Chapter 14 – Pleasing the Boss

It’s the quickest switch from elation to disappointment I’ve ever felt. One second I’m flying, and the next, I’m smashed against the rocks.

Elvis feels worse than I do. I see it in his posture. This was his responsibility, and he f**ked it up. That’s what he’s telling himself.

Once the shock wears off, I wonder if I’ll blame him too.

“White ball in the pocket means you lose.” Hadrian states what we already know. He can’t be oblivious to the tension. I’m even tempted to say he enjoys it.

Elvis clears his throat. “Good game,” he says sullenly.

“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself.” Hadrian claps a hand on his back, as though they’re buds. He looks from Elvis to me. Back to Elvis. Back to me, lingering this time. “You know what? I can’t do this to you. It was such a close shot, and so much riding on it. I’m going to give you another shot.”

My stupid heart gets excited again. At just the chance. Like a f**king lottery addict who loses every day and yet still perks up when they get a new set of numbers.

“I don’t know if I can take the p**ssure of another game.” Elvis eyes me. If he’s asking me to take his place in the challenge, I might be sick. Actually, I’m sick already.

Hadrian laughs. “Nor could I. Pool is done for the night. Let’s do this the old-fashioned way—over bourbon in my study, aka the library. It’s right next door.”

“All right,” Elvis says tentatively. Then more sure. “We’d like that.”

“Oh, just you, I meant. I don’t generally negotiate directly with the talent when they’re unknown. And call me old-fashioned, but the library has always been the men’s room in the evenings. We’ll hammer everything out, and you can consult with your wife afterward.” He turns to me. “I’m sure you understand, Brystin.”

I can’t imagine the look he sees on my face. Probably one of abject horror and disgust. Disgust because he’s playing his misogyny card hard, doubling down after our conversation this morning. I have no doubt. Out of spite, perhaps. Because he can.

Horror because I absolutely don’t trust Hadrian Seymour. Not one bit. I don’t believe this pretense of good intentions, and I’m terrified of whatever game he’s going to try to play next.

Just because he can.

By midnight, Elvis still hasn’t returned to the room.

I’ve been a mess trying to pass the time. I showered. Changed into pajamas. Tried to read and failed. Texted about the evening with Shiloh, who found a way to blame Elvis for everything. Cried for a while about how degrading the whole experience has been, and then put light makeup on my clean face to hide my puffy eyes.

I’m considering putting on a robe and going to look for him when the door finally opens. I practically jump on him. “Well?”

He runs his hand through his hair, assessing me in silence.

I feel like punching him. “Don’t just stand there. What happened? Tell me!”

“I’m…I’m trying to figure out where to start.”

Usually, I like hearing things from the beginning, but I’m too miserable and anxious. “Did we get it? That’s all I want to know.”

He’s serious, and I’m nervous. He’s always serious, but not this serious. Slowly, he begins to nod his head.

“Oh my God! Are you kidding me? Oh my God!” I know what time it is, and I’m trying my best to keep my voice down, but I’ve never been good with containing excitement.

He shushes me with a smile and puts his hands on my shoulders to settle me down. “Hold on, hold on. There are…” He takes a breath. “It was a negotiation. There are stipulations.”

I somber, understanding setting in. “We got the show, but I’m not the anchor.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I know. You’ve barely said anything. I feel like I’m pulling at an anchor to get the words out of your mouth.”

“So stop pulling. Give me a minute. Why don’t you sit down.”

“I don’t think I can.” I think I’m too twitchy to stay still. I’m disappointed about not being an anchor, but I’d always known that was a lofty goal. f**king Hadrian was the one who made me think for a few minutes tonight that it was actually within reach. I swear he must get off on yo-yoing people around.

But okay, I have work to do. This is a damn good place to start, and I can’t be down about that.

Elvis does not share my enthusiasm. He doesn’t seem exactly unhappy, but he’s wary. He picks my earlier discarded clothing off the armchair and sets them on top of the dresser, clearing me a spot to sit. “Just try, will you?”

“Okay, okay.” I perch on the edge of the chair, my knee bouncing. “I’m sitting.”

“So you’re right, in a way—he agreed to give us the show. A few minor tweaks to what you’ve proposed, but all-in-all the same vision.”

I can’t stop nodding. “Good, good. That’s really good. You producing?”

“Me producing. He has some other people already lined up that he’d like to pair us up with. All names I know. A good team.”

He pauses, and I pounce. “And who does he want to anchor?”

“He hasn’t decided yet. But you’re not out of the running.”

My heart is already beating so fast, but it kicks up another notch. “Really? Are you kidding me?” I can’t help it—I burst out of the chair and hug him. “I still have a shot, Elvis! And we got the show!”

He hugs me back, though somewhat reluctantly. “We got the show.”

“We got the f**king show.” I pull back to look at his face. “What does he need me to do? How can I prove myself? Recommendations? A resumé portfolio? Does he need me to audition?”

His smile fades. “He wants you to…go to his room.”

“Right now? Okay. I’ll change.” I push away, headed for the closet. “I thought he didn’t negotiate with talent. That asshole. Or should I say assHadrian.” I laugh at my own joke. “Does he want me to beg? On my knees, probably.”

Then it hits me.

Like an idiot, it takes almost a full minute. I still, letting go of the dress I’d been about to grab. Slowly, I turn to face my husband. “He wants me to come to his room. Right now. After midnight. By myself.”

Elvis gives the subtlest of nods.

“He doesn’t want to negotiate. He wants to f**k me.” I put my hands up to my face, afraid that I might cry again.

Except I’m too mad to cry.

It’s easiest to turn my anger on Elvis, since he’s here. “He wants to f**k me. And you said…? You said…what? You told him I’d come? You told that asshole I’d come?”

“No!” He spoke too loudly, and his voice is lower when he continues. “I didn’t tell him you’d do it.”

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