Chapter Four #2
“I’ll just give you a quick tour of the building, run down the schedule with you, and then you and Mr. Pierce can spend the morning getting to know each other.”
My throat tightens, not because of her words, but because of the way she says them. It’s her sarcasm that worries me when she says getting to know each other. Like the man I work for is a tyrant or something.
Maybe he is—I mean, his assistants don’t stay long, and he did fire Robbie and supposedly stole his million-dollar idea, so…
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Maybe…
Mrs. Deangelo brings us to the elevator lobby, and I can’t help but marvel at the elegance.
The black glass and marble is still present, but there are several monitors along the wall, each playing something different.
The news on one, HGTV on the other, and the third, largest monitor looks like a visual screensaver from the Matrix.
“So,” she says as the elevator dings and opens up with a loud chirp. “You are familiar with Veil Technologies and what we do here, I take it?” she asks. I motion for her to step in before me.
“Ladies first.” I nod.
She smirks, walking in without a care. “Tell me, Oliver, are you single?”
I nearly do a double take as I step into the elevator.
“I, uh—”
Technically, I’m not, but Robbie said it would be too risky to admit that, and Sloane has rules. He has his own moral code, though such morality seems to be up for debate. Robbie said for the premise of my persona, I would need to make it known somehow that I am single.
Apparently, Sloane doesn’t like cheaters, which I find slightly hypocritical.
She laughs, dismissing me with a wave. “I’m just teasing you, sweetheart.” Chicora lets out a laugh that turns to a soft snort. “I don’t get to have much fun these days, forgive me.”
“Oh, right,” I say, clearing my throat. My cheeks heat, as the elevator doors shut.
“To answer your question, yes. I know Veil Technologies was founded five years ago, and ever since Sloane Pierce has been spearheading the security division with his innovative technologies, he changed the entire industry,” I say with a forced smile.
And according to Robbie, none of it is his to begin with, but I digress. That’s why I’m here. To help my boyfriend get the revenge he needs, but also what he’s owed.
Because if Sloane Pierce really did steal it all from Robbie… he should pay for that.
Mrs. Deangelo looks at me with a scrutinizing gaze and a wicked smirk.
“I like you, Oliver,” she says sweetly.
“Thank you,” I say, standing straighter.
She twists her lips. “You can relax, you know. We’re not a bunch of stuffy assholes here. Most of the time,” she says.
“That’s… good to know, I suppose.”
“Except for his majesty, Mr. Pierce, of course,” she says with a laugh. “Oh, but that’s only if he hasn’t had his coffee before eight-am.” She winks.
I look at my watch, noting it’s 7:53 a.m..
Shit.
“Well, I’d prefer to start this day off on the right foot, so perhaps you can show me where I should retrieve Mr. Pierce’s coffee.”
She smiles, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Oh, but then who will give you the tour?”
“Maybe a tour can be something that helps us… get to know each other,” I say, hoping she will not deter me and my mission.
The last thing I need is to start this fake job—fake persona—off on the wrong foot.
Robbie told me Sloane can be quite difficult when he doesn’t get his way. Like a petulant toddler.
“Why, that’s a lovely idea, Oliver,” she says as the doors open. I glance at my watch. 7:54 Shit.
“This way…” She motions for me to follow her down a long, dark, black glass corridor.
“Is the whole building made of black glass?” I ask.
“Just the lobby and the executive suites. Information Technologies and the Labs are much less dramatic.”
“Dramatic is one way to put it,” I say as I take in the sight of glowing blue LED cracks spread throughout the black glass walls and the black marble floor. “Looks like something straight out of Tron,” I say without thinking.
“You know Tron?” she asks as she leads me to a large kitchen that looks surprisingly normal amidst all the black. It’s white and grey, all marble and clean, crisp design. In the center of the counter, is a large espresso machine.
“Of course, it’s—”
I stop myself, the memory tickling the back of my brain, threatening to drag me under.
Tron was my father’s favorite movie. And for a long time, it was mine, too.
But now I can’t watch it without thinking of all those nights spent on the couch, getting lost in the terrible graphics while my father spent his nights tapping away at the computer, oblivious to the child in his midst.
Oddly enough, even though he barely acknowledged me, I still consider it a fond memory. Because he was there. Next to me, even if he didn’t realize I was. Now he doesn’t even remember who I am at all.
“ —a great movie,” I say, shoving the thought down in the pit of my stomach.
“That it is,” Chicora notes, giving me a smirk. “It’s Mr. Pierce’s favorite movie,” she says with a shrug. “Do you need a run-down of the machine?” she asks.
I take in the sight of the elegant, high-tech-looking machine. I shake my head. If I can work the espresso machine at Starbucks, I can surely work this. No matter how ostentatious it may look, it works the same, producing the same result.
“I’m good, thank you.”
I head for the cups and attend to changing out the grounds. Thankfully, everything is close by. I’ve got barely five minutes, but I can do this.
I have to do this.
“Steamed almond milk.” She opens the fridge and pulls out a carton of almond milk. “Mr. Pierce is lactose intolerant,” she whispers.
“Oh,” I note, surprised. “None of the articles mentioned that.”
Neither did Robbie.
“Mr. Pierce is a… private person. It’s not something he casually shares, but if you’re going to be working for him, you should know his limitations and his needs.”
“Right, of course.” She steams the almond milk as I prepare the espresso, and when it’s done, hands me the silver pour.
I carefully pour it atop the espresso, the scent of rich beans and vanilla invading my lungs. My stomach grumbles, reminding me I haven’t eaten yet.
Shit.
I’ll have to wait until lunch.
“Room 5001,” she says. “End of the hall.”
I grab the coffee, checking my watch. 7:58.
“Thank you,” I say, picking up my pace.
“Good luck, Oliver,” she says, and I suck in a breath as I head down the corridor to room 001.
I knock on the door, my heart in my throat.
7:59.
“Come in,” a deep voice beckons, and I let out a heavy breath and open the door.
Here goes nothing.