Until the Day I Die(29)

18

SHORIE

Not only is this Rhys’s office, but apparently he’s the boss. I know this because when we walk in, a kid yells out, “Hey, boss!” Then another one says, “Hide the cocaine!” and the rest of the room bursts out laughing. Rhys does not look amused.

There’s music playing, but no one’s partying. Instead, they’re sitting around on the tattered furniture, tapping away on computers or talking in groups in hushed voices.

“Um, everybody,” Rhys says. “This is Shorie. Shorie, everybody.”

Everybody—which, as far as I can tell, is just a bunch of college students—looks up and smiles and says, “Hi, Shorie,” in unison. I murmur a hello, and they go back to what they were doing.

Rhys steers me into a dark hallway. Before we can get to wherever it is we’re going, though, a lanky guy with a mop of blond hair, green frames, and unbuttoned shirttails that flap over a worn NASA T-shirt blocks our way. He’s holding up a brown bottle, some kind of craft beer I don’t recognize. He offers the beer to Rhys with a hat-tip flourish, even though he’s not wearing a hat.

Rhys hands the beer to me. “What the hell is going on in here, Low?”

“Campus Wi-Fi melted down. I told everyone to come here and we’d do a verbal. Get through it super quick. Tristan and Mackenzie brought snacks, and we had some of the stuff from last time, but you have no idea how hard it’s been to keep them out of your stash. I had Carly hide it in her . . . in the . . .” He suddenly takes note of my presence. “Oh, good! Are you the new comp girl? My God. You’re so pretty. You sure you’re not lost?” He guffaws.

“She’s not the new comp girl, Lowell. But could you . . . could you just excuse us a minute?”

Lowell grins a toothy grin. “I’m Lowell. Rhys’s assistant.”

“Shorie Gaines.”

His eyes widen, and he shakes his head. “Oh! Right! Of course.” I glance at Rhys, but he’s staring at Lowell with great intensity. Lowell and I shake, and Lowell does the goofy hat-tip thing again, this time at me. “It’s a pleasure, Shorie. Really. Welcome aboard. And well done, my man, if I do say so myself.”

“Okay, off we go.” Rhys grabs my hand, tugging me down the hall.

“Get her to fix our lame-ass website, while you’re at it!” Lowell calls after us, just as Rhys kicks open a slightly crooked door and hustles us inside a dimly lit room. He moves to shut the door behind me, but I catch it before he can. Our eyes meet, and I flash to a memory.

My dad, chasing five-year-old me through the house in a game of hide-and-seek and chanting a song: Eeny, meeny, miny, mo. I will find you wherever you go . . .

The creepy way he used to sing it as he prowled around always scared the shit out of me. So much so that at one point, I decided to turn it around on him. I hid in a closet and waited until I saw the doorknob just begin to turn. Then I shoved open the door and jumped out at him, letting loose with a high-pitched little “boo!” The plot had its intended effect. I don’t think I’d ever seen an adult scream like that.

Now, standing here in this guy’s bedroom, I’m overcome with all the same jittery hide-and-seek feelings. I have no idea what’s going to happen next. What I do know is that I’m the one who holds the power of “boo.”

I stand as straight as I can. “Does that guy know me?”

“No . . . ,” Rhys begins, flustered.

“He sort of acted like he did. And he congratulated you like you just bagged a trophy elephant.”

“That’s not what he meant, I swear. His social skills are rudimentary, at best. He’s like the antithesis of a wingman. He repels women away from his friends.”

He didn’t answer the question, and whatever that nonsense was that he did just spout, I’m not buying. But I don’t say anything, because I’m basically struck speechless at the sight of his room.

First of all, it’s huge. With a mega-expensive-looking platform bed on top of an antique rug. Persian, I think. There’s a painting on the wall—a tiny abstract oil of some kind of still life with oranges and a milk bottle on a rumpled tablecloth that looks like something you’d see in a Dutch museum. Up against the wall is a giant desk topped in black marble that looks like it belongs in a CEO’s office. Three huge, 4K monitors on the desk display elaborate-looking spreadsheets. Rhys must see me taking it all in because he moves to the desk and claps shut his laptop. The monitors go dark.

“What the hell was that?” I ask.

He sits in the chair—a black plastic futuristic thing that leans back with a sleek pneumatic whoosh. “It’s my business.”

“Shawarma-Rama?” I draw closer, magnetized by the information that just vanished from the screens.

“No. That’s where my buddy works. He was doing something for me, so I filled in for him.”

“He was doing something for you?”

“For my business.” He does a kind of half-hearted gesture at the computer screens.

“That’s your business? And all those kids out there?”

He swallows, and for the first time, it occurs to me that he seems nervous. Which is kind of a surprising development. Usually I’m the one feeling awkward in situations like these. Not that I’ve ever been in a situation quite like this.