A Deal with the Devil by Elizabeth O’Roark
1
Good versus evil.
Comic books make it look so easy. One guy wants to destroy the world. Another wants to save it. The bad guy has a scar and is cruel to his girlfriend. The good guy has a jawline that could cut glass and gives half his dinner to the stray dog in the alley.
Real life is more complex. Sometimes the bad guy is hiding a heart of gold under that scarred exterior. Sometimes they both have a nice jawline and you often don’t know what you’ve signed on for until it’s too late.
Except when you’re invited to work for Satan...then it’s fairly clear what you’re in for.
The offer has come over coffee with my friend Jonathan, on a pleasant patio where palms overhead filter Santa Monica’s bright morning sun. “Let me tell you how much it pays before you say no,” he adds, which is exactly the sort of suggestion you’d expect from Satan’s head of personnel.
I should clarify that Hayes Flynn, Jonathan’s boss, isn’t technically Satan—as in, he does not rule the underworld or have horns. While he might own a pitchfork, I assume based on those custom Tom Ford suits he wears that he has a guy for all his pitchfork-related needs.
And Satan is my nickname for him, not Jonathan’s, but still an apt one. First, because he’s a plastic surgeon to the stars, which is exactly the kind of job you’d expect of Satan, were Satan for some reason unable to practice law.
Second, because he’s British. It's common knowledge that any extra-suave British male who is not James Bond is a bad guy, or so I assume based on Jane Austen novels and the one James Bond movie I’ve watched.
And finally, because he’s slightly too perfect, which points to some kind of black magic at work. Too tall, too fit...square-jawed and dark-eyed and lush-mouthed in a way that makes him a danger to others. Just ask all these poor actresses he takes out once or twice, leaving them behind to post sad pics and vague quotes about loneliness on Instagram. I can’t guarantee they’re about him, but he’s certainly pretty enough to inspire plenty of self-pity in his wake.
Not that it’s a problem for me. My superpower, acquired over the course of this very difficult year, is that I’m immune to beautiful men. My sister would say broken, not immune, but she’s been with the same guy since she was fourteen, so what does she know?
“What would I be doing?” I ask, leaning back in my seat. The question is mostly a formality. Given my financial situation, I’m not in the position to say no to much at present. “I assume since it’s Hayes we’re discussing, it must involve some human trafficking or heroin.”
He laughs, leaning back in his chair, weary and amused in the same moment. “Nothing quite that bad. I want you to replace me while Jason and I are in Manila.”
I set my coffee down with a thud. The hunt for Jonathan’s temporary replacement began months ago, the second he and Jason got the heads-up their adoption was approved. “What happened?” I ask. “I thought you found someone.”
He shakes his head. “It wasn’t a good fit.” Which I assume is code for Hayes is being an asshole, or Hayes slept with her during the interview. Though Jonathan’s never said a bad word about his boss, thanks to TMZ and DeuxMoi, I know better. He makes my ex look like a choirboy. “Anyway,” he concludes, “it occurred to me I should just hire you. He needs an assistant. You need money. It’s perfect.”
Jonathan deals with demands: celebrities expecting to be slid into Hayes’s packed schedule on a moment’s notice, or Hayes requesting sought-after reservations and exotic foods. The job calls for tact, diplomacy, and the ability to make the impossible happen. Saying I’m the perfect choice is like setting up a sixteen-year-old boy with a ninety-year-old female and insisting it’s perfect because they’re both straight.
“So you’re desperate and can’t get anyone else to take the job.”
He looks up from his egg-white omelet, his mouth twitching. “No, Tali. You’re discreet and I think you’d be good for each other. Also, it pays four grand a week.”
My eyes go wide. I knew he did well—certainly better than I do working at Topside, a bar specializing in Jimmy Buffett and bandannas worn as headgear—but not that well. Four grand times the six weeks he’ll be gone won’t solve my problems, but it will make them a hell of a lot smaller.
“You probably should have led with that,” I tell him, and he breaks into my favorite Jonathan smile, sweet and surprised, like a child who’s been paid an unexpected compliment.
“That was easier than expected, given how you feel about Hayes,” he says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “And I want you to know...I still think you’re going to finish the book. But I thought if you could stop panicking about paying back the advance, it might take some of the pressure off.”
He has more faith in me than I have in myself, then. The book—for which I received a hefty advance I’ve already spent—has remained only half done for the past year and is due in a matter of months. If selling my soul to the devil was an option at this point, I’d probably take it, so I’m not going to turn down merely being on his payroll.
But it all feels too easy. This is Hayes we’re discussing, after all. “So that’s it? I mean, don’t I need to interview or something?”
A shadow passes over his face, a tiny curl of worry. “You’ll need to sign a contract and a non-disclosure agreement, but that’s about it. Hayes trusts my decisions. It’ll be fine.”
I’m not so certain about that, I think, remembering the one and only time Hayes and I have stood in the same room. I still don’t know why he was in Topside, sticking out like a sore thumb in his expensive suit, or why—for one long moment—he was watching me with something that seemed like interest. But he hadn’t even reached the bar before that thing in his face changed, turned cold and resigned, and the next time I looked up he was gone. Perhaps it had nothing to do with me, but it doesn’t seem like the most auspicious start to our working relationship.
“I just have one request...” Jonathan says. He leans forward, arms of his suit pressed to the table, hands flat. “Don’t sleep with him. Please. If you jump into bed with him the day I leave, I’ll have to come straight home.”
I laugh loudly enough to draw stares from the neighboring tables. It’s appalling that Jonathan, my oldest friend, would even suggest it.
“Give me some credit. I would never have sex with someone like Hayes. I’m done with untrustworthy men.”
His shoulders sag as he scratches his forehead. “I worry you’ve got an idea about Hayes created entirely by some bullshit gossip and your vivid imagination.” His eyes fall on me, full of sympathy now. “And Matt never seemed untrustworthy. We were all as surprised as you when that went south.”
My chest tightens. There’s nothing reassuring about what Jonathan just said. I’d prefer to hear where I’d gone wrong, to have him point out the signs Matt was going to fail me the way he did, but even now all anyone can say about my ex is but he was such a great guy.
Jonathan reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “It’s gonna get better, Tali. When the right guy comes along, your walls will recede.”
I sort of doubt that, given my plan is just to avoid men altogether.
But either way, Hayes Flynn won’t be touching my walls, or anything else.