Page 4 of Art of Sin

Stunned, I trade a glance with Trent. “What? What the hell does that mean?”

Trent asks, “Are you saying we’re off the D&M contract?”

“No, no,” Maxwell deflects, “just… refocused, if you will. Skylar is going to take over your duties for D&M Dynamics and the upcoming merger.”

Son of a bitch.

“We’re being demoted,” summarizes Trent.

“Exactly,” I second.

Maxwell scowls at me. “I don’t think you’re fully grasping the importance of this assignment. Bron Systems has been looking for a way out of this deal for months. Gideon Masters is a loose cannon and if he steps out of line, we’re fucked.”

“You mean you’re fucked,” mutters Trent.

Maxwell kicks my door closed. His shoulders are high and tight, face flushed and mouth pinched. I’ve never seen him ruffled like this. My stomach sinks.

“No,” he hisses, “we’re all fucked. If this deal doesn’t go through, kiss your jobs goodbye.”

Neither Trent nor I speak, Maxwell’s desperation clogging our throats. Whatever unwritten deal he made with Frank Masters, CEO of the massive tech-conglomerate D&M Dynamics, he overpromised.

“What exactly did you offer Frank Masters, Maxwell?” My voice stays level even though I’d like nothing more than to scream.

His already red face grows darker, almost purple. This is clearly painful for him. Too fucking bad.

“Spill it,” I snap.

Through his teeth, Maxwell admits, “That Gideon will stay out of the news entirely for the next six months.”

Trent explodes to his feet. “That’s impossible! He’s a fucking magnet for press! What the hell were you thinking?”

Maxwell is a lot of things, but under his wolf costume he’s a sheep. Or maybe a ferret or a weasel. Yes, definitely a weasel. Trent, on the other hand, is a former USC linebacker who decided he preferred his brain concussion-free. He’s built like a tree, not an ounce of fat on him, and he’s black. It matters little to Maxwell that Trent grew up in a nice neighborhood in Ventura and his parents are pediatricians. Trent still scares the fuck out of him because he’s a prejudicial, privileged piece of shit.

Case in point—at Trent’s words, Maxwell goes pale. “You would have done the same thing,” he says quickly. “This is the biggest contract our division has ever handled. How could I have known when we signed that Gideon’s marriage was about to go up in flames at the same damn time he would explode in the art world? Who the fuck cares about art?”

My mind racing, I motion for Trent to sit back down. Maxwell on the defensive will get us nothing. Once Trent is seated and silently fuming, I look at my boss.

“You overshot. I know Jerry’s retiring at the end of the quarter and you want his job more than you want to be a decent person, but this is bullshit. You’re asking me to manage a client who isn’t even a client. I’m pretty sure that’s impossible.”

“Not if you convince Gideon to hire us,” he fires back.

My eyes narrow. He obviously had that bullet lined up to fire.

“And how do you suggest I accomplish that? Like you said, he’s a loose cannon. Not only that, I handle companies not individuals. My rolodex reflects that.”

Not to mention first impressions matter. After last night, I seriously doubt Gideon would hire me even if I literally and figuratively doused myself in honey.

Maxwell throws his hands up. “I don’t know! Figure it out. Find a pitch he can’t say no to. Partner with Phillips—he’s got the contacts in art and fashion. Be versatile, Deirdre! Do you want to move up in this world or not?”

I haven’t pitched a client, much less a celebrity, in… fuck. Years. Sinking back into my chair, I stare at the ceiling.

“Get out, Maxwell,” I say tiredly.

“You’ll handle this?” he asks hopefully.

I nod shortly and he escapes.

Trent clears his throat. “You think that’s what this is about? He wants to be VP so bad he put us all on the firing line?”

Lowering my head, I arch a brow. “What do you think?”

Trent sighs. “I think you need to tell me exactly what happened last night.”

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