The Devil You Know (The Devils #3)(3)

“Care to share the conversation?” Debbie snaps at the two of us.

“We were talking about Sharpies, for labeling the food,” I reply smoothly. “I just asked Terri to order some.”

“It’s weird, then,” says Ben, eyes glinting with malice, “that she’d respond by saying Chris Hemsworth.”

For a single moment I picture whipping one of my heels across the table—his cry of pain, the brief triumph I’d feel before I remember I’ve done this in front of the most litigious people in LA.

Fortunately, Arvin Fields, managing partner, enters the room before I can act. Arvin is approximately one million years old, but shows no signs of retiring, and he’s still younger than McGovern, who likely remembers voting for John Adams in our nation’s third election.

“As you know,” he begins, “there are changes coming.” His speech is gratingly slow, which isn’t a product of age but more a tactic to wind us all up. He likes his underlings to be like a swarm of angry bees, fighting for dominance, stinging anything in their path.

Which is why Ben and I have both done well here. We were already angry bees when we arrived.

“At the end of this year, two of our partners will be retiring.” I sit up straighter. The announcement. “We’re hoping one of you can step up to the plate.”

My head jerks. “One?” I ask, my voice sharper than I’d like.

“Just one. Over the past decade, we’ve seen a lot less work from certain sectors, and it’s cut into our profits. We’ll be watching you very closely this winter, so may the best man, or woman, win.”

It feels like someone just put a hole in my lungs and all the air is escaping. I deserve to make partner, and instead of just giving it to me like they should, they’re going to turn it into a fucking competition. One Ben will go out of his way to make sure I lose.

My phone vibrates in my lap and I glance at it.

Ben: Uh oh :-( Sorry about the bad news.

God, I hate him so much. He has my number thanks to the company directory. He’s only used it abusively, thus far. As I have, in turn.

Me: Bad news for whom?

Ben: I thought that was obvious. It’ll be fun watching you on your best behavior for a few months, though.

Me: Best behavior? The standards here are pretty low. As long as I’m not caught in the bathroom with a client’s spouse, I should be in the clear.

Ben had a little incident at his first holiday party with FMG, during which he got caught with a client’s drunk wife. It’s the only thing he’s ever seemed embarrassed about.

I try to reference it whenever possible, obviously.

That devil in my chest is cackling maniacally while Ben reads the text, but he merely leans back in his seat, a casual smile on his generous mouth, eyes gleaming behind absurdly thick lashes.

Ben: You sure bring that up a lot. It’s almost like you wish it was you.

The skin on my neck tingles, as if he’s whispered those words in my ear—his voice soft as velvet, dark as the grave. I turn my phone facedown, ending the conversation. I wonder if I can report him, but as I go over what was said, I realize it doesn’t make me look great either.

Whatever.

I’m about to be FMG’s first female partner, at which point I will begin crushing the boys’ club here under my very expensive heels. And Ben Tate is where I’ll start.





3





My father calls more often than I’d like, which is to say he still calls on occasion when I wish he’d drop off the face of the Earth. He’s a man who always wants something from you, a man incapable of a genuine gesture. If he gives you a gift, a smile, a compliment…rest assured he is about to ask for far more in exchange.

What he wants, always, is my time and attention. None of this is done out of love—it’s simply his innate need to win at all costs. He still wants to win a divorce that took place nearly fifteen years ago, during which he stole everything from my mom but custody of me, and then he came back and stole that too.

I’m twenty-nine, way too old to be a pawn, but he still does his best, offering extravagant vacations, timed to hurt my mother—on her birthday, or Mother’s Day—and claims it’s a coincidence. When I was younger, he said he’d pay for college, but only if I spent the summers with him and his new wife on Nantucket. Law school? Sure. But I’d have to give him every Thanksgiving and winter break in exchange.

I take a vicious sort of pleasure in being the one thing he can’t buy.

“Tell him I’m busy,” I say to Terri when he calls.

She gives me one of those heavy sighs of hers, the kind that says she doesn’t approve of ignoring a parent, even if he’s an asshole.

“Gemma,” she says, “just talk to him. He’s called so often even I’m starting to feel bad for him.”

I love Terri, but sometimes I wish the other associates kept her busy enough that she’d have less time for scolding me into responsible adult behavior.

Internally groaning, I hit the speaker button, my voice civil and nothing more. “Hi, Dad.”

“I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for a while. FMG must be keeping you busy.”

“They are.” I turn to my laptop and start clearing out junk mail.

“So, have they made you partner yet?”