Page 87 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
For the record, I paid well because the company had started out hiring from a pool of the poor half of Eastridge. The half that suffered most from Gideon’s betrayal. What was I supposed to do? Pay every non-Eastridge employee less?
Delilah leaned down to pet Rosco when he pawed at her shins and continued, relentless, “And in case you’re not joking, and I know you’re joking because you cannot be serious, I can’t afford to relocate one of my temps. I’m already working remotely here, which is a hassle that cuts into my time. Plus, I am busy renewing my contract with my husband.”
“You mean your wedding vows?”
“No, I mean my contract.” She dragged the word out like I was an idiot for not following.
“You have a relationship contract with your husband? Who does that?”
“Lawyers. The asshole wants anal written into the contract this year.”—Chartreuse choked on her Evian. I’d forgotten she was even here—“I want two kids.” Delilah turned to the redhead. “Chartreuse, honey, I said cover your ears. I won’t repeat myself.” She turned back to me. “We’re entering negotiations.”
“How about no anal and no kids?” I suggested, returning to my mounting to-do list. “It’s a win-win situation. He doesn’t have to wipe baby asses, and you don’t have to take anything up your ass.”
“You’re saying that because you don’t want me on maternity leave.”
“You’re the head of an entire department.” I pulled up a folder on my laptop, opening Mary-Kate’s employment file. “Come to think of it, so is Mary-Kate.” I swore as I read. “A year of maternity leave? Are you fucking serious?”
Standard maternity leave in the states ranged from zero to twelve unpaid weeks. Paid leave if you lived in California, Rhode Island, or New Jersey, but we didn’t, so what the fuck.
“You told me to write up the company’s employee contracts. So, I did.” She rested her smug-as-hell face on her knuckles as if she hadn’t just told me the company overspent on employee salaries earlier. “Do you expect women to pop out babies and head back to work, milk leaking from their nursing bras?”
“I knew I should have hired Earl Haywood.” I tucked back a smile, knowing the mention of Earl would piss her off.
“Earl Haywood has a beer belly from drinking at work.” She mimicked his permanent drunk sway. “Plus, his name is Earl. Hay. Wood. But by all means, hire him and watch your company crumble.”
“Um,” Chantilly raised one hand, waving it a little like a preschooler who needed to use the restroom. “Can I uncover my ears yet?”
“No,” I said the same time Delilah said, “Yes.”
Chantilly dropped her hands and shook them a little, like pressing them to her ears had caused an ache. “So… can I hire someone new?”
Delilah arched a brow at me before turning to Chantilly. “No need. Mr. Prescott has agreed to become more hands-on with the project.”
I should have said no.
I should have hired someone else.
I didn’t.
Instead, I nodded because Emery worked in the design department, and I needed Gideon’s location even if I had to pry it out of her unwilling fingers. Plus, I wanted her miserable, and nothing made her more miserable than my existence.
“See you bright and early tomorrow, Chasmophile.”
The cafe across from the hotel served chicken and dumplings that reminded me of the ones Ma made. So, even though I preferred unclogged arteries at seven in the morning, I indulged myself for sentimentality’s sake.
Chicken and dumplings used to be Dad’s favorite. We had it every holiday and for all three meals on his birthday. These didn’t hold a candle to Ma’s, but the dumplings had been cut into the same shape, and if I squinted my eyes and medicated myself enough, I could probably convince myself they were Ma’s. Add in some hallucinogenics, and I’d be fighting Dad for the leftovers.
I sat in the cafe, at the table nearest the window, my eyes fixed on the sight across the street. Leaning against one of the red maples at the hotel entrance, Brandon Vu checked his watch twice before pulling out his phone and dialing a number.
He dressed in a suit he’d had tailored to fit him, but the polyester-rayon screamed, “I live on a government salary! Please, don’t ask me to pay for this date.” His suede loafers tapped twice on the sidewalk. He beat his fingers against his thigh.
I’d taken my time eating as soon as I’d clocked him half an hour ago. The waitress had set down my food, and I could have left a big tip and dipped out the back, but I reveled in watching Brandon wait.
He had the patience of dog waiting to piss. His thumb and pointer fingers twitched, like someone kicking a smoking habit. With his free hand, he reached behind his ear but came up empty and patted the front and back pockets of his suit slacks.
Empty, also.
He paced a few steps, pulled out his phone, and begun shouting at the poor schmuck on the other end. I couldn’t hear from here, obviously, and reading lips was a myth television shows made up, so I watched impassively as Brandon hung up and stopped his pacing.
