Page 85 of Beautifully Ruined
But I knew the man introducing himself as Thomas was his PA. In what, I never asked, but I let him know quietly I understand vetting, but that Thomas and I have some mutual acquaintances, so I know what he looks like and while I’m happy to pass any tests, my privacy is important to me, too. For obvious reasons.
No one ever has to explain further than that when we’re talking clandestine sex clubs.
Apparently, I passed that test, and tonight is the real deal.
Even if Thomas Allistair did make me wait at a bar across the road from the restaurant.
But one text to my burner has given me the actual meeting place.
A known bar and restaurant on the Upper West Side, Barrel and Glass is usually jumping, but as I push in through the door, the place is empty.
Most people would be shocked. I’m not.
Someone like Allistair is the type to rent a place out for a meeting when he wants privacy. It’s a way to flex.
Thomas, the billionaire property mogul who has fingers in a lot of pies, sits at a table near the bar. Two of his men stand at the bar. I know that’s who they are. They have the look of security about them.
Which interests me.
Even after passing his test to meet him, there’s security.
Then again, perhaps the man travels with them wherever he goes. Like a security blanket.
He’s trying to get a read on me.
Thomas thinks I’m loaded.
My burner phone announces the same thing.
The background on my persona is solid and boring, and will hold if anyone decides to go through it.
Question is, now I’m face to face with him, is that the best course of action?
“Drink?”
“Whiskey.” I’m aware of the slip, and it’s only very slightly unintentional.
“Sit.”
And we wait.
A beautiful girl comes over. She’s in black, skintight jeans and top, and he orders the drinks.
“I never meet with prospective members personally, but you intrigue me, Max.”
The girl comes back with the drinks and as she sets them down, I see the infinity tattoo on her inner wrist.
Sometimes, it’s numbers, or a barcode, other times it’s a name or some kind of symbol. I haven’t seen this one before, but I know what it is.
A brand.
A mark she’s bought and paid for.
He brought property with him. And I get why I said whiskey and not the single malt Enzo and I chose for Max to drink.
Max is rich, very rich. Some people have shell companies. Enzo and I have shell personas, shell lives. Ones we can inhabit and twist and use how we wish. We don’t do it often.
Hackers by nature are behind the scenes. But our jobs do take us into situations like this.
