I didn’t acknowledge this. Keeping them at odds with one another compartmentalized the less-than-legal portion of my life.
“Don’t underestimate Fika.”
I closed the lock and set an anagram for Emery Winthrop as the password. When I realized what I’d done, I swore and jabbed at the keypad, trying to undo it, but I didn’t know how to change the password. Perfect.
Pivoting to face Delilah, I leaned against the wall and added, “Beneath the Jonas Brothers wig, the distressed jeans, and the litany of addictions, Fika is an ex-cop whose calling in life is to break the rules without getting caught.”
She scowled when I adjusted her fingers to where two non-existent wrinkles sat, just to fuck with her. “He literally got caught. It’s why the people of Eastridge fired him as the sheriff.”
“Semantics.”
“No.” Both hands met the air as she tossed them up. “That is not what semantics means. Look, I need to know what you did. How do you expect me to do my job with my hands tied behind my back?”
Readjusting my tie, I pulled off the tag and made a point of feeding it to Rosco in case D got any crazy ideas of asking me to pet sit again. “If you need hand-holding, you’re in the wrong building. I’m sure some midlevel firm will be happy to have you.”
Delilah snatched the tag away from Rosco’s thin lips. “Fuck you, Nash.”
“I’d rather eat a bag of dicks, thank you.”
She glanced down at her phone when it vibrated. “He’s on his way up. Let me do the talking.”
“Fine.”
“Say as little as possible.”
“No shit.”
“I mean it. I will do all the talking,” she repeated slowly, like I’d given her a reason not to trust me in the past.
She’d stopped trusting me the week we’d met when I fired a supplier without pay and suggested he take his shriveled-up dick and shove it into a pussy that didn’t belong to the now-ex-wife of one of my board members.
The lawsuit hadn’t been pretty, but that’s why I paid Delilah double what she would earn anywhere else. She won cases no one else could. Better—she rarely had to step foot in court because she performed miracles before the cases ever reached the steps of Lady Justice.
I mocked a zipper across my lips and pretended to feed the key to her rat. “Maybe you can get your rat to bite him and give him rabies.”
“He’s not a rat.” She picked Rosco up, held him close to her chest, and followed me into the living room, where Cayden from the design department had set up a mini-office for me two days ago. A mahogany desk and a high-back leather chair. “Rosco is a hairless Chinese Crested Dog. A four-thousand-dollar dog, for the record.”
“I could blow four grand on a flea-infested crack den in North Korea, and it’d be a better investment.”
She pressed a kiss to her pet rat’s temple and whispered, “Don’t listen to the bad man, Rosco.”
My knuckles flexed along the handles of my chair. She set Rosco down and swung the front door open.
Delilah didn’t understand the accuracy of her words.
I was a bad man.
Sisyphus.
With blood on my hands.
Penance in my future.
Tick.
Tock.
After acquiring my wealth, I realized half the power of money came from possessing it. I could spend it, sure, but I didn’t need to. It was a nuclear weapon. A threat looming over enemy heads.
It said, “I have the power to destroy you. Don’t make me use it.”
Flexing that power became an art I valued.
A way of life.
As natural as breathing.
By the time Delilah took her stance a step from my shoulder, the elevator dinged in the hallway.
The window behind me spanned the length of the room with panoramic oceanfront views, and Delilah and I had positioned ourselves in front, so Brandon had no choice but to look at what my money could buy.
Delilah wore enough jewelry to sink the Titanic, while I leaned back against my seat, shoulders relaxed and my new phone pulled out like I hadn’t a care in the world. I downloaded the Eastridge United app, opened it, and logged in.
Brandon Vu entered. I didn’t bother to glance at him as I read Durga’s messages, noting she’d been up as late as I was last night.
Durga: You know what would be an awful way to die? In a room full of people you don’t know.
Durga: Or worse—a room full of people you hate.
“Delilah Lowell.” Beside me, Delilah reached a hand out to Brandon as I shot a reply to Durga.
I ignored the death portion of her messages. It wasn’t like I avoided death, but I preferred not to think about it. After Dad had died, Ma invoked an unspoken do-not-go-there rule, and I had no arguments.
If I ever went there, I’d drown in the woulda, coulda, shoulda of my life. Death was a mistress approaching her expiration date. To be held at arms’ length, until one day, you forgot about her.
Problem solved.
Not the healthiest solution, but I’d never been the type to eat my vegetables, and even Michelle Obama ate at Shake Shack every now and then.
Benkinersophobia: You’ve never struck me as the type of person who hates people.
Brandon stepped closer, but I still didn’t glance up. “Brandon Vu, S.E.C.”
Durga: What type of person hates people?
I considered it for a moment, but the answer was obvious.
Benkinersophobia: Me.
Delilah’s elbow dug into my shoulder, and I waited fifteen seconds to piss her off before I slid my phone into the inner pocket of my suit and gifted the S.E.C.’s errand boy my attention. “Why are you here, Brandon?”
The cocky tilt of his lips had me questioning whether I’d left a trail of evidence. I hadn’t. Fika pissed me off, but I hadn’t lied to Delilah when I’d said years of being a corrupt cop had given him experience in hiding crimes.
Brandon eyed the oceanfront view, his attention lingering on Delilah before he turned to me. “I’d like to ask you a few questions if that’s okay.”
“Rhetorical questions are a waste of my time.” I leaned against my seat and pressed my fingertips together like a church steeple. Probably the closest I’d get to a church, because I was sure I’d burn alive if I ever stepped foot inside one. “Get to the point.”
Delilah made a show of checking her hundred-thousand-dollar watch with the hand not buried in my flesh. “We only have a few minutes to spare, Mr. Vu.”
Brandon focused on me, his smile something more fitting for a wax museum. “Do you have your lawyer at every meeting?”
Delilah’s elbow dug deeper into my shoulder as I spoke, “I’m sure this is a foreign concept for you, but I’m not in the habit of paying people salaries out of charity.”
“Charity. You do a lot of this.” Brandon lifted a finger with each charity he listed. “The Eastridge Fund. The Eastridge United app. Healthcare for All. Soup kitchens across the South. I could go on.”
Not exactly classified information.
Internet trolls accused me of doing charity work for good P.R. all the time. They were wrong. I couldn’t give two shits about P.R., but I did have an ulterior motive and talking about it always put me in a mood.