Chapter 13
chapter thirteen
Denali
"Well, this isn't what I expected when they said new and fresh."
Kai and I are shoulder to shoulder in a restaurant that follows the spirit of the term, but not the definition.
Loosely, at that, too. The walls are painted in spatter and splotches, like someone sneezed the paint all over a white canvas.
The floors are concrete, and they're an unattractive brown shade, though how they managed that, I'll never know.
The ceiling is vaulted, which would be nice, if it wasn't in three shades of clashing colors that didn't compliment each other at all.
And worst of all, the barstools don't have backs, the chairs don't either, and the tables are concave around the sides to make it impossible to lean against them.
"What the hell is this place?" I ask slowly, turning in a circle to really drink it all in.
And I'm not the only one, either. Everywhere I look, people appear to be just as confused as I am by the design of the restaurant—if you want to call it that.
"It looks like someone chewed up a whole restaurant, puked it back up, and then threw some paint on the walls and called it art. "
"Ah, yeah," Kai agrees slowly, sliding behind me in an attempt to hide. "I think we should go. I don't know if my image would ever recover from eating here and endorsing this travesty of a design failure."
I have to bite back a little laughter at that. "Well, we're already here. We might as well try the food."
That's a mistake. I know it the second I see the cook behind the counter throw a slab of meat on the grill and add literally zero seasoning.
The other cook is dicing up vegetables, and like, there's no rhyme or reason to it.
Just two cleavers, a mishmash of technique, and a whole lotta swearing, which makes me wonder if he learned how to dual wield those from some streamer's vlog or something.
We find a table easily, only because smart people would rather stand and eat whatever they've ordered instead of attempting to sit at one of these strange and uncomfortable things. I regret it when I go to lean over the table and my elbows hit nothing.
Kai laughs at me, and dammit, I want to be mad, but I can't be. I laugh, too, putting my head in my hands as we both soak in the hilarity of our situation.
Roger refused to join us. He's probably better off for it, honestly.
Our food takes awhile, probably because the cooks are as skilled at time management as they are at chopping vegetables, and while we wait, Kai turns his curiosity on me. That, and that megawatt smile he reserves for interviews and meeting new people.
"So, you wanna explain to me why we left the podcast interview like we did, kera?"
He's fishing for details I don't want to give. That would require me to admit that I let myself get distracted in the sound booth while he was working, unattended, in the next room. Why I let the man who'd joined me distract me when I was supposed to be watching the interview go down—
"They were told to explicitly stick to the questions approved.
They were given a list of things to not ask about it, and they took that list and waited until nobody was looking, and used it as a guidebook on what not to do.
They broke contract," I say, and sure, all those excuses are valid and true, but it's not the only reason.
Kai knows it, too. "There's more, isn't there?"
I shrug, because I don't care to investigate what happened today too closely.
It's almost like they went into it intending to divide and conquer.
Like they knew they'd have to slip it in under the radar.
They were prepared with whatever it took.
In my case, it took a handsome man asking me all sorts of questions I should have known better than to answer.
It took someone pretending to be interested in me for me, a man to pay attention to me and call me pretty, flatter me, compliment me. It happens so infrequently—
"Denali?"
"Don't worry about it," I say quietly, crossing my legs as I spot the waiter heading our way with our order. Or what I hope is our order. "Just eat, and smile, and we can get the fuck out of here."
Or not, I realize as a familiar voice echoes out behind us.
"Oh, you come here, too?"
It's that damn female interviewer. How did she find us here?
Kai turns around, but instead of giving her the cold shoulder I've seen him give others, he's all smiles for her, inviting her to sit with us as the waiter sets down our plates and waits to see if he needs to take another order.
I'd really rather he use that abrasive attitude he possessed when I first met him to chase her off, but he doesn't. He's polite but distant, only offering what's absolutely necessary to her conversation.
I tune them out and dig into my food, a nice pasta dish that'll probably put more weight than I need on my hips, but oh well. Now's not the time to worry about that.
By the time we're done eating, his afternoon appointment has cancelled on us, asking to reschedule before the gala.
I agree, squeezing them in on the day before the event, deciding if Kai's going to sit here and entertain some floozie who I just finished saving him from, he can do it on his own time.
"Well, your afternoon is clear," I say with a frown, feeling like a third wheel already, "so if you want, we can call it a day now."
Please send me home. I'd love to get away from whatever this is.
"Are you sure?" Kai's eyes twist from me, to the girl next to him, back to me. I get it, I know what he wants. He's asking for time alone. Cool, I can manage that.
"Oh, I'm definitely sure." I pick up my purse, the tablet, and then decide to abandon the dish I ordered, not least of which because I'm suddenly no longer hungry. "You stay, since you're clearly enjoying yourself—"
I don't give him time to argue. I don't bother waiting for confirmation.
If he didn't want her at the table, he wouldn't have invited her.
And no, I'm not mad. I'm not upset, I'm not anything.
I'm not frustrated that I bothered to interrupt his interview with her in the interest of saving him from probing questions, just for her to follow us to lunch and intervene alone.
I'm just pent-up from everything lately, and tired, and maybe a little irate still that they bothered to ask us for an approved list at all.
I mean, why disregard your own contract? I could go back and have the whole interview yanked. I should.
I think maybe I will.
Roger is outside, waiting for us, with a burrito or something in his hands as he multi-tasks eating and serving as a placeholder in line for his demanding boss.
Marching up to him and informing him he won't be taking me home is quick, and once I've done that, and brushed off his offers to take me home first while Kai finishes lunch, I flag down a cab and head back to the podcast studio.
I know my rights, and my responsibilities. And sure, I could just demand they cut the parts we don't agree on. But I'm spoiling for a fight. The easiest target is here, in front of me, and damn, it'll feel good to be a little vindictive.
Five minutes later, I walk out with the interview tape in hand, and a flash drive with the backup on it.
I forced them to delete any copy of it they had on their devices, too.
The threat of legal action should be enough to keep them from publishing it if they did save a clip or three here and there.
And without further thought, I take the hard copies around to the alley, lay them on the ground, and smash them into a thousand little pieces with the heel of my boot.
And then head home, because fuck this day in general.
It's quiet, save for the incessant purring Taco's doing.
He's loud, and right up against my chest, so I can't sleep early, like I planned.
Kai didn't bother to text me to tell me he made it home okay, and I"m not letting that bother me.
If there was a problem, Roger would have messaged me by now.
He would, wouldn't he? Of course he would.
He's a trained professional. He knows what to do in situations like that.
He would reach out to me, and then to the company. It's probably fine.
I turn on the tv, then turn it off. Nothing interesting is on the screen today. And I still haven't had time to set up my stupid streaming services on this damn flatscreen. I could just cram an episode of my favorite show on my phone—
I flip over on my stomach and reach for my phone, but it buzzes before I can pick it up. Curious, I stare at the screen and sigh.
Kai.
If he thinks I'm going to be on call for him tonight, when he threw my attempt to help him in his face, then he's got another thing coming.
I need a few fucking minutes alone, and I'm not about to go run to get him some fucking condoms or whatever he needs for his little one night stand, just because he's too lazy to remember to get them while he's out. Let him send Roger.
It rings twice more, so I do what I can to ignore it, but in the end, the call of responsibility is too great. I can't just ignore him because I'm mad. He probably doesn't even realize what the hell he did.
I answer the next time he calls, and immediately launch into the sex talk with an air of exasperation. "If you're calling me to do a supply run for you because you're out of condoms—"
"De…nali," he rasps, his voice quiet, reedy, slurred. "Dr-dr, no, roof . . . roofie. I think—help, kera."
I hear a thud, likely the phone falling, and I'm on high alert, leaping from bed as I throw my clothes back on. This is serious, this isn't just Kai being lazy. I reach for my work phone, because he called my personal cell, and dial Roger, who is never far away.
He picks up on ring one.
"Where did you drop Kai off and when?" I snap, yanking on my shoes with one hand as I yank my sweater on with the other.
"He dismissed me after I dropped him at the club," he says simply, "two hours ago."
Meaning whoever slipped him something either did it in the club, when he wasn't looking, or waited until after, when they arrived wherever they're at now. Likely his home. "Head to the club and see if he's still there. I just got a disturbing call—I think he's in trouble."
Roger hangs up after promising to meet me at Kai's house if he doesn't find him at the club, and then I bring up the where's my phone app I installed on his phone, just in case I needed to find him fast. I know there's no guarantee he's with his phone, but it's worth a shot.
It's not at any club that I know of. And it's also not at his home. Instead, it's reading somewhere between his place . . . and mine.
Did he walk here? Or try to?
"Shit, shit shit shit," I mutter, sprinting out my front door, careful to make sure it closes behind me as I panic in earnest now. My eyes are glued to my phone, to the location app that tells me when I'm getting closer to his last pinged coordinates. "What the hell are you doing there, you idiot?"
He's about ten or twelve blocks away from me, and in a seedy ass part of town. I'll be surprised if someone doesn't rob him while he's out cold, if he's out cold. With my luck, someone will stab him, and that'll be the end of my gainful employment with kNight Ent.
I don't—it's got nothing to do with how much I seem to like his attitude these days, or understand his reasoning behind how he acts, or how he's been smiling at me lately in ways he doesn't with anyone else. I'll read into that later.
Right now, I have one goal—find him, as soon as possible, and make sure he's okay.
Please let him be okay.