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Archer
Istep off the elevator, turning the corner to walk down the long corridor to my office, catching Tracy’s eye from a distance. She stands and hurries toward me, her too tight skirt hindering her movements. What’s she worked up about now?
“Mr. Bishop’s in there,” she whispers as she reaches me. “He’s been waiting for fifteen minutes.”
Shit. The one time I’m late.
It was worth it, though. God, the way she’d come for me. The way she sucked me. The happiness radiating from her as we’d agreed to do it again tomorrow. It seems my path is clearer. Even if I’m not sure what’ll happen next, the unknown isn’t daunting so much as… exciting.
“Did he say what he wants?”
“No.”
There’s no need to describe his mood. She wouldn’t have warned me if he was happy.
And he’s never happy.
“Do you have any gum?”
She gives me a funny look, and rightly so because I’ve never asked her for anything like that. “I have mints in my purse.”
“Perfect.” I’m not going in there with breakfast burrito breath.
I suck the spearmint she offers me, crunching it as fast as I can, and calmly open my office doors, finding Dad seated behindmydesk. Talk about a power move.
“So now you’re leaving early and coming in late?” he asks, steepling his fingers in front of him. It’s never bothered me much before, but today it irks me for some reason.
I set my attaché case on my desk. “What?”
“I stopped by last night a little after six, but you’d already left for the day.”
“Everyone else leaves then.” I remove my suit jacket, hanging it on the hook behind my desk, but he doesn’t seem to get the hint to vacate my chair.
“You’re not everyone else. Did Serena keep you up late again? Is that why you’re waltzing in here twenty minutes late?”
“No. There was traffic,” I lie. A plausible excuse in this city. What’s he going to do? Go look at the crash reports? He hasn’t had to worry about traffic in years. He had the top floor of the office converted into a massive private apartment for him. He just has to take an elevator to work.
“Don’t make it a habit.”
Again, I’m late one time. I doubt he’s scrutinizing the other chiefs this closely. “Will do,” I say, trying to stay neutral.
He stays seated in my chair, and I give up waiting for him to leave, taking a seat on the couch nearby. “Is there something you wanted to talk about?” I’m assuming he wouldn’t be in here otherwise.
“Why is Greg Montague pestering me about the buyout?”
Word got back to him that soon? It’s been one day. “I haven’t spoken to him.” Which is technically true.
“Apparently, you’ve been over there sniffing around. Any reason?”
I sigh, wishing I had more definitive proof to put a case together rather than this gut feeling and details that don’t add up.
I explain what happened yesterday along with what Serena’s told me, his silence afterward unnerving. I know he wants this deal to go through, but if it turns out Montague is deceiving him in some way, I’ll never hear the end of it.
“I’ll get a P.I. on him,” he says finally. “I have a guy I’ve worked with for years.”
For what? Who is he looking into?
Will that be me one day once I’m head of the company? I’ve never had a reason to hire a private investigator in my life, but Dad and I lead very different lives. How can he talk about investigating someone so casually? I’d think it’d be a more serious undertaking.