Page 13 of Tributary

CHAPTER TWELVE

Asa

ANDREA CHARTERS ME a flight to Pittsburgh to close the deal with the cancer screening team. I should feel more excited about this trip. These are the kinds of investments I tell myself I need—the ones that truly make a difference in the world. I’ve read this guy’s research articles, even though I don’t understand them. I’ve interviewed experts in the field to get their take. He’s the real deal. And private investment from venture capitalists like me are a lot easier for him to land than government research grants these days.

I’ve been all out of whack since I got back from Oak Creek, though. I don’t even take the same joy in brokering deals. Andrea even commented that she hasn’t seen me yell at anyone in weeks.

I’ve been going home from the office and sitting in my penthouse watching documentaries about plants. Jacking off to memories of Diana Crawford and her sharp tongue and her soft hips. She is the very best type of distraction, luring me in with an unfamiliar pull. I find that I enjoy just sitting and thinking about her, daydreaming about bringing her back to my otherwise lifeless apartment.

The team in Pittsburgh gives me the royal welcome. I sit through their presentation at the hospital, and actually feel moved by some of the personal stories they threw in about the women who agreed to clinical trials for this device. I had already decided to say yes before I left Manhattan, but I make the decision to swing the contract a bit in their favor, taking less of a cut of the profits I know will come pouring in when this thing goes to market. These guys are going to change the process of women’s healthcare screenings.

A guy with a mustache rises to shake my hand, and I realize we’ve come to the part of the show where we sign papers. “You guys put on a hell of a presentation,” I say, pumping the his hand. “This is where I’m supposed to tell you I’ll have my people call your people.” Andrea is standing by waiting with the contract back at the office. “But I’ll tell you what—let me save you the antacid. I’m going to call my chief of staff right now and have her send you an offer I promise you’ll like.”

Mustache starts wringing my hand harder. “Oh, Mr. Wexler, truly, you have no idea what this funding stream will mean for patients. You will be saving countless lives, sir.”

I cough, uncomfortably, and pull my hand back. I run it through my hair and look toward the door, hoping to signal that I’m ready for them to drive me back to the Omni hotel so I can sip whiskey alone. They don’t get the signal, though, and wheel in a cart of snacks. I pull out my phone to text Andrea. Bump down our percentage 10% and send them the contract.

Almost immediately, my phone zings with her response. Have you gone mad? Are we running a nonprofit now?

I feel a lightness in my chest, a stirring something akin to happiness. Grinning, I ask Mustache to show me to the restroom.

In the hallway, I see an attractive woman from the back. She’s tall and slender, her long hair spilling down her back in gentle waves from the loose ponytail. Her tailored suit shows her curves, but only because I’m staring. I try to look away, realizing I seem like a creep, but then I hear her voice.

Wavering, unsteady, she says, “Well thank you for the opportunity. I’m sorry, too.”

Holy shit. “Diana?”

She spins around and recognizes me. Her eyes flare. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Having a better day than you, from the looks of things.”

I can tell that she wants to flip me off or kick me in the nuts, but she’s here on business, clearly. The man standing with her clears his throat and shakes her hand again. “Please keep in touch, Dr. Crawford,” he says. “I mean it.”

She just nods and starts to walk down the hall. I’ll be damned if I let her go like this. “Diana!” I jog after her. “Wait up. Let me buy you a drink.”

She emits a noise halfway between a cough and a strangulation. “There’s not enough booze in the world, Wexler.”

“What do you mean? Seriously. Slow down.”

She pauses and looks around the hall, biting her lip. “Don’t you have people you should be buying?”

I gesture noncommittally back toward the conference room. “I finished all that. Let me take you to dinner.”

“I’m going to be drinking my dinner today, but thank you.” She starts walking again. It occurs to me that she is on the verge of tears. She clearly just had a bad meeting.

“Come on,” I say, reaching for her wrist. “Let me get you a cab and a stiff drink. You can throw it in my face if you want. We can start a tradition where you douse me with something different in each city.”

She sighs. I’m in! I want to pump my fist in the air, but I refrain.

“I will accept your cab and your whiskey, Wexler, but we aren’t starting a tradition. We aren’t starting anything at all.”

“A gathering of acquaintances then,” I tell her, and one side of her mouth raises in a half smile. I’m grinning like a kid at Coney Island when I open her cab door for her and slide in beside her on the back seat. “Where can we get a stiff drink,” I ask the driver.

He turns around and smiles. “You two look like you’d enjoy the Butterjoint.”

“Sounds perfect.” I almost reach over to squeeze Diana’s thigh, and then I remember that we’re only familiar in my fantasies. She stares out the window as the cab pulls into traffic, and I stare at her for the short ride to the bar. “Keep the change,” I tell the driver, tossing him a fifty and racing around to open Diana’s door for her.

She rolls her eyes but lets me open the door to the bar for her. The host escorts her to a table, and I hurry to catch up as she slides into a booth. She immediately flags down the server, orders two shots, and then tips them both down in quick succession when the arrive.

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