Great Exploitations: Sin in San Fran (9 page)

“What made it so impossible not to notice her?” I tried to keep all emotion from my voice. I wasn’t sure it worked.

Henry shifted in his seat again. “Because she wasn’t wearing any clothes.”

Some filthy words filtered through my head. They were as prolific as they were creative, but they came from a place of irrationality. From my standpoint as an Eve, the competition sauntering up to Henry Callahan in her birthday suit was a gift to me. Even if I hadn’t known Henry for years, I knew enough about him to know that.

That the competition’s great big plan was to offer her naked self up on a fake gold platter was laughable. Henry Callahan wasn’t the kind of Target who’d do a woman the instant the goods were offered. That wasn’t the way he worked. He required finesse, a slow-simmering romance . . . his Errand was far more delicate than any others I’d worked, and not just because we were ex-lovers. The competition had effectively thrown herself out of the game by missing the mark
big
time.

I should have been rejoicing. Throwing imaginary confetti into the air. But I wasn’t. I was fuming, feeling like lava was about to explode from the top of my head.
Skanky, slutty bitch.
That was what kept playing on repeat through my red-hot head. Those were the emotions of a jealous girlfriend, not a triumphant competitor. Realizing that only made me more angry.

When I realized the guy sitting across from me was appraising me with that curious look again, I pulled myself together—partly—and reminded myself that I was the best in the business because I didn’t let emotions get in the way of success.

“She was naked? What was that you were just saying about no one hitting on you?”

Henry shrugged. “Whatever that was last night was not her hitting on me. I mean, when you hit on someone, you smile at them a bit longer than you would anyone else, or you ask them out to dinner, or you buy them a drink. You
don’t
show up to a business meeting without any clothes on while your boss is drafting a quarterly report to his shareholders.” Henry shook his head as though he couldn’t imagine why a pretty young woman would throw herself at him without any (or much) warning. That unassuming way of his had piqued my attention all those years ago. To Henry Callahan, he was nothing special—at least no more than anyone else.

“Sorry to burst your hitting-on-protocol bubble, but she was hitting on you, Henry. Hitting on you hardcore.” I cleared my throat. “At least, she was definitely hoping to make your
core
hard.” When I gave him a teasing wink, he wadded up a sticky note and tossed it at me.

“No, not hitting on me. She was off of her meds. Or she was taking too many. Or she had been possessed. Or she had mistakingly identified me as her boyfriend. Or—”

“Or maybe she just saw you as the great guy all the rest of us see,” I said, right before contemplating throwing myself through the plate-glass window behind him. I might have even gone for it if I wasn’t certain the glass was strong enough to withstand a person trying to throw themselves out of it. It was a software development company we were talking about. A handful of employees made a good run for the windows every week. If the boss didn’t install heavy-duty glass, he’d lose half of his employees in a year.

“The rest of all
who
see?” he asked, swiveling so he was square in front of me.

“I don’t know,” I snapped, narrowing my eyes. “Are you looking for names? Because I haven’t documented each and every one.”

Henry folded his arms and stared at me without blinking. “I’m only looking for one name.”

Shit!
was the theme of the day. From walking in to two empty desks, to hearing about the tramp competition bearing it all last night, to Henry watching me and waiting for an answer. I knew the question. I also knew the answer, but I couldn’t give it to him. Clearing my throat, I looked away. It made it easier to remind myself that I was there to destroy him. “Since you’re paying me a hooker’s wage, you might want to get me to work so I can start making you some money instead of just costing you a bunch.”

Henry was clearly used to my sudden conversation changes. “Are you sure you’re ready to start work? After everything that happened last week?” He examined my face, his eyes lingering over the places where the bruises had almost vanished. “You can take some more time before starting if you need it. We’d pay you for sick time, of course, so if you’re worried about money—”

“I’m not worried about money,” I stated, feeling like the biggest liar in the world. If I wasn’t worried about money, I wouldn’t have been so eager to take the Errand. The one that would pay eight figures. Sure, most of my motivation had been my thirst for revenge, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to the serious dollar signs as a big draw.

“Then why are you here, Eve?” he asked. “You might be able to disguise it well, but you’re still moving with a bit of a limp, and I swear to god you’ve got more bruises than I left you with a couple of days ago.”

I wasn’t going to have that conversation either. Rising, I started for the door. I could find the R&D building on my own, thank you very much. There might have been a small city of them on the C.I. campus, but I’d search every one before I’d have that conversation with him. “Don’t swear to god, Henry. You know what they say. That’s your first step toward making a deal with the devil.”

“Who’s to say I haven’t done so already?” he said as I was walked out the door.

I stopped with my hand on the door and sighed. “We all have. At some point, at some time, we all get our hands dirty. It’s part of playing life’s game.” Glancing at my hand, I waved it at him. “Some of us just get our hands dirtier than others.” And then I slipped out of his office.

IT HAD BEEN one hell of a first day. Henry had been right when he said his R&D developers were like a team of huskies who would run themselves to death without someone monitoring them to make sure they took food, water, and even bathroom breaks. They were the kind of crazed workers who’d wear adult diapers if it was socially acceptable. I was pretty sure a couple of them had already stooped to that low.

I set a reminder in my calendar to update the team policy sheet with Rule #41:
Diapers shall not be considered a justifiable substitute for using the bathroom when one is physically capable.
On the first draft, I’d written “mentally and physically,” but I changed that when I realized that if someone was sporting an adult diaper like it was no big deal, they could not be considered “mentally” capable. Overall though, the team was easy to like. Other than piecing together more routine progress meetings and brainstorm a few hiccups in some code, my first day at
work
work hadn’t been too shabby.

Then I got the email from Henry. The one that was too personal for a work email address. The one where he’d said he wanted to get together and “talk” . . . whatever that meant. He didn’t need to spell it out, however, for me to infer exactly what he wanted to talk about.

He wanted to know what had happened in Tampa. Who’d hurt me, why I was keeping quiet about it, and why it had happened in the first place. He wanted to talk about things that were off limits. He wanted to get to the bottom of whatever was going on with me, make it better, and solve the problem. He wanted to solve my problems, and my worries, and
me.

But I didn’t want to be solved. I didn’t want to be seen as a problem Henry Callahan could put his magic touch on and make it all better. I didn’t want . . .

I didn’t want . . .

. . . I couldn’t remember what I didn’t want. Life had become so overgrown with complications and deceitfulness, I couldn’t remember what I did and didn’t want anymore. I couldn’t decide what was real and what wasn’t. I felt like a ball of confusion and regret and uncertainty.

Probably not the best way to feel when replying to elusive emails from my boss, my Target, my ex-lover, and my current question-mark.

I basically told him that from there on out, he was my boss and my boss only and if it wasn’t job related, not to bring it up to me in email, phone, or personal correspondence. My email might have been peppered with a few colorful adjectives and creative adverbs.

Giving the email finger to my boss wasn’t the ideal way to end my day.

All of my employees had left for the night by the time I trudged out of Building E. The C.I. campus was dark, but several windows had light still shining brightly through. I tried not to notice, but the corner windows of the top floor of the executive building were bright. Which meant if he hadn’t already, Henry was reading my email right that minute.

I hurried for the Mustang in the back forty. I was almost to my car when some neon lights a couple of blocks down the road caught my attention. Other than a two-hour massage and a lobotomy, liquor was exactly what I needed. I’d been in such a rush to shower after the Tucker Errand, I’d missed out on my ritual victory shot.

Kicking off my damn heels, I walked to the dive of a bar barefoot. When I stepped through the doors of “Dicks,” I got a few curious look. I couldn’t decide if the patrons were giving me those looks because I wasn’t wearing denim or leather or because I was
sans
shoes, but after a moment or two, everyone went back to their drinks. The place was surprisingly busy, so after weaving up to the bar, I slid onto an empty stool and waited to get the bartender’s attention.

I was still waiting a minute later—thinking about swing over the counter and pouring my own drink—when someone slid onto the empty bar stool beside me. I was busy glaring at the bartender who, of course, made his way over after the customer who’d been there two seconds arrived.

“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked the person beside me, totally ignoring the glare of death I was aiming his way.

“A shot of the cheapest stuff you’ve got,” a familiar voice ordered. “And whatever she wants.”

I bit my cheek to keep from either chewing him out or pressing my mouth to his and not stopping until we were both blue. No matter where I went or what I did, Henry Callahan was around every corner. Sometimes fate dealt us a hand, and sometimes we dealt our own hand.

I was done letting fate hold the cards.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” I said, keeping my eyes forward despite feeling Henry’s bore through me.

The bartender inspected our suits and lingered on Henry’s watch before shaking his head. “Two shots of the cheapest stuff I’ve got coming up.”

When he turned around to grab a giant jug from down in one of the cabinets, Henry and I stayed quiet. I could feel everything he was keeping back, everything he wanted to say.

“Sorry about that email,” I said as the bartender slid the shot glasses in front of us. My nose curled—it was three feet away and already burning my nose hair.

Henry nudged me. “I’m sorry about
my
email.”

Letting a small smile form, I turned and grabbed my shot. I tried to not let the irony of repeating Henry’s and my celebration tradition from back in college hit me full on or else it would have knocked me off of the stool. “To past regrets and future regrets.” I lifted my glass.

He clanged mine with his. “I’ll drink to that.”

We downed our shots and puckered our faces as we slammed our glasses on the counter upside down.

“I missed that, Eve,” Henry said after he’d managed to shake the pucker from his face.

It might have been a while since Henry’d done a two-dollar shot, but it was still the way I celebrated my few victories in life. I couldn’t decide what kind of victory this one was—a personal or professional one—but it was a victory nonetheless.

I nudged Henry’s leg. “I missed that, too.”

Thank you for reading GREAT EXPLOITATIONS (Sin in San Fran) by
NEW YORK TIMES
&
USA TODAY
Bestselling Author, Nicole Williams.

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