Page 71 of Bidding War

That's it. That's all he says. I have no idea how to respond to that, which goes along with every other conversation I've had with the man. He's smiling, and he seems happy. But I've seen that exact same expression on his face fall away in a flash the moment anything else came to mind. It's like having a tiger by the tail. I just need to keep the tiger happy.

To do that, I will do my job. “What is it you're curious about?”

“Whatever it is that you were buried so deep in that you didn't notice me watching you for a minute.”

Did he just admit to staring at me for a minute? I am not sure what to think of that. Is he just being a boss? Is this his style? Probably best not to put too much thought into that.

“Well. What caught my attention is that whoever had this client last completely overlooked the fact that they are overpaying their taxes by about two hundred grand a year.”

He looks positively scandalized. “No! Show me.”

“First, are you well versed in tax code?”

“Not at all.” Yet he still seems just as enthusiastic as he did a moment ago.

“Okay, let's see if I can explain this.” I do a deep dive into the details of the tax code for Andre's benefit so that what I'm about to tell him about the client makes any kind of sense. He listens with rapt attention, eating up every word that I tell him. I cannot figure out if this man is interested in me or just interested in what I can do for him. He is impossible to read. But it's nice to talk to somebody who appears to be interested in tax code. I have so missed this. “… so you see here if we take the right deduction, boom. They save enough money for a small yacht.”

He belly laughs. “What is it you think a small yacht costs?”

“Under two hundred k? Why? What do they cost?”

He sits back, pondering my question for a moment. “Come to think of it, I don't know, either. I should look into that. In the meantime, I am very impressed with you, Miss Devlin. I know a bright mind when I see one. Keep up the good work.”

“Thank you, Andre. And you can call me June, remember?”

He smiles. “In the office, I prefer to address with formalities. Do not feel it necessary to respond in kind. Enjoy your day.” With that, he leaves my office.

I sit back and relax momentarily, trying to figure out what happened. I never know with Andre. One day, he kidnaps me. The next time I see him, he offers me a job. It could be anything from either end of the spectrum at any point. So, at least, I'll be kept on my toes.

But being here feels kind of wrong. I know how Anderson feels about it. He's made that abundantly clear. He doesn't get to tell me what to do with my career. But I should consider his feelings. Now, if only he would do the same for me.

I hate that he's doing whatever it is he's doing for his father. I know that there's some kind of violence involved sometimes, and that unnerves me. But until both of us can get out from underneath his father's thumb, there's not much more that either of us can do to avoid the situations we're in.

That doesn't mean that I don't feel conflicted as hell. We could leave Boston. I know we could. We can make a new life for ourselves somewhere else. Maybe someplace like Seattle. Or Los Angeles. Another big city where we can get lost in the shuffle. But then there's Moss, Elliott's right-hand goon. I'm sure he's not the only one that he has.

The more Elliott West tightens his grip on the both of us. The more I am convinced that something must be done about him. I just don't know what that is.

As things stand, I like it here. So far. It's complicated, and it makes me work my brain. And I love that. I love not working for tips. It was a relief at first, but after a week, the customers were getting annoying. Plus, I think I have a bit of anxiety and PTSD about going back to work given what happened with Neil and the fact that I met him at a bar. I love not feeling swat pour down my back while I pour drinks. I love not having to dodge grabby hands. There's money and respect here, both of which I am in short supply of.

But at the bar, things were simpler. Clients came in, had a few drinks, then left. And Anderson didn't hate what I did.

Chapter Forty-Anderson

“I said, leave!” Jonesy repeats, waving his gun around.

My mouth is dry, my back is wet with sweat, my head spins, and we are running out of time. I can feel it. Like sand slipping away in a tide, the seconds tick on, and this is not getting better. Our hands are up to show him we aren’t a threat, but I don’t think it’s working. We are a threat, and we all know it.

Jonesy looks mad. As in, insane to the point of a break with reality.

By the raised brows on Moss, this is the first time he’s seen the man lose his shit. In this line of work, I don’t want to be along for the ride for any of Moss’ firsts’. I like that he’s experienced and can show me the ropes in any given situation. It’s a comfort to think he can swoop in and fix things.

But this moment proves that’s all an illusion.

How many times have I thought of Moss as my own personal Superman? My get-out-of-jail-free card? The guy who can fix anything? He handles shit. That’s his job. Why else would Dad pair me up with him?

None of that matters. I got too comfortable. I know that now. Today was supposed to be an easy day. I never should have thought of any of these days as easy. Not when I’m with Moss. A grimace of uncertainty plasters itself onto his face, and I don’t know what to think. All I know is we might be fucked.

Moss uses the same soothing tone he used on June the night he helped us with Green Sweater. “Edgar, put that away. Now is not the time for that. You are good man. You don’t want to hurt anyone?—"

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