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“Hey,” I said, my voice soft. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Hale is a nickname, actually.”
Holland gave me a squinty-eyed look for a moment, probably trying to figure out what “Hale” was short for, but didn’t ask. She glanced around, but the coffeehouse remained mostly empty, save for a couple women at a far table. “I still have no idea why I’m even talking to you.”
“Because you need help,” I suggested.
She sighed and one hand raked through her hair unconsciously. I followed its path with my eyes, wishing I could bury my hands in that thick glossy mane, wondering what it would look like spread across my pillow. “I do need help.” It sounded like defeat, but a fire quickly relit in her eyes. “But not from you.” She shook her head, as if to clear it.
“What if you just try me?” I asked. “Can’t hurt, right?”
“I think that’s the same line drug dealers use when they’re trying to get kids to try crack for the first time.”
“You’re comparing me to crack?” I felt a grin creep across my lips. “Worried you’ll get hooked?” I lowered my voice and leaned across the table as I said this last part, and I’d swear I saw that same flicker of interest dance through her fierce gaze once again.
“Fine,” she said, crossing her arms. “How would you modify StrokeStat for something like a stroke—but at a much higher velocity, with a sudden end to the motion? Outof the water?”
“Baseball?” I asked. We’d messed around with trying to mod the technology for other sports, but one of the developers had come up with another device that was a natural fit for football, and the money had started rolling in. We grew so fast in those early days that StrokeStat was all but abandoned.
She pressed her lips together again, confirming my suspicion even without speaking.
I leaned back, crossed my arms as my mind raced. “It could be done,” I said. “The interface would have to change significantly . . .” My mind spun as I thought about the application. “It’s a good idea,” I said. “But why aren’t you focusing on selling the tech we’re working on now? You’re in sales, right?”
She nodded slowly, and it apparently dawned on her that she hadn’t told me that. “How’d you know that?” Her voice was thin now, suspicious.
“Just a guess.”
“Well, thanks for the help. And the sandwich.” Her voice was icy as she gathered her things and prepared to leave.
My heart sank as I thought of her walking away, of never seeing her again. “Here’s my number,” I said, picking up a pen she’d left on the table and scrawling my name and number on a napkin. “If you do decide you need help.”
She shoved the napkin in her bag and turned without another word. As she walked away and out through the door, it was as if the only glowing candle in the world had just been carried away. The light receded gradually and I found myself in the dark, alone once again.
CHAPTER 6
Holland
Monday morning and the weekly sales status meeting came fast and ugly at eighta.m. I dreaded these things and might have over-caffeinated in preparation, which wasn’t helping with the nerves. For over a year, I’d been attending this meeting, listening to my shiny sales colleagues discuss how they were wining and dining clients, trying to up-sell different aspects of Cody’s technology or services. The challenge for most of them was that Cody Tech hadn’t developed anything new in a long time. The challenge for me was covering the fact that I was on the brink of developing exactly what these guys were all salivating for. But I needed to sell it myself if I wanted to make a dent here and write my own ticket—one that would finally get me the job I wanted and deserved.
I should have been focused on figuring out how the hell I was going to get help from someone in development without risking my idea being stolen or leaked. Instead, I found mymind wandering over the way-too-hot Mr. Big Dick of the coffeehouse, Hale. I was repurposing the StrokeStat tech secretly, on my own, mostly because I didn’t know whom I could trust. The rest of the sales team was conniving and devious—at least the ones I knew well. It wouldn’t take much for them to figure out I was onto something and potentially beat me to the punch. And if I had what I thought I did—and if I could sell it at the top . . . then my career would be made. The only kink was that I really did need help with the tech development side, and so far Hale was the only one offering.
I’d basically bolted that night at the coffeehouse, because he knew more about me than I’d told him. He also knew Sam, though, and Sam knew what I did for Cody Tech. I told myself that Hale had probably just asked him about me.
I sat in the conference room surrounded by men and a few other women. The men lounged and chatted amicably with one another about the games they’d watched—or played—over the weekend, about the stock market, about restaurants and bars, or they stared at their phones. The women, in contrast, looked guarded and alert, ready to defend their territory and their right to play on this field. Even in sales, this company was heavily male dominated, and I couldn’t help that it put me on edge, irritated me. Add to that the constant pressure to one-up each other in the sales arena, and these meetings were always uncomfortable.
“Let’s get rolling, shall we?” Trey Alita stood at the head of the table, power suit in place and royal-blue tie perfectly knotted at his throat. He was a man’s man if ever there wasone, and rumors of his overly large, uh, member, helped him maintain the image. I couldn’t help letting my eyes stray downward when given the chance. He tucked to the right, and sometimes, depending on his choice of trousers, and whether his jacket was buttoned or not, it was pretty damned clear that the rumors were based on fact. Today he stood right up against the table, and there was nothing to see since his jacket was buttoned and the table hit just below the belt. Too bad, I thought. It was sometimes a fun distraction during an otherwise miserable meeting.
“Kriesner, you start.”
Jacob Kriesner began talking, his too-low voice droning on to the point where I didn’t think there was a single person in the room who could actually be listening to what he was saying. We were too busy praying for him to be done saying it. Even Trey looked relieved when he finished.
We went around the table, offering statuses on our accounts, bragging, essentially, about the business we were bringing in or were soon to bring in. When my turn came, I discussed my current accounts, which were mostly in a maintenance phase. My business development efforts were suffering due to my focus on StrokeStat. But they’d click into high gear if I succeeded at that. I wasn’t going after a college team or one pro stats-keeper. I was going after Major League Baseball. The top. And getting a meeting would be a long shot.
“Need some new sales, Holland,” Trey said to me as the room cleared. “Haven’t brought anything in for a while. I hear things are a little unstable at the top since the CEO’sdad died. Sounds like the guy’s gone off the deep end and there’s a chance we’ll be acquired. You don’t want to be the low-hanging fruit if cuts get made.” He squeezed my shoulder a beat too long as he put this thought in my head and then left the room.
Wonderful. Because I needed more pressure. It was clear I needed to work harder. Faster. And I was going to need help.
I’d spent the first part of the week buried with work, every issue more urgent than the next. Even with a thousand fires to put out, I kept finding myself replaying the conversation I’d had with Hale, thinking about the way his dark eyes flashed and then dulled again as we spoke. There was something about the guy I couldn’t put my finger on. I was trying to decide if he could actually help me.
Hale was arrogant and annoying, absolutely. But there’d been something shattered in his gaze, a look that reminded me of some of the foster kids I’d known when I was younger. It was nothing concrete, nothing the social workers could ever put a name to. It was a shadow lurking behind the features, a face the most damaged kids tried to hide. I’d probably imagined it.
