Page 32 of Due Diligence

“Can I have the password or not?”

He sighed. “Fine, cagey. I’ll text it to you. But we’re good, right? You mean it?”

“We’re good, Alex,” I assured him. “We always are.”

Seconds later, the password to Alex’s Instagram account arrived in my text messages:SexLar$on420. I was tempted to ask him if it was a joke, but sure enough—I used the password to log into his account, and it worked.

Alex had 1.8 million Instagram followers, compared to my measly 120K. That was fine with me. I only had one because our PR firm told me I needed to post pictures of my rescue pets and how much I loved my job and my mothers—which was all fine and true, but I couldn’t have cared less if anyone else got to see it.

I’d never actually been on an Instagram account with so many followers, and I immediately concluded it was nightmarish. His direct messages were literally filled with women trying to message him, sending him private photos of themselvesdoing things I would haveprobablyrecommended against documenting. Knowing Alex, he loved this though.

But I wasn’t there to delve into the depraved depths of his direct messages or to read some of the borderline disturbing comments on his photos. I simply wanted to search through the list of people he followed—and sure enough, when I typed in Pierson, the following name came up: @casspierson25.

Cass.

She and Alex followed each other, which meant he was able to see the photos on her private account. To my surprise, there wasn’t much there. Most girls like Cassie had accounts chock full of photos of them luxury traveling, wearing couture outfits with their friends, and drinking expensive champagne. Cassie only had a dozen or so, and they were mostly grainy city pictures.

I clicked on one of a black and white graffiti wall, and the caption read,That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.

Instantly, I recognized the quote. It was from Stephen King, who I quoted in my college applications. In fact, I had a copy of every single one of his books in my home office, lined up neatly on the shelf by my armchair. I was surprised to see his words here, on Cassie’s Instagram feed.

I spent a few more minutes scrolling through her pictures. She was only in a couple of them: one where she was holding up her MBA from Harvard with the caption,Done, and another one of her standing outside of a bar with two heavily tattooed guys. The caption on this one was simply an emoji of a house, and the photo was tagged at a location called Shelf Atlas.

I clicked on the location and discovered that Shelf Atlas was a bar and nightclub in Brooklyn. It had honestly been years since I had made the trek out to Brooklyn. My contract basically made it a no-fly zone for me. On the rare nights when I went out, Iusually tagged along with Alex to the overpriced bars where the finance bros and tech douches swarmed. Based on the photos tagged at that location, it was exactly what you would expect: overflowing with hipsters and not a button-down or Patagonia in sight.

Frankly, I couldn’t imagine Cassie there either. Not Cassie with her pearl earrings, chiffon blouses, and starchy skirts.

“Mysterious—right, guys?” I asked, glancing between Sammy and Frank. Sammy was fast asleep, purring on my chest, and Frank was drooling on my shin.

Typical.

“What do you think? Should we go to Brooklyn? It’s kind of what the doctor ordered.”

Like clockwork, a text message from Alex arrived. It was a picture of him with a stunning woman sitting on his lap—and I realized I recognized her from a Calvin Klein ad. His message said,You sure you don’t want me to come out with you?

Grinning, I typed out a response.You’d hate it.

Alex: Where are you going?

Me: Brooklyn.

Alex: Yeah, I don’t want to do that…have fun though. Do something I wouldn’t do.

The notion was ludicrous; there was very little I could come up with that Alex wouldn’t do.

Chapter 11: Cass

Cigarette smoke clouded my vision, melding with the intermittent flashes of lights from the dance floor. I inhaled, savoring the familiar burn. Faintly, marijuana tinged the scent, striking an excitement in me that was pure Pavlovian. Whiskey had settled on my tongue, but the sight of half-consumed cups of beer all around me reminded me the night was just getting started. I would switch over in a couple of hours. For now, the aim of the game was to get drunk. Fast.

Next to me, on the adjacent rickety stool, was a guy named Craig (possibly also named Ray or Liam). Didn’t matter to me. He bought me a shot and he was telling me all about how Brooklyn had changed. I didn’t tell him we were both too young to have any salient memories of the place—that he was born after the gentrification started. Nothing shut down a likely hookup like the mention of gentrification—I knew this from experience.

It was a normal Friday night at Shelf Atlas, the rowdy, young nightclub where I tended bar six years ago. It was rightafter I dropped out of Columbia Law and desperately needed the money. I saw a sharpie notice that read, “BARTENDERS WANTED” taped to the window and I walked in with a padfolio and a skirt suit—like the imbecile I was. The owners, brothers named Matt and Hank, laughed right in my face. But when I remained unfazed and undaunted by their laughter, they gave me a chance.

Back then, my ex-boyfriend Trevor and I had a place around the corner. We basically lived at Shelf Atlas, spending our days and nights dancing and drinking into oblivion. Six years later, it was still unpretentious, loud, dark, and it attracted the kind of people I wanted to see when I had no more fucks to give.

I probably should have been mildly concerned that the rotation of bouncers still knew my name and the bartenders—none of whom I worked with six years ago—recognized me and gave me my usual drink without exchanging a word. I also probably should have beenslightlyconcerned that within a fifteen-foot radius, I’d slept with three of the guys there. But whenever possible, I chose to be unbothered. It was easier that way—not to mention a hell of a lot more fun.

Craig was a sure thing. I could already tell. He clearly hadn’t heard a word I’d said all night and his attention continued to dip down to my legs. His eyes lit up with outright hunger, taking in my body. That was fine. That was ideal, even. I wore a skirt this short with every intention of mesmerizing a guy like Craig.

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