Chapter 8 Rae
RAE
I order us both dirty martinis. Extra olives, extra blue cheese. I need every bit of moral support I can get.
It was another strange day of work, in the sense that absolutely nothing happened.
When I showed up at eight, Lukas’s door was shut, so I sat at my desk and waited.
I answered zero emails because none came for me.
I made zero phone calls because nobody told me who to call.
I took down zero notes because there were no meetings.
At noon, I ate a granola bar from my purse. As I chewed, I wondered if I should knock on his door.
I decided against it.
At three, I reorganized my desk drawers. I found myself listening for movement behind that door. The creak of leather, the clink of a glass, the catch of his lighter, anything.
I wondered again if I should knock. Again, I didn’t.
At five, with no sign of him, I gave up and left.
For all I knew, Lukas wasn’t even in there. Was it a test of some kind? Was I supposed to knock, or was I supposed to not knock? Pass or fail? Is this whole arrangement some elaborate game I don’t understand the rules to?
The martini arrives. I take a long sip and let the happy burn settle in my chest.
What am I even doing? A week ago, my life made sense. Was it stressful? Sure. Was I underpaid? Abso-freaking-lutely. But at least I knew where I stood. I knew who my boss was and what was expected of me.
Now, I’m sitting outside an empty office, taking notes at clandestine meetings, and getting yelled at for using a printer.
And the weirdest part, the part I can’t stop turning over in my head…
It’s not Kir.
Not Kir, who cornered me. Not Kir, who put his hands on me. Not Kir, who whispered things that should’ve kept me up at night.
Honestly, I hardly think about him.
When I close my eyes, I don’t see dark hair; I see silver. I don’t smell cinnamon; I smell sea salt and mint and cigarette smoke.
That’s messed up, right? The son is the one who touched me.
But the father is the one who won’t leave my head.
Jilly blows in ten minutes later, red hair flying, cheeks flushed from the cold. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. The F train was a nightmare. A mariachi band came in my car and wouldn’t stop playing until I tipped.”
“Oof. That’s bad luck.” I push her drink across the table. “Drink.”
“Well, you don’t have to twist my arm,” she teases. She slides into the booth, shrugs off her coat, and takes a long, thirsty chug.
It’s wild that she can get away with stuff like that.
Jillian is the kind of beautiful that makes other women hate her on sight.
It’s not fair, really. She’s got legs that go on forever, cheekbones that cats would kill for, and this mane of copper-red hair that always looks like she just stepped out of a shampoo commercial.
Even now, windblown and slightly sweaty from her sprint to the bar, she’s stunning.
We’re physical opposites in every way. Where I’m short, she’s tall.
Where I’m soft and curved, she’s lean and angular.
My hair can’t decide what it wants to be; hers knows exactly what it’s doing at all times.
She’s got these bright green eyes that miss nothing, freckles scattered across her nose, and a smile that’s gotten her out of more speeding tickets than I can count.
She’s also my favorite person on the planet.
“Okay.” She sets down her glass and fixes me with that fierce reporter’s stare. “Let’s cut right to the chase. What’s going on? You sounded weird on the phone the other night.”
I take a tentative sip of my martini. “Where do I even start?”
“The beginning is traditional,” she snarks.
I scowl, but with a gulp, I fill her in on everything. Kir cornering me at my desk. His hands under my shirt and the things he said. And then Lukas appearing out of nowhere, though whether he saved me or damned me remains to be seen.
“Wait, wait, wait.” Jilly holds up a hand. “The hot younger one had his hand up your shirt?”
“That’s what you’re focusing on?!”
“I’m a reporter, Rae,” she says primly. “I am simply trying to get the facts straight.” She gives me a royal waggle of the fingers. “Continue.”
I tell her about the job offer that wasn’t really an offer, the card with just a phone number. How Kir grabbed me in the hallway before I could leave and warned me about his father.
“‘He collects things he finds interesting,’” I repeat. “That’s what he said.”
“Creepy.”
“You’re telling me.”
I tell her about showing up Monday to find my desk gone. The weird interview with questions about cooking and sleeping and boyfriends. The fact that Lukas somehow knows exactly how much I owe for Gideon’s rehab.
“The exact amount?” Jilly gawks. “That’s specific.”
“I know.”
“Like, suspiciously specific.”
“I know.”
She’s quiet for a moment as she thinks. I can practically see the gears turning behind her eyes.
“And what does the actual job entail?” she asks. “This ‘special project’?”
“That’s the thing! I have no idea. He won’t tell me. I just sit outside his office all day and wait for something to happen.”
Her perfect eyebrows point sharply downward. “We’ve gone from ‘specific’ to ‘weird.’”
“It gets weirder.” I lower my voice. “There was this meeting yesterday. A bunch of scary-looking guys in a room with no windows. They were talking about shipments and routes and crews. At one point, someone mentioned ‘the cleanup’ and everyone just nodded, like, yep, cleanup, totally normal.”
Jilly’s eyebrows climb. “‘The cleanup’?”
“I don’t know what it means,” I say. “But it didn’t exactly sound like they were talking about vacuuming the carpets, you know?”
She dabs at her lips with a cocktail napkin. “This all sounds shady as hell.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“If you know that, hon, why are you still there?”
I stare into my martini. The lone remaining olive bobs in the gin like a tiny life preserver. “I need the money, Jill. You know I need the money. Gideon’s treatment isn’t cheap and my savings are basically nonexistent.”
“There are other jobs, though.”
“Not ones that pay this well. Not ones I can get without a degree.”
She sighs. “Fair point.”
“Besides.” I throw back the rest of my drink. “I’m curious now. Something weird is going on and I want to know what it is.”
Jilly snorts. “That’s my line. I’m supposed to be the one chasing stories.”
“Maybe it’s rubbing off on me.”
“God help us all.” She flags down the waiter for another round. “Okay. So what’s your read on the dad? Lukas?”
I hesitate. This is the part I’ve been dreading.
“I don’t know,” I say finally. “He’s… intense.”
“Intense how?”
“Intense like he could crush me with one hand and not even notice.”
Jilly crosses her arms on the table. “And you’re attracted to him.”
“What?” I balk. “No! I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” She’s grinning now as she points one manicured nail at me, looking like a fox in the henhouse. “Your whole face lit up when you started talking about him.”
“It did not!”
“It absolutely did. You got all flushed and breathy.”
“I’m drinking gin, Jilly. Gin makes people flushed.”
“Gin makes people honest. And you, my little lovebug, are one blue cheese martini away from detailing some very explicit sexual fantasies.”
I steal an olive from her glass and pop it in my mouth. “Can we focus, please? I’m trying to figure out if my new boss is a criminal mastermind and you’re making this about my nonexistent love life.”
“I can multitask.” But she sobers up a little. “Look, I hear you. Something’s off. The secret meetings, the no-paper-trail thing, all of it. It doesn’t add up to anything good.”
“So what do I do?”
Jillian considers that question as the bar noise swells around us. Clinking glasses, laughter, someone’s bad first date going terribly awry two tables over.
“Be careful,” she suggests finally. “That’s all I’ve got. Just be really, really careful.”
“I will,” I promise. “Careful is my middle name.”
“Your middle name is Edna.”
I wince. “As if I needed the reminder.”
She laughs, but there’s worry in her eyes. “I’m serious, Rae. If this guy is into something spooky, you don’t want to be collateral damage.”
“I know.” I push my empty glass aside. “Believe me, I know.”
We order a margherita flatbread to share as the conversation drifts to safer waters. “What about you?” I ask. “Any romantic prospects on the horizon?”
Jilly makes a sour face. “Hard pass.”
“Come on. Not even a little?”
“Not even a little.” She rips off a piece of crust with a bit of extra aggressiveness. “I’m done with all that. For good. I’ll die a nun.”
I hate that sound of an emotional door slamming closed in her voice, followed by emotional deadbolts shuttering and emotional chains latching and emotional chairs being dragged over and shoved under the emotional doorknob.
I was there for Jill’s bad times in a literal, physical sense—well, with the exception of The Year She Went Missing And Refuses to Explain—but even I don’t know the full extent of what she went through.
When it comes to matters of the heart, Jillian has always kept things to herself.
“Jilly Bean…”
“I mean it,” she insists. “A nun. I’ve sworn off men for good except for the loving embrace of my Lord and Savior.”
I sigh and raise my slice of pizza to her. “Amen. Peace be with you. Or whatever the saying is.”
“But that doesn’t mean you have to be a bitter old spinster like me!” Jilly taps her pizza slice against mine like a cheesy cheers. “You’re young. You’re cute. You should be out there, swiping right on mediocre men and having terrible sex.”
“Wow,” I deadpan. “You really know how to sell it.”
“Okay, but for real,” she insists. “I’m serious! When’s the last time you even went on a date?”
I think about it. “March?”
“March of what year?”
“Last year. I think. Maybe the year before.”
She sets down her pizza and grabs my hands across the table. “You need to get back on the apps. Hinge, Bumble, whatever the kids are flocking toward these days. Just put yourself out there and see what happens.”
It’s my turn to pull a sour face. “I tried the apps. They’re depressing.”
“That’s life as a modern woman. But you can’t just hide in your apartment forever, pining for some silver fox billionaire.”
“‘Pining’ is a really dramatic word choice, Bean.”
“That’s why they pay me the big bucks.” She clutches my fingers. “Download Hinge tonight. All you gotta do is look. Peek around. You don’t have to swipe on anyone. Just take a gander. Live a little. See what’s out there.”
I pull my hands back and reach for my drink. “Fine. I’ll think about it.”
“Promise?”
“I said I’ll think about it.”
She rolls her eyes, but she lets it drop and we move onto greener pastures. When we’ve had our fill of gossip, gin, and flatbread, we split the check and gather our things. I’m shrugging into my coat when I remember something else I meant to ask her.
“Hey, what ever happened with that big tip you mentioned? The one from Monday night?”
Jillian freezes for half a second. Then she’s back to normal, tugging her scarf around her neck. “Can’t talk about it.”
I ogle her. “Not even a hint?”
“Nope.” But her eyes are doing that bright, excited, high-on-life thing she gets when she’s onto something big.
“That good, huh?”
“Better than that, even.” She grabs her purse and slings it over her shoulder. “But I can’t jinx it. Not yet. When I can talk, you’ll be the first to know.”
“I better be.”
She pulls me into a tight hug. “Love you, RaeRae. Be safe.”
“Love you, too, Jilly Bean.”
She’s out the door before I can say anything else, red hair disappearing into the crowd on the sidewalk.
Once she’s gone, I turn in the opposite direction and start the trek home. I’m a block away from the subway when my phone vibrates with a notification.
UNKNOWN NUMBER
Return to office. Now.
I stop dead in the middle of the sidewalk. Someone bumps into me and mutters something rude in typical New York fashion, but I barely notice.
There’s neither a name nor an explanation.
But I know exactly who it is.
With a sigh, I turn around and start walking back toward Lazarev Tower.
When I step onto the fiftieth floor, I find a stack of files on my desk, hundreds of pages thick. A Post-it note on top says:
Compile, collate, and summarize. Handwritten notes only. Leave on my desk when finished.
— LL
I flip through the first file. It’s a barrage of names, dates, numbers. None of it means anything to me.
I look at the clock. It’s already past nine. I sigh.
Like father, like son.