Chapter 3
Grey
"Come in."
His voice is different at night, lower, rougher, like it's finally allowed to rest.
He's at his desk. Jacket off. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. His forearms are tan and corded with muscle, oh how much I want to put my mouth on the inside of his wrist where the veins show and just bite.
"Close the door," he says.
The sound of the latch clicking into place is louder than it should be. Or maybe my ears are just sharper now that we're alone.
"Sit." He gestures to the chair across from his desk.
The leather is cold or maybe I'm running hot, I can't tell anymore. He doesn't speak for a long moment. Just looks at me. Gray eyes moving over my face like he's reading something written there. I meet his gaze and don't look away. I let him look.
"William," he says finally. "What do you think?"
I blink because for a second, I forgot about the file. Forgot about William, about work, about everything except the way his throat moves when he swallows.
"He's lying," I say.
Cain's eyebrows lift. "About what?"
"About the DUI. He said it was a mistake. A one-time thing, but he's been pulled over three times in the past two years. Twice for speeding, once for reckless driving. He has a pattern of poor judgment, and he's hiding it because he knows we'll find it."
I didn't mean to say all of that. Those were the things I found when I was digging deeper than I should have.
Cain leans back in his chair and studies me.
"How do you know about the other incidents?"
Because I'm not just your secretary.
"I did my research," I say. "Thoroughly."
A long pause. Then Cain smiles.
"Good," he says. "That's what I pay you for."
He didn't pay me for that. He pays me to schedule meetings and answer phones. But I don't correct him.
"We'll counter at sixty," he says, turning back to his screen. "No equity. He's not stable enough for equity. Have the revised offer on my desk by tomorrow morning."
"Of course, sir."
I stand up, walk to the door, my hand is on the handle when his voice stops me.
"Grey."
I turn. He's looking at me over the top of his monitor. The light from the screen casts his face in shadows and sharp angles.
"You've been here, what, five months?"
"Almost five."
"And you're already my best employee." He says it like a fact. Like the weather. "Most people take a year to learn how I work. You figured it out in weeks."
Because I've been watching you, hundreds of photos, recordings, and a log of your habits all on my laptop.
"I pay attention," I say.
"I've noticed."
His voice dips on the last word.
"See you tomorrow, sir."
"Seven the Thomas meeting."
"I'll be here."
I step into the hallway and pull the door closed behind me. My hands are shaking not from fear, from something worse. Hope.