Page 62 of Only the Devil
For tonight, I’m going to let myself have this. Have her. And deal with any consequences tomorrow.
Her nails scrape my neck until her fingers thread through my hair, forcing my head back for a deep kiss that I gladly take. Fuck, I like the way this woman kisses.
When she breaks the kiss, I’m short of breath and hard as stone. She slides back, moves off my lap, positions herself before me, and grips my belt buckle, a devious, sexy smile playing on those glossy, swollen lips.
My gaze flicks to the building across the street, glass and metal in the dusk. “Want to take this inside?”
“No. If anyone’s across the way, let them watch.”
Chapter 20
Daisy
The employment contract sits open on my second monitor, cursor blinking in the salary field like a digital heartbeat. Twelve million dollars. Even after taxes, it’s enough to change everything—my life, my mom’s life, my sister’s future. All I have to do is sign away my principles—and pretend I don’t suspect my new boss of defrauding people. Or worse, murder.
A week has passed and I’ve been spending more time on completing the architecture for the proprietary system for Sterling than on digging into the collapsed fund or Jocelyn’s death. Of course, there’s little I can do on researching her death as there’s no evidence she died in this office building and the investigation into her death is currently underway with local authorities two hours away.
I promised Phillip I’d respond to his offer for CTO by the end of this week, claiming my lawyer needed time to review the agreement. He doesn’t seem too concerned, as apparently at the executive level it’s quite common for employment lawyers to weigh in on employment agreements.
However, my lawyer is Rhodes’ lawyer, and my counsel comprises three individuals, all telling me to buy time and exit. Quinn’s main point is that I have a good gig with ARGUS and I can trust Rhodes. Rhodes lives knee-deep in denial I’d ever leave ARGUS, and to be honest, guilt gnaws at me when I consider leaving… But come on, a twelve-million base salary? That’s more than Rhodes pays himself.
I tell myself it’s about justice for Alvin, but maybe part of me just wants to believe I’m still one of the good ones and still doing good things.
And then there’s Jake. He’s the one who understands. Right now, we’re both making more money than we ever dreamed possible. He gets me.
Of course, I get him too. We’re both enjoying this temporary gig. Once it’s over, he’ll be back with KOAN, traveling wherever the next gig takes him, until the one day he can follow in his parents’ footsteps and retire in some tropical locale with a beach where the American dollar goes far and the fish are plentiful. His words, not mine.
There’s nothing stopping me from taking the CTO role temporarily. I can put in twelve months, reap twelve million dollars—well, after taxes, let’s call it six—step away, with plenty of evidence after twelve months to prove connections to shady investments and unscrupulous business practices, and return to ARGUS.
With that money, I won’t have to worry about my mom—ever. I can help my sister out as much as she needs. I can afford a place in Aspen if I want and keep working for ARGUS. Perhaps from time to time, Jake and I will connect and fuck each other’s brains out. That painted future—bright, shallow, seductive—holds a certain appeal.
The problem is, I can’t shake the image of Uncle Alvin sitting on the rickety stainless steel folding chair with the frayed nylon straps crisscrossing back and forth, overlooking the dry, cracked pool. I can still remember his dark, wrinkled hands with the clean-cut nails and the lighter skin side of his palms, holding the refurbished laptop a veteran’s group either gave him or sold him at a discount. The blue glow of the screen reflected off his reading glasses as he checked my attendance on the student portal, the device warm from sitting in the afternoon sun that beat down on our concrete patio. The air hung thick with the smell of bus exhaust and the sweet, cloying scent of jasmine growing wild over chain-link fences.
“You got the brains.” I’ll never forget his words, his voice competing with Mrs. Rodriguez’s TV blaring telenovelas through paper-thin walls. “You also got the heart.”
“What makes you think I’ve got heart?” Maybe I was begging for affirmations, for attention.
“You spend your time with an old man like me,” he said, shifting in that rickety folding chair that creaked every time he moved.
By that token, my mom spent her time with quite a few washed-up old men, but I had too much respect for Uncle Alvin to say that back to him. Besides, my mom hated school but harbored big dreams—dreams that were akin to winning the lottery.
“You work hard. Put in an honest day. There’s honor in that. And you know what else?”
The memory is crisp, like it happened last week. Me, settling down beside him, the rough stucco wall scraping against my back through my thin T-shirt, knees pulled up with my homework balanced on my thighs. The concrete beneath me radiated the day’s heat even as shadows grew long across the courtyard. With a pencil in hand—always a pencil, never a pen, because mistakes needed erasing—I shook my head, drinking up every bit of praise like I was stranded in the Sahara and he was delivering water.
“You’re too smart to fall in the quicksand.”
“What do you mean by that?” In our spot in LA, parking lots and cracked concrete surrounded us. The only quicksand I’d ever seen had been on a PBS nature show.
“Well, for me, it was gambling. The dream of a quick hit. It’s a powerful one, as powerful as a hit of heroin. For your mom…”
“She’s working hard for her dream.”
“Is she? When was the last time she went to an acting class? Signed up for an extra role she claims is beneath her? Tried out for a play that isn’t gonna pay anything for the connections and experience? The dream she’s sporting… Ya can’t win the lottery if you don’t buy a ticket. In her case, there’s no ticket to buy. She’s got to put in the effort. The effort is the ticket.”
“And it still might never pay off.” My mom had the same problem I had, never sticking with a job, as she always landed real assholes for bosses.
“True. But with your brains, your heart, you’re not going to fall for that. You’re going to use that brain to get ahead. You’ll put in the effort. The real, honest kind. No dreaming of a lottery for you. No quicksand. You’re going to do good things, Daisy girl. Look here—just look at what your teachers wrote about you.” He’d read off the comments. The comments I don’t recall, but I remember the pride. “I can promise you; my teachers didn’t heap this kind of praise on me. You’re going to do good things, Daisy girl.”
