Chapter 2 #2
I read further. She has thought through the alternatives.
She has considered, and rejected, the option of bringing in a male colleague to act as a co-planner — too obvious, undermines her authority, makes her look like she needed help.
She has considered, and rejected, leaning on Diesel's name more aggressively — burns through a finite favor, antagonizes the other clubs by pulling rank.
She has considered, and rejected, hiring a security detail — gives the impression of fear, which she correctly identifies as the wrong impression to give.
She has landed, by process of elimination, on the option that requires the least disruption to her existing operation: a low-key, prospect-level relationship that signals MC association without making her look like she's playing for a championship that isn't hers.
I have to admit. It is a hell of a document.
"Why a prospect?" I ask. "Why not a patched member?"
"A patched member would be too high-status.
The other clubs would assume I was using him to leverage.
A prospect is a colleague-level association — close enough to confer credibility, low enough to seem organic.
Also, prospects work odd hours, which gives us a plausible excuse for irregular contact.
Also, I asked Diesel for a liaison, and you are the liaison, and the optics of dating my own liaison are easier to manage than dating a member I don't have a working reason to spend time with. "
"You thought about the optics."
"I thought about the optics for forty minutes last night. It is in the document, under section three, paragraph two."
I scroll. It is. It is in the document, under section three, paragraph two.
"Ms. Abbasi."
"Yes."
"I'm going to ask you a serious question."
"All right."
"Have you ever, in your entire life, done a single thing on impulse?"
She considers this. She actually considers it.
She tilts her head and looks at the ceiling, and I watch her go through what is clearly a mental rolodex of her life choices, and finally she says, "I once bought a houseplant without researching its light requirements.
The plant died. I have not done anything on impulse since. "
"How old were you when this happened?"
"Twenty-two."
"Ms. Abbasi. You are twenty-six."
"I am aware of my age."
"You are telling me that the most impulsive thing you have done in four years is buy a fern."
"It was a peace lily, and yes."
I laugh. I cannot help it. I laugh, and she watches me laugh, and her mouth does the thing again — the small, unwilling, almost-smile — and this time she does not catch herself, and I see it, and I do not say anything about it, and I file the moment in the part of my brain that has, over the last week, been quietly clearing space.
"Ms. Abbasi."
"Yes."
"I should say no to this."
"I know."
"I should check with Diesel."
"You should."
"This is going to be a disaster."
"There is a non-zero risk."
"My road name is Jinx, Ms. Abbasi. You are looking at the worst possible candidate for any plan that involves not screwing up in public."
"I am also looking at a man who was hand-picked by the president of Iron Vow to be my liaison, who showed up three minutes early to today's meeting, who has not — in our four prior interactions — actually broken anything in my immediate presence, and who has, at every meeting, addressed me with a degree of respect that the other men in those meetings could stand to emulate.
I am aware of your reputation. I am asking you to set it aside for eleven weeks. "
I look at her. I look at the document on the tablet.
I look at the photograph of her parents.
I look at the chalkboard on the wall. I look at the woman who made a document, who drafted bullet points, who calculated the optics for forty minutes and concluded — somehow, for some reason that I will never fully understand — that a coffee-soaked prospect with a flat tire was the right answer to her problem.
I think about my list. The list in my pocket from yesterday. Don't volunteer for anything outside your assignment. It is, on its face, a violation.
But she didn't ask me to volunteer. She asked me to assist. She is, technically, my assignment.
This is a rationalization. I am aware that this is a rationalization. I do it anyway.
"All right," I say.
"All right?"
"All right. I'll do it."
She blinks. Just once. And in that single blink, I see something I did not see before — the briefest, smallest crack in the composure she has worn into the room with her, and through the crack a flash of something that might be relief, might be surprise, might be a third thing I do not have the vocabulary for.
It closes again immediately. She straightens.
She slides the tablet back across the desk to her side.
She says, "Wonderful. I'll draft a memorandum of understanding. "
"A what now?"
"A set of rules. A working document. Something we can refer back to. Don't worry, Mr. Brennan. I'll keep it short."
"Ms. Abbasi."
"Yes."
"I am beginning to suspect that you and I have very different definitions of the word short. "
She does not answer that. She does, however, allow the smile to stay on her face for one full second this time, and one full second, I have decided, is a perfectly respectable opening offer.
I extend my hand across the desk. She takes it.
Her palm is cool and dry and very steady.
My palm is, for reasons I refuse to investigate, slightly damp.
She notices. She does not comment. I am — I will say this, even though I shouldn't — already grateful for her in ways the contract has not yet accounted for.
"Mr. Brennan."
"Yes."
"Welcome to the project."