Chapter 2
CHAPTER
TWO
Three weeks into my dream job, celebrating it requires a negotiated day pass.
The Embarcadero runs along the edge of San Francisco with the city on one side and old warehouses reimagined into ferry tours, museums, and restaurants I can’t afford on the other.
There’s exactly one brunch spot that’s semi-affordable, and the patio is always packed with fresh college graduates intermixed with dropouts pretending not to have a trust fund.
Everyone’s planning their escape from trading time for money, and our four-top of Berkeley journalism alumni sticks out amid the drone of startup strategizing.
Every table around us seems to be pitching the Uber for dog food or the Netflix of artisanal ice. My friends raise their mimosas as Erik makes a toast.
“To dreams coming true, even for late bloomers,” he says, draining his glass. “At, what is it again? Cable Car Clippings?”
“Don’t be an asshole,” JP says. “Cable Car Chronicles. Right, dude?”
“Whatever.” Erik flags the server for another pitcher. “Took him three weeks to pencil in celebration brunch.”
“Took me three weeks to get a day off,” I correct, refilling my empty glass. “And I plan to enjoy it.”
Samantha’s gaze flicks over me. “How’s it really going?”
“It’s…” The truth catches in my throat in a way it never does with strangers, because strangers never get the chance to hear it at all.
“Honestly, it’s kind of weird.” Their faces brace, and I rush in before they can rehash our group text.
“I know. Sleeping with my boss isn’t ideal. But we graduated over a year ago, and…”
They can fill in the rest: rent, rejection, rat race, repeat.
“And your boss?” Samantha asks.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes.
Evie: Pop quiz. What year did he found Query? Get it right, and I’ll misbehave later.
Warmth floods my ears as I lock the screen.
“Thought she gave you the day off,” JP says.
“It’s complicated,” I say. “She’s obsessed with my assignment. It’s been three weeks, and I’m still not doing anything besides studying and answering her little quizzes.”
Samantha nods. “Preparation is the job. Some undercover journalists spend years preparing. Think you can handle three weeks.”
“I’m not complaining. I’m getting paid, and when I answer correctly she—” I stop, but my face betrays me.
Erik barks a laugh. “Fucking Pavlov’s dog.”
JP’s expression doesn’t change. “What if you get it wrong?”
“She gets angry,” I admit. “Like I’m wasting her time. Not dangerous.”
Samantha’s mouth tightens. “Marcus—”
“Relax. I get my dream job plus free rent, and she gets a shot at a story that saves her paper. She needs me as much as I need her.”
“Mutually beneficial,” Erik says. “Also, I always thought you’d wind up with a guy.”
Samantha punches his arm.
JP leans back, and for a second we both find something very interesting off in opposite directions. Freshman year, I borrowed his laptop once and got an accidental education. We never talked about it, and now he’s engaged to a woman. His business, not mine.
“Not like it’s a crime for Marcus to use his looks to get a job,” Erik says. “Come on, Sam. You don’t love living in a world where a girlboss takes advantage of her muscular new hire?”
“She’s not taking advantage of me,” I say, a lousy lie to my practiced ears. “Or, we’re at least taking advantage of each other.”
“And you’re okay with that?” Samantha presses, softer now. “You know we’re here if you’re in trouble. Or in too deep. Or if you made some kind of mistake.”
The question touches the place I keep locked, and the two voices I can never quite silence answer.
My father: This is what you deserve.
My mom: This is what you want.
I nod instead of telling them I lied to get the job. It isn’t a secret between us, because I’ve never shown them that part of me. It’s a secret between me and myself, and the rush is half the point.
“Get this,” I say, grabbing for something lighter. “When I called my landlord to end my old lease, I thought he’d demand the six months I still owe. All he did was cheer until I hung up.”
Three heads nod, smiles tight with the kind of love that’s steeped in sloppy college nights, Berkeley’s dreaded Data Journalism course, and years of supporting each other through the ups and downs of life’s bullshit.
Their nods are them trying to figure out how to be there for me before I’ve decided exactly where I am.
Being laughed out of overdue bills into a job with an obsessive editor who pays me to memorize a billionaire’s life and rewards me when I do…
“This is a good thing,” I say, deciding it’s true because I need it to be.
Evie’s apartment splits the top floor of an old Cole Valley Edwardian with her neighbor, a hallway dividing it down the center. The same carpet on the stairs spills into the hall, worn by years of tenants walking dogs, moving in and out, going to work, and living life.
I trudge up the stairs to bide my time. I don’t want to go inside our apartment because it isn’t ours at all.
I’m just crashing until I fail the job she seems convinced is impossible.
This place is Evie’s, and this job belongs to someone who didn’t need to lie and flex their way into her good graces.
My stomach churns as I open the door. Because of the bottomless mimosas, obviously.
The apartment is much bigger than the one I left, the one I’d stopped paying for months earlier. There’s a living room and kitchen, partitioned by a little quartz peninsula. One hallway branches off with three doors, a shared bathroom at the end, and a bedroom on either side.
“Where have you been?”
Her tone shackles my attention, and I clench to keep from snapping back with None of your business. A working lie is a cage I’ve learned to sit still in. I might not be following the perfect playbook, but this place is amazing, my job amazing, my… whatever she is, at least hot.
“Brunch,” I answer. “Seeing some old college journalism friends. We all graduated together.”
Mimosa-fog keeps me from remembering if I’d fudged my graduation year or left it true to life.
“You know you can’t tell them about Alistair, your assignment—any of it. Tell me you know that.”
“You think this is my first rodeo?” I flop onto the couch and dig out my phone.
It is, but can’t a guy get a single day off? She won’t even let me do my actual job.
She walks over. “Are you drunk?”
“It’s my day off. I haven’t seen them in a long time. Besides, I’m not actually undercover yet.”
“It’s barely noon,” she says, scanning me like she’s checking for damage. “You can’t be hungover tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“What’s Alistair’s coffee order?”
I exhale through my nose. “Half-caf nitro with lion’s mane and ashwagandha, at eight-oh-three every weekday, from the same place. Beluga Brew’s the only shop that has whatever the fuck those ingredients are, and it’s one block from Query’s San Francisco headquarters along Spear Street.”
She perches on the edge of the couch beside me, looking like a proud scientist watching an experiment work for the first time.
“I think you’re ready,” she says.
“Tomorrow?”
“He’s back in town. Which means he should be there.” Her gaze pins me. “Beluga Brew is our best bet.”
Evie has so many plans, all attempting to get me close to Alistair, but only one involves his coffee spot.
“Beluga Brew’s low stakes,” I say, and the word “please” slips out against my will.
“It’s a good first try,” she says, still expecting me to fail.
Two tries max, she’d said. After that, he or his security will remember my face and that will be the end of it—my job, my free rent, all of it.
She leans closer, chin dipping. “Tell me you’ll do whatever it takes.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me you’re not too drunk.” She guides my hand to her breast. “Because if you are, we’ll wait. And you can start begging again tomorrow.”
“I’m not too drunk,” I say, leaning in.
She pulls back an inch, eyes bright. “How many years since Alistair founded Query?”
“Seventeen,” I say, desperate to be right. “Eighteen if you count the garage prototype.”
Her mouth curves. “Good. You need to get ready,” she adds, then, sweetly, “but why don’t you come to bed for one last quiz?”
“Because you creep me out.” The truth drops between us like a bomb that starts ticking.
Evie doesn’t move. Her smile stays where it is, but the warmth behind it disappears, leaving the expression arranged on her face like something chosen instead of felt.
Oh, fuck.
I dodge her gaze with a laugh that doesn’t quite work and kiss her neck. “Kidding. That sounds great.”
Her eyes flick to my mouth. Then her hand slips into my waistband and clamps down hard enough to remind me I’m not funny.
“You’re lucky I like liars,” she says.
She hauls upward, rising as she pulls, and I stumble to my feet with her grip still locked on me. She laughs without letting go.
I move quietly down the hall, too afraid of another slip. There’s nothing sexy about being yanked around dick first.
She gets rougher once we’re in her room, playfulness discarded for control, and by the time she pushes me onto the bed I’m rehearsing tomorrow’s plan instead of wanting this. She tugs my shirt over my head, puts her mouth on my chest, and works lower until my pants are around my thighs.
The first lick drags me back into my body.
I’m soft.
No wonder. Tomorrow, all this becomes real. Tomorrow, I walk up to one of the richest men on the planet and pretend I belong.
Erik’s stupid comment flashes again—thought you’d turn out to be gay—and with it, the thing JP and I never discussed.
When I’d awakened his laptop, the image waiting there had no business sticking in my brain: a man suspended in a leather swing, legs spread, and another looming above him with stubble, abs, and an all-too-hungry expression.
Heat rolls through me.
“Finally,” Evie says, and then she takes me deep, pleased with herself.
I close my eyes before she can see too much. Drunk, nervous, distracted. That’s all this is.
I’ve been preparing for weeks. I can get through a few more minutes with Evie before getting to work.