Chapter 6
Rosie: I think I might have something…
Pepper: On Rénir???
Rosie: I don’t want you to get too excited, it’s not confirmed yet.
Pepper: I could kiss you.
Rosie: Thanks, but you’re not my type.
Pepper: Rude.
Rosie: When you grow a ten-inch peen let me know.
Pepper: Yikes.
PEPPER
The Abbot Foundation logo glows back at me from my Mac screen, paired with a rotating timer to let me know the system is loading.
I love that my official, non-hacker, non-illegal, non-espionage job is with a charity that raises millions of dollars a year to help people in need, but I hate that it’s run like a corporate sweatshop.
My digital design pipeline is crammed full of projects that, quite frankly, I could use triple the manpower to get live in time.
The downside is that it’s also non-lucrative, non-relaxing, and sometimes non-fun.
My favorite part is the design, when it’s just me buried in brand color swatches and mood boards—that initial creative brainstorming.
That’s the bit I enjoy. Not the strategy planning meetings that follow, or the SEO buzz word research, or the liaising with third-party press.
But all that is a necessary evil to raise awareness for collaborations and events that raise money to level out a little of the inequality in our broken social system.
The words on the screen blur together and my attention is snatched away by a soft rustling from the cubicle next to mine.
Something that absolutely shouldn’t be distracting, but my brain is screaming for any excuse to stop recounting how I ended up making a deal with the devil.
A devil who won’t leave me the heck alone now that he has my phone number.
I’m keeping to my side of the deal and investigating for him, but that doesn’t mean I have to speak to him until I have something.
Peeking over, I see Jack’s hand stuffed into a bag of Sour Patch Kids.
“Friend tax,” I announce, laying my hand over the top of the partition.
“Check your top drawer, honey,” he drawls as he chucks a child-shaped candy into his mouth, never taking his eyes off his screen.
Blinking down, I slide open my top drawer and there, nestled in amongst the five staplers I’ve hoarded for no other reason than it makes my soul happy, is a bag of my very own.
“What does it say about me that this is the most romantic thing a man has done for me in a long time?” I muse, the packet crinkling as I pluck them out.
“That you date losers.” Jack snorts without hesitation.
I let out a low hum in response, because I can’t say he’s wrong.
My policy on dating is simple. If you have any of the following, then you’re out: generational wealth, pinky rings, a watch that costs more than two hundred dollars, a Labrador, you play golf, or you’ve been to one of those big game hunting retreats in Africa.
I mean, the last one is out for ethical reasons too.
Add to that, if your hobbies on your dating profile include sailing, lacrosse, or hiking.
Hiking just because I fucking hate it, but the rest because I do not want a man with even a whiff of money.
This leaves (bad) musicians, chefs, artists, or retail workers. My last boyfriend was a bike messenger called Steve. A nice guy, but so painfully boring and the three bikes racked on his bedroom wall hurt my eyes after a while.
“Pepper, I need you to pick up some double shifts next week.” Brian’s watery eyes appear over the other side of Jack’s cubicle, because walking around to actually speak to me without raising his voice would be too much effort.
“Sorry?” My spine unfurls, peering over the baffle board at my pig of a manager.
Jack shoots me a furtive glance and shuffles a little lower in his seat, trying to hide behind a curtain of shoulder-length golden hair.
“We’ve got a new campaign in the works with Esco Shoes and our sponsors are pushing for the marketing assets to be done, ‘like yesterday.’”
I hear the words, but my brain doesn’t accept them. “No,” I respond slowly, a light frown pulling my brow. “I’ve got paid time off booked next week.”
It’s been an age since Sunny and I got out of the city, and since she’s on break from school next week, I booked a trip to Coney Island to enjoy a few beach days together.
Brian raises one mud-colored brow, accentuating the sheen of light forehead perspiration in the fluorescent glare bleeding down from the strip lights high above.
“Says here that we need you to cancel your vacation.” He flaps the sheet of paper in his hand obnoxiously loud, as if that explains everything.
“But that leave was approved months ago,” I splutter, shooting violently to my feet. The accommodation wasn’t cheap and Sunny has been bouncing-off-the-walls excited, spending hours compiling a road trip playlist and researching things for us to do while we’re there.
“Pepper, this comes straight from the top.” He tilts his grey-speckled head in the direction of the large, glass-walled executives office on the floor above, overlooking the bullpen of marketing grunts like royalty to a peasant gallery.
Where the CEO pulls at the strings of our fates like a marionette and takes a fat salary while he’s at it.
“There are lots of candidates who would love to have this job, so I suggest you consider that before you make a decision.”
Now do you see why he’s a pig?
I want to tell Big Turd Brian that I would rather have a homeless man’s nut sack nailed to my forehead for life, but I don’t. Instead, I paste a tight smile onto my face that I’m sure looks closer to a grimace, because I need to keep this job. “Consider it cancelled.”
Satisfied with my compliance, Brian begins to stalk away, throwing over his shoulder, “Excellent—and loop in with Esther Walker’s people on this, it’s the annual Walker Charity Fashion Show that these shoes are being showcased in.”
My smile drops along with my jaw and anger rips around my bloodstream like a little Pac-Man, eating up the anticipation and excitement for the doomed trip.
Replacing it with another healthy dollop of bitter resentment for the egotistical ass that happens to be Esther Walker’s son.
The son who’s been blowing my phone up all day.
“Sorry Pepper, tough break.” Jack offers me a sad, consolatory smile. “You think Sunny will be mad?”
Grumbling incoherently in response, I stare down at my hand clamped so tightly around the bag of candy that I’m now responsible for the mass genocide of twenty tiny sugar-coated children.
With a stomach like lead at the thought of delivering the bad news to her, I sit back down in my chair. Except…I don’t.
“Blargh!” My haste to stand must have rolled it away, because the next thing I know, I’m ass over tit, blinking up at the lights, a dull pain radiating up my tailbone.
“Err, you alright?” Golden wavy hair appears in my periphery and I groan.
“Chase fucking Walker!”
***
“What, in the ever-loving-shit, is happening here?” I demand to the room at large, taking in the irregularity of the scene before me.
Sunny blinks up from her canvas, a thick paintbrush clamped between her teeth and a smudge of green paint by her left eyebrow. I’m more concerned with the man near-horizontal in my recliner chair with his hands clasped behind his head and his bare feet out.
“Were we not meant to meet for paint club this week?” Miriam’s grey braided hair appears above a canvas and easel, frowning at me through magnifying clip-on glasses nipped onto the end of her nose.
“It’s not—I didn’t—” I splutter, my eyes glued to Chase Walker. In my apartment. In my chair. With his feet out.
“She means why am I here,” Walker drawls lazily, unclasping his hands and reaching down to retract my armchair into an upright position.
“Yes,” I snap hotly, taking a few more steps into my living room. Acidic fury coils around my spine, raising the hairs on my arms to full salute. This is my sanctuary. My safety. And Chase fuck-wit Walker is not allowed in here. Ever. “Actually, I don’t care why. Just get out.”
Sunny snatches the paintbrush from her mouth in alarm. “Pepper! Why are you being so rude to our model?”
I don’t look at her, my icy gaze trained on the man still sitting in my armchair with a bemused expression.
The silence deepens, along with tentative glances exchanged between others.
I have to fight very hard not to panic, not to indulge the sepia-toned images fighting to yank me back to that moment in time when my life fractured.
Astute, burnt whiskey eyes narrow a fraction and a low noise vibrates from him, almost a grunt. I brace myself for a fight, to be berated for ignoring his outreach, or a pompous lecture on respect, at least.
“Okay, I’ll go,” he startles me by announcing, leaning down to pull on his discarded socks and shoes.
“You…will,” I say it as a statement and not a question, but it’s weak all the same, betraying the surprise that eats up my anger in an instant.
“Yes.” He stands to his full, almost intimidating size and buttons his suit jacket. “But I wish to speak with you outside for a moment.”
“Er…you do?” Fuck, fuck, fuck it. I’ve somehow ended up a stuttering idiot, all of my usual prickly defenses blunted and vulnerable.
“I do.” He starts to walk toward me, causing my neck to crane up with each long stride of powerful legs. “In fact, I insist.” He blows right past me at that, in a cloud of something that is intensely masculine and ever so distracting. Once the perplexing fragrance fades, his words sink in.
“Oh, you insist?” I turn on my heel and march over to our apartment door that he is now halfway through, the succinct return of agitation spurring me back to life. “You, Chase Walker”—I launch my finger in his direction in what I consider to be a damning point—“are a—”
He turns so fast I can’t slow my momentum and end up piling into a steely hard wall that turns out to be his chest, finger first, face second, tits third.
“We had a deal, Miss Quinn.” That intriguing scent is back again, along with large hands clamped to each of my upper arms.
I stare up at him, attempting to regain my equilibrium. And just when I think I’ve almost found it, he picks me up and places me at arm's length. Yes, physically lifts me off the floor with his grip and gently places my feet back onto the carpet three feet away from him.
“You don’t get to renege.” He swiftly drops his hold, a fierce glint emerging from the depths of toasted umber.
“You will keep your word and help me find the assholes who stole my tech, or I’ll pull my lawyer off your case so quick you won’t even have time to figure out that prison-jumpsuit orange clashes horribly with that ridiculous hair of yours before you’re behind bars. ”
My lips pop open in outrage. “I have been helping! I went to the address linked to the phone contract last night.”
He looks dramatically behind him as I fold my arms, as if looking for outside help to deal with a crazy lady being unreasonable.
When he’s realized he’s on his own, his gaze lands back on me.
“Help me being the operative word, Miss Quinn. You can’t just galivant off on your own. You go with me or not at all.”
I raise one brow ironically, causing him to scoff. Yes, he’s well aware I would take option B if I could. I reign in my temper, rolling my eyes with as much sass as I can muster—just to irritate him. “You’ll only slow me down.”
“You’re acting like I’m a novice with no experience,” he bites, showing his first flare of true annoyance since I arrived. It streaks down my spine like a warm slither of victory.
“Aren’t you?” I drawl, delivering what I hope is a pitiful glare.
He knows as well as I do that I outmaneuvered him for months. If it wasn’t for my unfortunate mishap with the authorities, he still wouldn’t have a clue who I am. I draw in a deep breath, my chest puffing with pride at taking on a man like Chase Walker and knocking him down a peg or two.
“I’ll remind you, Miss Quinn, that I—”
I don’t let him get the words out, but instead take a step toward him and reach up to physically smush his lips shut with the tips of my fingers. His eyebrows hit the ceiling.
“Ah, that’s better.” I sigh dramatically, releasing his mouth, feeling his whiskers tickle my fingers. “You should learn to shut up more often.”
His mouth hangs open for a second in pure astonishment, which delights me, before he snaps it shut and scowls down at me.
“I’m so sorry I’m late!” A rush of high-pitched words tumble into each other from behind Walker, ending the silent battle of the glares between us.
Rosie stands in the doorway, her pale cheeks flushed and the big silk bow she wears in short blonde hair more lopsided than usual. Boy, am I glad to see her. If anyone can back me up against a man like Walker, it’s her.
“There was a replacement subway service. Oh, and by the way, I got your apartment number mixed up. Did you know that one of your neighbors is incredibly rude?” she babbles, pushing her way through the door and all but barging Chase out of the way with her blank canvas.
“He saw me buzz your number and hurled abuse at me!”
I groan at this, lifting a hand to my forehead. More friction with Mr. Clay is the last thing I need. I’m already half expecting him to try and have me kicked out of the building.
“You will bring me along with you for every step of this investigation, Miss Quinn.” The deep timbre has an authoritative edge that screams boardrooms, paying no mind to the fact I’m internalizing plans to avoid my angry neighbor for all eternity.
“We’ll go back together tomorrow.” Without waiting for a reply, he turns.
“I can’t tomorrow, I have work.” I huff, the sole of my boot hammering a muffled, agitated beat on the carpet.
“After work, then,” he throws over his shoulder and stalks away, moving through my front door with the grace of a jungle cat and out of sight.
“Fine!” I hurl after him, because quite frankly I can’t think of anything clever to say and it’s been a long day. All I want to do is listen to crime documentaries in the bath and pretend I don’t exist.
I don’t address the perplexed stares as I turn with a defeated slant to my shoulders and trudge right past paint club and toward my bedroom.