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His tie is loosened and askew, the top button of his dress shirt popped open. Trent’s posture is stiff as he exits the office, stopping dead in his tracks when he spots me in his path. His sour expression turns into one of confusion.
“Simone?”
“Uh…sorry for interrupting. I need Cynthia’s help with a file in document control.”
Trent glances hastily over his shoulder into Cynthia’s office, where she’s seated on the edge of her desk, her head bent forward and fingers gripping the overhang on the glass top. She raises her eyes to us, her lips pinched tightly together. It doesn’t take a genius to decipher the couple were at odds about something prior to my arrival.
Trent veers his attention back to me, a forced smile fixed on his lips. “She’s all yours. We’re through.” He leans in toward me, his voice loud enough for only my ears. “Come find me if she gives you trouble, or if you want to talk.” He steps around me, brushing his fingers against mine as he passes.
My fist clenches in response as I fight the urge not to flinch. I don’t need Cynthia witnessing her boyfriend shamelessly flirting with me. It will only add tension to an already tense situation.
Cynthia stands, hustling to the door. She pokes her head into the hallway, hollering after Trent. “We’ll finish our discussion tonight at home, dear.”
Trent continues walking, not bothering to acknowledge he heard her when there’s no way he couldn’t have in the short distance.
She runs a hand over her hair, like she’s smoothing out her frustration, before addressing me. “You said you needed a file?”
“Yes. The Oldani account.” I involuntarily shiver. No reason other than it’s an Italian surname. My experience with a now dead Italian mob enforcer is to blame. Still, the name seems familiar, like I’ve seen it somewhere before.
Cynthia’s brows pull together. “Oldani, you said? Are you sure you want that file?”
The name nags at the back of my head. “Yeah.”
Cynthia gestures for us to follow her to the elevator. She taps her foot impatiently as we wait for the doors to whoosh open. The tension increases as we enter the elevator. Cynthia frowns at the steel doors as we descend.
Punk glances at me with a raised eyebrow, almost like he’s asking if her aggravation is normal behavior. I shake my head. This is a side I’ve never seen of Cynthia. The woman is always as cool as a cucumber, nothing ruffling her composure on the worst of days.
Whatever she and Trent were disagreeing on, it was big.
As we near the conference room Chase and Butch are using, Punk whispers low behind me, “Ten bucks he’s going to be watching us on the live feed when he sees the office homewrecker with us.”
“Ten bucks he’s already monitoring the situation,” I counter.
He grunts but doesn’t take my bet.
Chase has his eyes on us when we come into view, his fingers going warp speed as he continues to type. When a guy monitors a woman’s every movement, it’s characteristically for predatory reasons. Not with Chase. There’s something comforting in knowing he’s always watching over me and the rest of our MC family. He’s like a ranger, scouting for danger where others can’t.
Punk and I snicker quietly, waving as we pass. Chase stares on with a raised pierced brow. He’s too predictable.
Cynthia leads us to the document controlled file room, swiping her badge and opening the door. The wordroomis a bit of an exaggeration. It’s more of an oversized walk-in closet with rows of rolling metal shelves that can be moved with cranking a wheel on the sides of the units. It’s a stuffy, tight space with limited room to move about.
“Would you mind if yourguardstays outside?” Cynthia questions snidely. “It’s difficult enough to maneuver in the room without someone big taking up space.”
Punk folds his tatted arms, refusing to budge. “I go where she goes.”
She turns up her nose at him but concedes. “Try to stay out of the way.”
We enter the tiny room in a single file. I crane my neck, looking at the shelving units where the Oldani file should be located, and frown when I don’t find it. “Has the filing system changed in the year?”
“Yes. A new manager in document control wanted to rearrange our old system for one that better suits the client’s, as well as our firm. Files accessed more often are put toward the front as priority in alphabetical order. Client files accessed less are toward the back. The longer the time has been between accessing the client’s file, the deeper they’re stored.”
Double crap.I have no clue how recently they’ve looked at the Oldani file. Flipping the previous year’s file open, I scan the contents to get a better idea of when it was last accessed. “The end of September last year is when the last entry was inputted.”
Cynthia grimaces. “There’s no guarantee it hasn’t been accessed recently. Let’s start from the front and work our way back.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
We work together, searching through the first filing unit. Punk makes himself as small as his tall frame allows, sticking tight to the wall as we hunt for the file. After fifteen minutes of searching, we move on to the next file unit.
