Tangled (The Tangled Series)(21)

That’s when I see her, walking past the bar on her way back from the restroom. She spots me and walks over, a smile spread across her face.

“So? How’d it go? He’s with us, isn’t he? I knew it, Drew! I knew the minute we showed him our projections he was done. And I know working together hasn’t been the easiest thing, but I think your father was right. We do make a pretty good team, don’t we?”

I swallow hard. I look down at her hand on my arm and then back up into those sweet, innocent eyes, and…I just can’t do it. I can’t tell her.

“I blew it, Kate. Anderson’s not interested.”

“What? What do you mean? What happened?”

I stare at my nine-hundred-dollar shoes. “I screwed up. Can we just get out of here?”

When I look back up, her face is a mask of confused sympathy. Here I just told her that I blew the account—our account—and there’s not a trace of anger in her expression. God, I’m such an *.

“Well, let me talk to him. Maybe I can fix this.”

I shake my head, “No, you can’t.”

“Let me at least try.”

“Kate, wait…” But she’s already walking away, toward the table where Anderson still sits.

You ever been on the freeway, stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic? And when you finally get to the head of the line, you realize the backup is because of an accident? Maybe not a bad one—maybe just a fender bender that’s already been moved to the side of the road. And all that traffic—all that wasted time—is because every driver who passes the scene has to slow down and take a look.

It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? And you swear that when you pass by, you’re not going to look—just on principle alone. But when you get there, and you’re driving past the dented doors and flashing lights and smashed bumpers, what do you do?

You slow down and look. You didn’t want to, but you can’t help it. It’s morbid. Absurd. But that’s human nature for you. Watching Kate walk up to Anderson feels just like looking at the aftermath of an accident. And no matter how much I want to—I just can’t look away.

She stands next to his chair, a perfect, professional smile on her lips. If you look closely, you’ll see the moment when what he’s asking for registers in her mind. See how her smile freezes? Her brow wrinkles slightly because she can’t actually believe he’s suggesting what he is. And then she’s stiff and unsure. Should she tell him to go f*ck a duck? Should she laugh it off or politely refuse? While the wheels are turning in Kate’s head, Anderson takes his finger—can you see the slime dripping off it?—and trails it slowly down her bare arm.

And that’s it. I snap out of my stupor. And I see red. Bright, neon, Technicolor red.

You ever see A Christmas Story? You know toward the end when Ralphie beats the ever-loving shit out of the bully? I hope to God you’ve seen it. Because then you’ll know exactly what I mean when I say I’m about to go real f*cking Ralphie on this son of a bitch.

I walk over and put myself in front of Kate. “Touch her again and I’m going to throw you through that windowpane. They’ll be picking pieces of you up off Fifty-Forth for days.”

He chuckles. Sounds like the Crypt Keeper, doesn’t he?

“Calm down, Son.”

Son? Is this dipshit for real?

“You know something, Drew. I like you.”

Now there is a concept that scares the piss out of me.

“I need a man like you around,” he continues. “Someone who’s not afraid to speak his mind. To tell me what he really thinks. It seems as though my…contingency isn’t going to be met. But I’m going to sign with you and your firm anyway. What do you think of that?” He leans back in his chair and takes a sip of his wine. Completely confident in the fact that I will disregard anything he’s said or done for the chance to get my hands on his money.

“I’m going to say a great big no to that, Saul. See, we have this company policy: we don’t deal with limp-dick, Viagra-popping, dirtbag motherf*ckers who try to use their position to coerce women—young enough to be their daughters—into bed. Go peddle your shit somewhere else. We aren’t buying.”

Our stares are locked on one another like two wolves on the Discovery Channel when he says, “Think carefully, Son. You’re making a mistake.”

“I think the only mistake I’ve made is wasting our time here with you. That’s something I don’t plan on doing a second longer. We’re done here.”

And then I turn to Kate and tell her softly, “We’re leaving.”

With my hand on her lower back, we walk to the coat-check room. I hold her coat for her and help her into it. With my hands on her shoulders, I ask, “You okay?”

She doesn’t look back at me, “I’m fine.”

Right. And we all know what that means, don’t we?





For many men, their car is equivalent to the perfect woman. We can build her to look exactly how we want, we can ride her hard and she won’t complain, and we can easily trade her in when a newer, younger model comes along. It’s pretty much the ideal relationship.

I drive an Aston Martin V12. There’s not many things in this world that I love, but my car is one of them. I got her after I closed my first deal. She’s a beauty. She’s my baby. Not that you would know that by the way I’m driving at the moment. It’s the typical pissed-off guy mode of driving. A death grip on the steering wheel, hard turns, fast stops, a smack on the horn at the slightest provocation. I don’t think about how my attitude might be interpreted by Kate, until her small voice comes from the passenger seat.