Page 57 of The Logic of Loyalty

I bang my head against my desk a couple of times. The moment Paige and Jacob left, I was heading to the office. I’ve been here for over an hour by the time people have started to trickle in. I need it to be empty, though, to get things sorted.

I’m about to bang it a third and fourth time when Krista comes sashaying into my office without even knocking on the door. It takes every ounce of willpower I have not to spray her with bleach and use a pair of rubber gloves to shoo her back out of the room.

It’s incredible what a little clarity can do for my perception of a person. And my immediate, physical distaste of her entrance is hard to contain. I cannot give too much away before everything is ready and in place, though. I need to make sure everyone here believes I’m remaining Mr. Compliance.

“Hey, Trev. I need to talk to you.” Krista bats her eyes at me before securely shutting the door behind her. “It’s about Friday night, and dinner on Saturday.” Her voice is tentative, sounding small and nervous, and what a fucking performance. It’s the same voice she has used to trigger my instinct to soothe and fix in the past.

If she’s manipulative, then I’m malleable.

She passes the seats on the appropriate side of the desk and instead starts to sit on the edge of it. I reach my hand out to block her, pretending concern. “Whoa, hey. Careful. They just sprayed this down with bleach. It might bleach your clothes if you sit or lean there.” Her eyes go from cautious concern to being pleased.

“Oh, you’re so thoughtful and considerate.” She backs away and grabs a chair, but pulls it to my side of the desk. What the fuck? When she looks at her options for where to place it, she runs into a new problem. “What’s all this?” I look down to where she’s pointing with her chin. That’s right. The ground surrounding me is covered in folders.

“I’m reorganizing my big clients and checking over my paperwork from the last few months. It’s something I do quarterly to stay on top of everything.” This, of course, is a load of bullshit, but this is her first quarter here, and my first quarter getting this deep. Her face pales, and she bites her lip before returning the chair to the appropriate side of the desk.

“Well, that looks like a lot of work! I can get started⁠—”

“With those folders on that cart by the door.” She follows my finger and freezes. It’s a big cart, and there are a ton of useless, pointless, time-wasting papers in there. It’s amazing what you can accomplish in a couple of hours when you’re motivated. “I always do this part myself. I find making sure my clients get my personal touch is what keeps them coming back to me.” Shit. That was unintentionally provocative.

Krista latches onto the opportunity to be inappropriate with both hands. Eyes locked on mine, she bites her fucking lip, then licks it. My stomach fills with acid, and I have to work hard not to wrinkle my nose at the display. My God, has she always been this way? Or is this her amping it up since her attempts at the concert? “I’m sure you never lose a client after they get your”—she drags her eyes across me, and I suppress a shudder—“personal touch, sir.” Blatant suggestion saturates her voice, and I will not react.

“Yep. Anyway, here’s some more.” I grab a large pile of folders from the edge of my desk and hand them over to her. “I do have some quarterly paperwork for you to sort through, file, and pull from in the annex. You know where that is, right?”

“Don’t you want to talk about this weekend, Trev?” She blinks at me again.

“Do you have something in your eyes?”

Krista shakes her head. “What?”

I point to her overly blinking eyes. “You keep blinking, so I want to know if you need to go to the bathroom, flush out your eyes or something.”

“Oh, no. I’m good.”

“Okay, that’s good. There’s a lot to do now. I have a feeling the list on that clipboard.” I nod to the pile in her arms, only to realize I haven’t given it to her. “Oh, sorry. Here”—I drop it on top of her folders—“on that clipboard is not going to be finished today, so I’d get to it.” Krista nods and spins to leave. “Oh, yeah. I plan on having lunch with a VIP client all week, so I won’t be available. The break room is likely open, though, so don’t feel like you need to eat at your desk.” She struggles at first with balancing the folders and opening the door, but I let her struggle. After what I’ve seen in just the last few minutes, I don’t trust being near her in any capacity. She finally succeeds at opening a fucking door, and pulls it shut quietly behind her. When I realize she forgot the cart, I help her out by scooting it out the door and shutting it again.

I stare at the shut door and replay the last ten minutes in my mind.

Inappropriate commentary? At least two. Attempts at touch? Multiple. Playing up my sympathy? At least twice. All in ten minutes.

Fuck me. What have I allowed here?

“Where the hell is your assistant, or your Goddamn Camaro? What is that trash in the employee lot? And what the fuck are you doing on your phone? You think this is some kind of frat house?” Richard starts in on me before fully opening my office door. Thankfully, I’m on the phone with Billy, who went instantly silent at the voice of my father.

I see an opportunity and play it up. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wells. I must have forgotten to turn down the sound on my computer. It opened up on an ad for a new TV drama. Could you repeat that? Wait, let me take you off speaker first.”

“It’s fine, son. Do what you need.” Billy disguises his voice for me, playing along, but I don’t think I mistake the bite in his tone. I remove him from speaker and place him at my ear.

“There you are, sir. Now, you say you want to take a loan out for a whole new guest lodge?” My father doesn’t look chastened because that would mean he’d have to believe he was doing something wrong. No, at my words, he looks fucking greedy. He knows the Wells’ work only with me because of Paige, and he is more than happy to milk that relationship.

“I want to kick his fucking ass, Trevor. I don’t know how you do it. I’d have committed patricide ages ago, and that’s saying something from someone who actually lost his dad.”

“Yessir. We have many options available to you. Let me look through it now, and we can discuss the details more in person.”

“He’s still standing there? Fuck that guy, Trevor. Come work for me, man. It’s time.” Infuriatingly, my father seems invested in this fictional conversation, and has remained at the doorway, eyes fixed on me and my computer. I pull up the program I developed to make this process easier for me, but practically incomprehensible to anyone else. It’s actually simple for anyone, but they’d need me to explain it first.

“Well, according to this chart I’m looking at, the current plan has the best possible benefits and”—I stumble over how to word it. Hours doesn’t make sense in this context—“timeline for a family man such as yourself. There’s a lot of risk, swapping to the new one.”

“Still fucking there. Fuck off, Dick.” He sighs. “Okay, I get what you’re saying. Why don’t we do a trial run, huh?” I nod and plug some imaginary numbers as he works to convince me about something I’m already practically sold on. “You’re the one who called me about working part-time. I’m just saying, let’s make it official. We can talk benefits and hours.”