Trade Me (Cyclone #1)

Blake guides me to the back table, where a man sits facing away from us. I recognize his father’s profile, that messy salt-and-pepper hair, from last night’s festival of YouTube fear. Adam Reynolds is holding one hand to his ear and murmuring into a Bluetooth head set.

“Then move the manufacturing to Shenzhen,” he growls. “If Liansu can’t guarantee the secrecy we need at the production speed we require, it’s off. No more leaks.” There’s a pause. “I want solutions, not excuses. Whine to your shrink. I don’t want to hear it.”

He slides his hand angrily across his phone and then looks up. His eyes land on Blake and then—astonishingly—he smiles, a brilliant grin that seems completely unforced. It shifts his face from angry bastard to something far more charming.

“Hi, Dad,” Blake says easily.

Adam Reynolds takes out his earpiece and stands up, offering his hand to his son. Blake drops my hand; his dad gives him a fist bump that converts into a complicated handshake, a high five, and then a hug.

“Hey, asshole,” Adam Reynolds says. “It’s good to see you.”

My eyebrows rise on asshole.

“Hey, jerkwad,” Blake says smoothly. “This is Tina. Tina, this is my dad.”

“Hello.” Now that Blake’s let go of me, I don’t know what to do with my hands. I settle for bringing one up in a little wave. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Adam Reynolds, one of the most powerful men in the world, sizes me up in one glance. For some reason, he makes me think of a jungle panther. He gives me a single, dismissive look—as if he’s determined in one second that I’m not only prey, but I’m not even important enough to consider eating. I feel suddenly aware that my jeans are fraying from age, that the soft sweater I’m wearing is just a little too short at the wrists.

“Huh,” he says. And then he looks back at his son, discarding me.

“I need to use the facilities,” Blake says. “You guys get acquainted.”

“Blake…” My voice almost squeaks as he leaves. He doesn’t hear me. Or at least, he doesn’t turn around.

It’s a good thing that Blake and I are only pretend-dating, because if this were remotely real, he would be so completely dead for abandoning me.

I slide onto the bench opposite Adam Reynolds and manage a polite smile. He glances longingly at his phone, no doubt imagining all the work he could do if he weren’t stuck with his son’s girlfriend. I can almost feel the disdain wafting off him. Then he sighs, pushes his phone away, and looks over at me.

The internet does not agree about many things, but one thing all sources acknowledge is this: Adam Reynolds is a first-class, grade-A asshole. There’s a covert video that someone uploaded three years ago. The quality is grainy, but the words are clear. There are five minutes of Adam Reynolds berating his CFO in a restaurant far fancier than this one. Adam used every insult in the book, and some that have never been printed in any book. After a little public uproar, Cyclone issued a formal semi-apology: They were very sorry that the scene had caused distress to others, but the video had been taken “out of context.” Like there’s ever a context in which it’s okay to call someone a pig-fucking cocksucker.

His dismissal shouldn’t hurt. I’m only pretend-dating his son. I don’t even want to like Blake, and I will never meet this man again. Still, to be judged unworthy in so short a space of time really pisses me off. I at least deserve a shot.

Blake vanishes into the bathroom.

As I’m marshaling the nerve to try and start a polite conversation, Mr. Reynolds looks off into the distance, hoists his water glass, and lets out a sigh. “Fifty thousand dollars.”

My first thought is that Blake must have told him about our deal after all. I sit in place, waiting for him to give some explanation, to make some sort of demand. But he takes a long swallow of water and doesn’t say anything more.

I fold my hands in my lap.

“Well?” he asks after a few interminable seconds. “I can’t wait forever.”

He’s not even going to pretend to be polite, and I suspect that everything he says from here on out will only get worse. Fine. If he wants to play that way, I can come along for the ride.

“No,” I say with my most charming smile. “You probably can’t. Five minutes of your time is worth a fortune. But my time is worth basically nothing. So if we want to keep staring at each other, I’ll win. Eventually.”

He leans against the booth, letting his arm trail along the back. He has Blake’s wiry build, but there’s an edginess to him that Blake lacks, as if he has a low-voltage current running through him at all times. He drums his fingers against the table as if to dispel a constant case of jitters. His glare intensifies.