Just another day at MacCarren. Don and Charles stood in Don’s corner office having a conversation, and very studiously not looking at him, until both of them cut him a glance through the glass wall separating Don’s office from the trading floor. Ryan’s heart kicked hard, and his stomach did a slow, tumbling, acid-drenched loop in his gut. He let his eyes go to soft focus, as if he were absolutely focused on the call, waited a few seconds, then turned and spoke into the Bluetooth headset. “Is that in gross cash carry?”
The call continued, so the question must have made sense in context. Good to know his brain was still working. It had been weeks since the party with Daria Russell and the MacCarrens was making him sweat it out. Jock FBI agent was pushing for Ryan to go back and ask again to be let into the scheme, on the hypothesis that if he looked eager, they would be more likely to take him in. Ryan felt exactly the opposite. The more disinterested and cool he looked, the more likely they were to let him in. They’ve been running this scheme for over fifteen years. They didn’t need eager beavers gnawing away at the image they built of mysterious exclusivity. They needed someone with ice in his veins.
Despite the low-simmering acid bath in his stomach, that someone was Ryan.
Fortunately summer in New York City and the social season at the Hamptons provided a nearly endless supply of actresses, supermodels, and socialites to climb into the helicopter waiting at South Street Seaport to ferry them to the whirl of events. And whirl he would, like a fucking top, drinking more than he should, eating less than he should, talking about buying a $16 million house in the Hamptons, and tearing it down so he could build a $30 million house in its place. He had no intention of doing that, but it definitely sustained the rumors that he had lots of money, spent lots of money, and needed even more.
What he really needed was to buy stock in whoever manufactured antacids.
What he really wanted was to buy a six-pack of beer, sit on Simone’s stoop, and drink it. With her, he didn’t have to talk, and neither did she. All he wanted was to sit next to her and watch the heat of the day infuse her skin and know that with her he knew who he was. He was the guy who sat next to Simone. That was enough for him.
He turned back to the monitors ringing his desk on the trading floor. A new email alert, with the subject line “Hamptons house party,” from Jenny, Don’s assistant, faded from his screen. Ryan folded his arms across his chest, ducked his head, and turned away from the monitor. It wouldn’t do any good to appear like he gave a fuck, so he pretended to focus intensely on the investor call, shaking his head in disbelief, leaning across another array of monitors to flick Andy Fieri’s shoulder at a particularly inane question. Only when the call disconnected did he turn around and open the email.
It was an invitation to a private house party at Don’s home in East Hampton a week from Saturday, for Ryan and a plus one.
This was it. He knew it in his bones. An invitation like that was an invitation into the inner circle. The thought made his stomach loop again, sending acid up the back of his throat.
Knowing that they were watching him, and had access to all of his emails through the company’s internal servers, he didn’t respond right away. Instead he answered a couple other emails, then went into a men’s room two floors down and used the burner cell phone that he picked up when he started dealing with the FBI to set up a time to meet with Daniel Logan. Logan texted back almost immediately with the time to meet at their favorite Midtown parking garage. The next text was simple and quiet: You’ve got this almost done.
Almost done.
He had appearances to maintain, so he mentally reviewed the list of women that would be the right accessory for this dinner party. He texted Lily Graham to see if she was interested in a weekend in the Hamptons. To no great surprise, she was. He’d blow off work Friday afternoon and take her over to Irresistible. It was becoming “his thing” to take the woman du jour out for a little shopping trip before their time together commenced. For at least the next few days he had to continue to live up to that reputation.
Seeing Simone before the most difficult weekend of his life, well, that was for him. He shouldn’t do it. He shouldn’t do this to her, to them. But it was working, and he couldn’t let up now.
Then he texted a friend who was connected in the theater world and called in a favor. Very soon, no one was going to want to do him a favor. But if this was the last one he was ever able to call in, at least it meant something to him.
A couple hours later the theater friend’s intern arrived with an envelope. After she left, Ryan texted his bike messenger for an immediate pickup. The reply came inside ten minutes. Seth walked through the door to Ryan’s building just as Ryan exited the elevator. Ryan beckoned him over and handed him two envelopes, one thick, the other one from the theater friend appearing to hold nothing at all.
“Both to Simone Demarchelier at Irresistible. This one,” Ryan said, holding out the fat envelope, “is from me. The other one is anonymous. You picked it up through the delivery service. No other instructions or information, but make sure it gets directly into her hand, and that she knows it’s time-sensitive.”