Page 58 of Bulletproof

He grunted.

“Did Mr. Taylor take clients out on the company card?”

“Potential clients.”

“Translated: people he wanted to impress or fuck.”

“Tactlessly put, but yes.”

I turned in his chair. “Let’s go eat. Your blood sugar is dipping, and you’re being an ass.”

“Me? Did you hear her?”

“Yes, I heard,” I affirmed with a chuckle. “She has no idea that there’s cash and prizes for the assistant who can put up with your crap.”

“You’re the only one who’s ever been able to be the assistant I needed.”

“Yeah, well, it’s because you’re annoying, but I sort of like you.”

He mumbled something under his breath.

“How ’bout Japanese? You can take me for sushi and miso soup.”

“All right, let me get my coat,” he agreed, but stopped and turned to squint at me. “Why am I treating?”

“Because I’m poor,” I said with a yawn, emailing his schedule to my phone. “What the hell?” I said to myself. “Why do you have a three thirty and a four?”

“What?” he grumbled.

“Never mind. I’ll fix it,” I told him. “Where is the office BlackBerry?”

“Bottom drawer on the left.”

After I retrieved it, I plugged it into the computer and set it up to update all the contact numbers and his schedule. “This will all be done by the time we get back.”

“And you’ll wipe their phones when we––”

“I’ll take care of everything.”

“Good,” he muttered, and then said, “Why are you poor?” He was putting on his wool-and-cashmere topcoat, adjusting the sleeves. “You were solvent the last time I saw you.”

“Not after the cab ride from Lake Forest back to the city.”

“I’m sorry?”

I looked at his schedule. “Okay, so long lunch, and I have a ton of things to tell you.”

“Good,” he breathed out. “I want to hear.”

We walked how we always did—his hand on the back of my neck, gently steering, making sure, since I was an idiot after all, that I knew where I was going.

He hated firing people. It took a lot out of him, but it became necessary because his expectations were too high. And people could never say, You expect too much for what you pay, because the man paid his assistant a small fortune. So, it was good that he had lunch with me because he needed to decompress and eat good food and not have to worry for even a second what he sounded like or didn’t or that his eyes were narrowed to slits because he was furious.

I explained about Hayes Fisher and his brother, David, and Cristo Liron, and how I was sorry that I hadn’t listened to him, but when had I ever? And why in the hell did he think I was going to suddenly start now?

“Jory—”

“Drink your soup.”