Page 3 of Taming Tesla

TWO

Cari

Ipull up tothe guard shack for James’s firm. The security guard is the same one on duty the last time I was here. If he recognizes me, he doesn’t say so. I hand him the parking pass I just dug out from my glovebox with a smile, silently praying that it still works. It does. He scans it, hands it back to me and pushes the button to lift the gate. “Have a nice day,” he says, letting me in.

I whip my car into the first available space I can find and hustle my way to the elevator. I have less than ten minutes to get up to James’s office before he posts that video online—and I have no doubt in my mind he’ll do it. He’s probably hoping I don’t show up so he can post it.

Stabbing my thumb against the button marked 22, I fidget with my bag and stare at myself in the polished stainless steel of the elevator car in front of me. I’m a mess. The same shirt I wore to bed the night before. The same shirt I painted in this morning. When I left Tess at the garage, I stopped at home long enough to grab my bag and car keys. I didn’t even bother to put on a bra or comb my hair. I can see bright yellow paint smudged across my face and I give it a few cursory scrubs with the heel of my hand before giving up. A few months ago, I wouldn’t have been caught dead in public looking like this. Now, I don’t give a shit.

I send Tess a text, just like I promised, right before turning on the voice recording app I downloaded on the way over here. Maybe if I can get him to admit to blackmailing me, I can go to the police.

The elevator stops to let me out way too soon. Suddenly, I feel nervous and sick to my stomach. He didn’t call me here to talk. He wants something from me, and if he doesn’t get it, he’s going to destroy my life.

Stepping into the reception area, I see Janine behind her desk. When she looks up and sees me, she doesn’t look surprised. She looks disgusted, and my stomach drops into my shoes. I always liked her. The way she called me Ms. Faraday—like I deserved respect. “Hello, Janine,” I say, forcing myself across the reception area to stand in front of her desk. “I’m here to see—”

“Mr. Templeton is expecting you,” she says, her tone polite and professional. Pressing her finger against the intercom on her desk phone, she speaks into it. “Mr. Templeton, Cari Faraday is here to see you.”

“Send her in.” James's voice slithers through the speaker. Just hearing it is enough to make me want to throw up.

She glances up at me before she stands and skirts around her desk. I follow her, hands gripped around the strap of my bag, keys clenched in my fist.

“Be careful, Ms. Faraday.”

It’s barely more than a whisper, and I look up to see Janine in front of me, her hand poised on the door handle to James’s office. She’s looking at my bag, and for a second, I swear she knows what I’m doing. Why I’m here. That she’s worried about me and tears prickle at the corner of my eyelids. I nod and try to smile back. Just like that, her smile disappears, and she opens the door for me, ushering me inside with an impatient wave of her hand.

James is sitting behind his desk, leaned back in his chair. When he sees me, he smiles. “Janine, please take Cari’s bag.”

James is a lawyer. Of course, he’d be careful about getting himself caught saying something incriminating. I hand my bag over before Janine has to ask me for it.

“You can take your lunch, Janine,” he says without looking at her.

Janine hesitates a fraction of a second before nodding her head. “Thank you, Mr. Templeton.” She shoots me a quick look before shutting the door between us. Leaving me alone.

“It’s good to see you again, Cari,” James says, his tone pleasant. Like I just stopped by on a whim instead of being lured here by a threat to release a sex tape. My sex tape.

“Just tell me what you want,” I say, amazed at how steady my voice sounds. “Because the longer I have to look at you, the harder it is for me to fight the urge to vomit.”

The smile on his face flickers for a second before he steadies it on his face. “Lift your shirt,” he tells me. “Turn around.” He twirls his Montblanc in the air, directing me like I’m a circus dog, doing tricks.

I lift my shirt to just below my breasts and do what he says, turning in a slow circle to show him I’m not wearing a wire or have a recording device stuffed in my waistband. My recording device is in my bag on his receptionist’s desk. As I turn, I catch sight of the sitting area behind me and James laughs, the sound of it like sandpaper against my skin. “I’d introduce you to Trevor but you two already know each other, don’t you?” Trevor is sitting in a club chair, grinning from ear-to-ear. Seeing him here isn’t even a shock. I’ve known that the two of them are friends since the night I left Trevor, seething, in a restaurant bathroom.

The person sitting next to him is a different story. Lisa, the cocktail waitress from Gilroy’s.

I drop my shirt. “What’s she doing here?” I say, looking at James.

“Sit down.” When he says it, I know he’s not being polite. He’s trying to take control of the situation. Control me. Use me. Same as always.

“No.” My fingers shift over the keys I still have clutched in my hand.

James shrugs like it doesn’t matter to him one way or the other, but I know my refusal pisses him off. That I’ll end up paying for it, one way or the other. “Lisa is suing your boyfriend for sexual assault in the workplace. He forced her to perform oral sex on him in your apartment.”

Turning on her, I take a step forward, the small, cruel part of me liking the way she shrinks away from me in her seat. That night isn’t something I want to think about, but I force myself to replay walking in on the two of them. Patrick, obviously drunk, pants yanked down around his ass. Lisa on her knees in front of him. Her cheap, pink lipstick smeared all over his—

“Patrick didn’t force you to do anything—you’re lying.” I turn around to look at James. “I was there. I saw her—” I squeeze my fingers around my keys again and take a deep breath. “What happened between her and Patrick was consensual, trust me.”

“I was forced to perform sex acts by my employer. I was told that if I didn’t, I’d be fired,” Lisa squawks like a parrot from her seat behind me.

My employer? “Patrick isn’t your employer,” I say, shaking my head. “He doesn’t own Gilroy’s. He doesn’t even work there—he just started helping around the bar because his uncle wants to spend more time at home.”

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