“I like the way it smells on you.”
“Thank you.” Her phone shuffles, a voice coming over the line indistinct and unfamiliar. “Hey, Trey, I gotta go. We’re getting some traction on that background check on David. I need to go over it and get a game plan in place.”
“Ok, but first tell me what you’re wearing.”
“No.”
“What color is your bra? Is it that white one with the lace?”
“No.”
“The black one with the pink edges?”
“Yes.”
“I love that one.”
“I know you do.”
“What about your underwear? Pink or black?”
Sloane coughs quietly. “I really have to go.”
“Pink or black?” I insist.
“Neither.”
“Since when do you not match?”
She sighs impatiently. “Since I left them at home.”
“Fuck you,” I groan. “You’re not wearing any underwear?”
“Goodnight, Trey.”
“Don’t hang up on me.”
“Sweet dreams,” she coos softly.
The heartless bitch hangs up on me.
October 2nd
Venetian Apartments
Los Angeles, CA
Tish is living in an apartment off campus. Her phone number isn’t listed, but I wasn’t going to call it anyway. What I have in mind happens face to face. There’s no other way.
I dress carefully before I go to visit her. I get into the back of my closet, digging out a large, expensive purse, big jewelry that sparkles with money, a pair of high heels I wouldn’t be caught dead in at work. But they’re designer so they matter now. They’ll matter to her, because you intimidate a man by being bigger than him. Louder. Faster. To intimidate a woman, you have to be prettier. Richer. Bitchier.
I park my Mercedes in front of her building where she can plainly see it and I make a show of locking it three times, the horn honking every time. My wrist jingles with the Tiffany charm bracelet that reminds me obnoxiously of my mother as I click my way up the stairs to Tish’s apartment. My hand feels heavy with the rock of a ring on my finger, but it’s all part of the show. It’s intimidation for women the way flexing is for men. It’s petty and it’s stupid, but it’s the game and no one could ever accuse me of not knowing how to play it.
Tish opens the door slowly when I knock. She’s about my height. Slender. Small chest, narrow hips, but gorgeous eyes and rich auburn hair. She has an oval face that’s open yet suspicious. She looks me over from head to toe, her lip curled back slightly in disgust.
She hates me at first sight. It’s exactly what I wanted from her.
I smile brightly, offering her my hand. “Hi. Are you Tish?”
“Yeah,” she replies reluctantly, taking my hand. “Who are you?”
“Sloane Ashford, of the Ashford Agency. I’m Trey Domata’s agent.”
She pulls her hand back immediately, shaking her head. “I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t have to talk to you.”
“No, you don’t. You’re right. I’m not a cop and I’m not a lawyer, but I am a friend.”
Tish snorts. “I doubt that.”
“Give me ten minutes of your time and I’ll change your mind.”
“Why should I?”
“Because I need to know what really happened.”
“I’m sure Trey told you that nothing happened.”
“Mr. Domata has told me that he had a sexual relationship with you. He downplayed it, saying it was on and off. Nothing important. I doubt that’s the truth, though. I want to hear your side of the story.”
She narrows her eyes at me suspiciously. “You’re calling your client a liar?”
I smile again, turning on the high beams. “I assume they all are. It comes with the territory. Do you have any idea how often cases like this come up? It’s, like, half my job. And between you, me, and the sea, most of them settle quietly. They’d be stupid not to.”
Tish hesitates, looking me over again. Finally she opens the door a little wider to let me in. “Ten minutes. Like you said.”
“Ten minutes,” I agree easily, gliding into the room. It’s small and simple. Battered furniture covered in soft blankets. Ikea vases on Ikea furniture with unpronounceable names, built despite indecipherable instructions. Definitely a college apartment but touched with those delicate feminine colors and accents that I so carefully avoid. I almost envy how cozy the place feels. How well it matches Tish in every way.
“Cute place,” I tell her honestly.
“Thanks.”
We sit down on mismatched couches with a small white coffee table between us. I set my massive bag down by my feet, pulling my phone out of the side pocket.
“I’m going to record this, if that’s okay with you,” I tell her, already bringing up the app.
“Why?”
“For my own records but also to play back for Mr. Domata. You’d be amazed how honest a man gets when faced with reality. It’ll make the entire process go much more smoothly. I’ll record my discussion with him as well and send you the file if you want.”
“No, that’s… Yeah. I guess I should hear it, right?” she asks uncertainly.
I nod seriously. “Absolutely.”