Page 64
Ravi: Sure! What do you need?
Dean: I’d like to have a conversation with that hacker he’s mentioned having on his payroll, if I could
If Vivica out there in that party can stand up proud in the face of all that pettiness, I can sure as heck give as good as I get with Mike. And if we can survive what happens next, maybe we can have a real shot at more.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Michael
Brennan: Just got your third client cancellation this week. You spreading the clap around or something?
Michael: You know I’m not. Did he say why?
Brennan: No explanation. And I don’t know anything else right now.
Michael: I don’t know what’s happening, but I’ll find out.
Brennan: They’ve already paid so I’ll give you your cut of the booking, but I want to know why the hell my best earner is suddenly persona non grata.
Michael: So do I.
By the time I walk into Dean’s apartment, I’m salty enough to make the doorknob dent the plaster. A chip of paint falls to the floor.
“Hey.” Dean’s at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of cereal. Something with fruity rings, looks like. “I don’t know who took a tinkle in your morning coffee, but I’d like to get my security deposit back.”
Shaking out my arms doesn’t do much to discharge my anger. “My boyfriend experience with the car dealership guy got canceled.”
Dean frowns. “Is he going to reschedule?”
“Who knows?” I drop myself onto the sofa. I’m eager to get out of my suit. I had it on when I left another client this morning, but I’m dying to put on something comfortable. Right now though, I’m too pissed to act rationally, and I told Dean I’d get Ella from school this afternoon. Might as well wait and change after I get back from the pickup line.
“It’s the third fucking one. I haven’t had a client cancel on me in years, let alone back-to-back like this. Something’s going on.”
Not that I was exactly expecting Dean to be sympathetic, but all I hear at the end of my rant is the clink of a spoon in a bowl and the sound of Dean chewing. And chewing. As if reducing his food to the properly digestible texture is his highest calling in life.
It’s strange, because Dean’s been having stomach issues. When he’s not stuffing antacids into his mouth, he’s shoveling his food in like he’s still the teenage boy who never had enough to eat. It’s messy and loud, not this silent shit he’s giving me now.
Which makes the hairs lift on the backs of my arms. He’s pointedly looking anywhere but at me along the way.
“Dean. What did you do?”
His eyes widen a fraction before he schools his face. He takes another bite and I have to sit through another round of thorough mastication before he swallows and finally makes eye contact.
“What on earth are you talking about?”
He gets up and takes his bowl to the sink, conveniently turning his back to me while he washes it out. And boy, does he wash it thoroughly. No quick rinse before throwing it in the dishwasher as usual.
Son of a bitch. “You had something to do with this.”
Dean shrugs his shoulders, but as I make my way across the room, I can see the back of his neck turn red. “Even if I wanted to cancel all your appointments, Mike, I wouldn’t know how.”
“Don’t do that.” I grab his shoulder, and the bowl clatters into the sink. His Adam’s apple bobs when I spin him around. “Don’t hide behind that dumb-dumb act.”
“It’s not an act.” But he scratches uncomfortably behind his ear. Sure as hell he’s fucking lying. “I really wouldn’t know how.”
“Who helped you, then?” Because if there’s one thing I know about Dean, he’s the research king. I know he thinks he’s stupid. I know some folks have enforced that notion. I also know that since the day Ella was born the man is constantly on a quest to soak up information. Books from the library, podcasts in the car, quizzing random moms at the park.
He might not have the access to fuck with my work, but if he wanted to do something badly enough, he’d find a way.
