Page 100 of Due Diligence

She left. I found myself alone in the office, sitting in the fishbowl, illuminated in the dark. I took out my phone and looked at it, wondering if I should call Alex.

At that point, I was happier being alone.

Chapter 27: Cass

He was late.

I sat at the corner seat at the Shelf Atlas bar, staring at my phone and wondering if I should hold my breath for a text message with his ETA. History told me it would be a waste of brain cells.

That was typical for Trevor. In the three years we were together, I never once saw him show up anywhere on time. We used to get in arguments about it, which typically ended with us feverishly having sex wherever we happened to be at the time. The resolutions were inconsistent. More often than not, we tabled the discussion for the next occasion when he would finally decide to get ready to leave at the moment when we should have been arriving. I used to think this disconnect was a symptom of my memory, which included an uncanny ability to keep track of time. It took me a few years to realize that it wasn’t my memory—Trevor was just a grade A dickwad.

It was twenty minutes past our meeting time when he strolled into Shelf Atlas, and immediately my breath hitched. He was a dickwad, but I could put that aside so easily. Dark eyes met mine. A nod. A carefree shove of his hand over his short hair.

He never once broke eye contact as he walked in my direction, the corner of his lip slowly creeping upwards. It was a dangerous weapon of seduction, all sharp edges, masked as a smile. It was the same look he gave me the first time we laid eyes on each other seven years ago. Back then, he watched me over the tray of hors d'oeuvres he was distributing at my roommate’s birthday party. That same night, we had sex in the backseat of his Nissan Altima.

When he neared the bar where I sat, I saw three new tattoos at first glance. I assumed there had to be so many more. Somewhere on his body, there were two tattoos for me: one with my name and another hideous design I once drew on his arm with a Sharpie when we were high.

“Babe, you look great,” he commented as he pulled me in for a hug.

His touch was familiar. Almost comforting in a way that a man who smelled of pot and cigarettes should never be. When we parted from the embrace, he kept his hands on my waist. The gesture was proprietary, like he still retained the right to hold me after all these years.

“You look tired,” he remarked, tilting his head as he looked at me.

My stomach lurched at the comment. Clearly, I had forgotten what it felt like to be on the receiving end of his candor. “Do I? I thought I looked great.”

“You been sleeping?” he asked as he took a seat. “Still having trouble with that?”

“Sometimes.”

Trevor shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, that’s tough. Well, you’re probably smoking the wrong shit. What are you smoking these days?”

“I’m not really smoking anymore.”

“Oh. That’s lame. Well, just focus on trying to sleep more. It’s good for you.”

I took a drink of my beer, resisting an urge to tell himThanks, I’m cured.

He rapped his tattooed knuckles on the hardwood surface of the bar and craned his neck, looking past a row of patrons waiting for service. He let out one of his trademark sighs and cocked an eyebrow. He nodded his head to the side at the bartenders. “Who are these clowns?”

“Staff has changed a little over the last few years.”

“Whatever,” he murmured. He sighed again and turned back to face me. “So what’s new? What are you up to these days?”

My eyes traveled over his face, hopping from feature to feature. Dark eyes. High cheekbones. Sallow but modelesque at the same time. He was still so attractive, but I couldn’t quite put my finger onwhy. He never smiled, never quite brightened really. He was all gravel and shadows, all the time.

“Working,” I replied. “I’m doing due diligence for acquisitions at Davenport-Ridgeway.”

He tightened his brow. “No, don’t tell me that,” he droned. “You’re shitting me, right?”

Confused, I shook my head. “Why would I make that up? It wouldn’t even be an interesting lie…”

Trevor nodded, but in that condescending way I knew meant more than an affirmative. That nod held volumes, as if to say,Trust me, I can tell you just how uninteresting your job is, Cass.

“I just thought you went to business school to get a better job. You told me that, right? The whole argument was that you wanted to make more money.”

“I did,” I explained, actively working to keep a frown from setting in on my face. “And I do make more money. It just happens to be at the same company where I was working when we were together.”

His lips curled together into an O. “Sick,” he responded, nodding. “So, the pay has to be good, right?”

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