chewing on the corner of her lip. “How should we wash your hair? Kitchen sink or shower?”
“You gonna join me in the shower?” I toss it out half teasing, half hoping.
Color blooms high on her cheeks. She tugs a strand of my hair. “Let’s go upstairs.”
“I like the sound of that.”
She grins, quick and determined. “Grab that stool.”
I do as she says and meet her in the bathroom. She’s spread a towel on the floor, got the shower running, extra towels set aside, and a small zippered bag open beside her.
“Take off your shirt.”
“You gonna make a mess?”
“No.” Her lips curl into a smile that makes my pulse jump. “I just like looking at you.”
“Well, then, fair’s fair.” I reach for the hem of her shirt, but she swats my hand away.
“After.”
Following her directions, I lean under the shower spray to wet my hair. She drapes a towel over my shoulders and runs a comb through the strands. She sits me so I’m in front of the bathroom sink, back to the mirror.
“Wouldn’t be sitting here if I didn’t trust you,” I say. Though trusting anyone with a blade this close isn’t usually my style.
She gets to work, combing and clipping.
“So you did this for your sister? She’s younger, right?”
“Yeah. She lived with her dad mostly, but when she stayed with me, we’d cut each other’s hair. Kind of our thing for a while.”
“Did you ever stay with your dad?”
She shifts behind me, standing close enough that I can feel her body heat at my back.
“Nope.”
Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but I hear tension in that one word. I’m about to ask when she turns the tables.
“What’s your dad like?” she asks, snipping carefully. “Does he look like you?”
