Page 3 of A Deal with the Bossy Devil

“That’s very dark, Alba. Very off-brand.”

“You know what else is dark? Coffins.”

“You know what’s even darker? You ignoring the fact that he assaulted me first.”

That shut her up for a solid five seconds.

“Sorry,” she eventually muttered, her voice softening with a touch of guilt. “Just… tell me what happened so we can figure out what to do.”

I let out a heavy breath. “Okay, so, long story short, when I came out of the washroom, some guy behind me squeezed my butt, smacked it really hard, then said something about a ‘tight, fuckable ass’ before walking away. It happened out in the hall and… honestly, I kind of froze from shock.”

Alba’s eyebrows had drawn together again. This time, though, her anger wasn’t directed at me.

“The problem is, because I froze for so long, I only saw the back of his head before he turned the corner and disappeared into the lobby. I knew he was tall with dark hair and was wearing a blue suit.”

I also remembered the invading, overpowering stench of his cologne. It smelled like he’d dipped his entire body in the musky stuff—clothes and all. It was revolting.

“Then what happened?” Alba pushed, her hands moving to her round stomach as she shifted on her feet.

I pulled out a chair from the small conference table and twisted it around, gesturing for her to sit. “Then the anger happened. I stormed out into the lobby and spotted him right away talking to a bunch of other guys—at least Ithoughtit was him. Tall, dark hair, blue suit. And I remember thinking how much he resembled Adrien Cloutier… but the alcohol in my brain thought it was just some dickhead dressed up like him.”

If douchebags had their own magazine, “The Cloutier Look” would have been unironically voted as the costume most likely to get your date to spread her legs. Or something equally gag-inducing.

You could spot his fanboys from a mile away on Halloween. They were all suited up, their sleek hair perfectly swept to one side, and every single one of them was sporting a replica of those stupidly overpriced wristwatches he always wore.

People were weirdly obsessed with that dude. I really didn’t get it.

“So, when I stomped up to where he was standing, I didn’t really think twice. I just called him a braindead trash goblin and went for the jewels. I realized, like, two seconds after he went down that he was the real deal.”

Yes, Adrien Cloutier had a reputation for being an overly privileged, ruthless dick. Yes, he made Alba’s life a living hell. But he was also terrifyingly wealthy and influential, and no amount of alcohol would have prevented me from immediately realizing that attacking him had been a terrible mistake with potentially life-ruining consequences.

Which was why I’d run.

“How the hell did security not follow you?” Alba asked, continuing to rub her stomach. I wasn’t sure whether she was doing it to soothe the babies or herself.

“They did follow me. But I disappeared into the parade right away and they must have lost track.” Mostly because Arman had been smart and sober enough to get me to remove my hat, wig, and glasses before giving me his jacket. We left quickly after that.

The whole thing was a lot funnier this morning, especially since the video had gone so viral. Because as luck would have it, someone had been taking a video of the famous Cloutier fountain and the grand chandelier that crowned it when everything went down.

It had been an elegant, luxurious scene, enhanced by the soft piano music playing in the background… until Waldo stomped right through the frame with a “highly deranged energy,” per the internet, and started screaming nonsensical insults at Adrien Cloutier himself. Next thing you know,bam! Man down, fugitive fictional character on the run.

It was awesome.

“Stop smiling!” Alba snapped at me, lightly kicking my shin. “It’s not funny, Ria! How many times do I have to repeat myself? Adrien’s lost his fucking mind over this whole thing. He’s been here since four in the morning in like a rage-fueled productivity episode. I had forty-three emails in my inbox from him before the sun was up.”

Honestly, that only made it funnier.

“Stop.”Kick. “Laughing.”Kick.

“Ow!” I hissed, rubbing at my shin. “Relax! Nobody knows it was me!”

“Yet!” she retorted. “They don’t know it’s youyet. A pair of round glasses and a wig isn’t the convincing disguise you seem to think it is.”

“Well, that’s just not true. The glasses alone would have been enough according to every movie ever made,” I argued. “Ever heard of Clark Kent? Now, I’m not saying I’m aheroto the people like Superman per se—ouch! Stop kicking me!”

“This isn’t a joke!”

“Well, it was going to be once I got to the punchline about Adrien Cloutier being Lex Luther, but you ruined it,” I said, tempted to kick her back. “And I ambeing serious. He wouldn’t have recognized mewithoutthe costume. That dude has no idea who I am, period.”

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