The Assistants(36)

Emily and Ginger leaned back, appeased. They returned to their drinks.

It was fine with me that the two of them could mistake such a statement to mean they would be enjoying Robert’s wealth. At this point my main concern was that neither of them screech up to the Titan building in a red Ferrari. Now that I effectively ruled the purse strings of the scheme, I could keep Emily and Ginger from sabotaging themselves, and me.

Wendi’s dreams of a Marxian class war were another story—and an argument for another day. For the moment, that crisis had been averted. I was in control of everything.

“For now though,” I added, shooting a look specifically at Wendi, “nobody tell anyone else about this. Okay?”

There was agreement all around—except from Wendi. “What do you mean don’t tell anyone? What good is my program if you don’t use it to its full potential? We can’t build a network in a cone of silence.”

Or maybe Wendi’s dreams of a Marxian class war were in fact an argument for today.

“I never agreed to build any network,” I said as calmly as I could.

Wendi reared back. Her horns stood on end. “I thought we had an understanding.”

“I know you did,” I said. “But here’s what you need to understand. I’m just trying to keep myself out of jail. I’m sorry, but—”

“No.” Wendi raised her palm to my face and I braced myself to be hit. “You’re better than that. You’re better than apologizing after you betray my trust on purpose.”

There was betrayal going on all over the place, wasn’t there?

“Wendi, what do you want me to say? I’m not an anarchist, or whatever it is you consider yourself. I’m not an activist. I don’t even like activists. I think they’re annoying and self-righteous, and often smelly.”

I looked to Emily and Ginger for support, which they gamely provided.

“Very often smelly,” Emily said.

Wendi crossed her arms over the chest of her black hoodie. “Well, what’s to stop me from telling people? What can you threaten me with? I can rat the three of you out tomorrow if I choose to.”

My eyes must have gone black or something because Emily, Ginger, and Lily drew back, awaiting my reaction.

“Okay, Wendi,” I said with a directness that surprised even me. I really wished she hadn’t gone there. It forced me to the exact position I didn’t want to go to. “Here’s how this is going to work. Look around this table, because it ends with us. We’ll use your site to pay off Ginger’s debt, and everybody wins. You get to screw Robert out of some money, and the rest of us all get to walk away debt-free. And most important, no one goes to jail. On the other hand . . .”

I paused and nobody moved. My apparent composure had befuddled them. I sounded like a boss.

“If you tell anyone else about this, I’m going to come after you. And that goes for everyone here.”

My voice was pure intimidation. I was reminding myself a little of Robert.

“Remember this.” I leaned back in my chair. “Robert likes me better than any of you. I’ve been to his ranch. He calls me Shooter. So he’s way more likely to believe me when I tell him it was all of you—that you all teamed up against me, forced me, blackmailed me, threatened me. Or better yet, that you, Wendi, are single-handedly trying to mastermind an anarchist plot against him.”

Silence.

Wendi stared at me hard, pulled her cigarette out from behind her ear, and contemplated it. Then she stood up, shook her horns, muttered something in Chinese, and headed for the door.

The others waited patiently for me to say something.

“Are we all clear?” I asked.

I found myself gripping my tequila too tightly. Robert’s drink of choice. Herradura A?ejo on the rocks with a little lime. I wondered how many limes I had cut into triangular wedges in the past six years. Eight hundred? Nine hundred? A thousand?

It didn’t matter. The lime cutter was officially gone, replaced by this woman sitting here now.





15




THE MOMENT I stepped into the office I knew something was wrong because Robert’s door was closed and all his electronic shades were in the down position. Motherf*cker, I thought. I’d been hoping for a laid-back morning. I had just set my bagel and coffee down silently onto my desk and gently lowered myself into my chair when my phone rang.

It was him.

How in the world . . . ? Could he just sense me through the shades? Were they designed like a one-way surveillance mirror or something?

“Good morning, Robert,” I said as normally as possible.

“You’re here.”

“Yes.”

“Can you come into my office?”

Shit.

“Of course,” I said.

It was only three steps from my desk to his office door, a five-second walk at most, but in that time I was able to imagine in detail just how I would cover my face with my hands, throw myself down on his feet, and beg for forgiveness. I was being blackmailed, I would tell him. I’m still being blackmailed, I would lie. I’ll get all the money back for you, I’d promise impossibly. I would never intentionally do anything to hurt you, not after all you’ve done for me.

It was the longest five-second walk of my life, the aching in my chest and the metallic taste of fear in my mouth assuring me of what I was truly terrified of, more than going to jail—letting Robert down.