A Deal with the Devil by Elizabeth O’Roark

2

Ipull into the circular drive and glance over the schedule Jonathan gave me:

• 7:30 Arrive at the Starbucks on Highland. Order one venti latte (whole milk) three sugars.
• 7:45 Let yourself in using code. Disable alarm. Place coffee and papers on kitchen counter.
• If Hayes is not downstairs by 8 AM, text him. If that fails, you’ll need to go wake him up. Warning: he may have company.

I’m worried I’m missing something, and in truth I’m not even sure I’ve gotten those first few instructions right. The latte has already sloshed on my skirt and I don’t know if I’m supposed to add the sugars myself or if The Dark Lord can actually do that much on his own.

I could check with Jonathan if I really had to, but he’s currently in route to Manila, and I should probably save harassing him for the bigger questions. God knows they’re likely as the day unfolds—if I even last that long. Sitting here in front of Hayes’s Hollywood Hills mansion, I’m starting to feel a little uncertain on that front.

First, because I already hate my boss, which is always a bad sign.

Second, because I really hate his house. I’d expected something more like Hayes himself: clean lines and beautiful angles with pops of lush, unexpected beauty. Instead, it’s the house you’d buy if, perhaps, you got famous off a YouTube song about farting—large enough to house a sizable village and replete with far too many tacky flourishes: fountains, columns, arching windows, turrets. And in a climate where flowering trees and bougainvillea flourish, his only landscaping involves some neatly trimmed hedges and a single, stocky palm, which hints at the exact sort of soullessness I’d expect from someone with his tabloid history.

I put my shoulders back and take one deep breath before I exit the car. Whether I like him or his house is irrelevant. This job is a means to an end for me, the first decent break I’ve had in a very hard year, and I’m not going to mess it up.

No matter how awful he clearly is, I don’t have to like him to hold my tongue and do his bidding. It’s only six weeks, after all.

Juggling the papers and the coffee and my bag, I manage to open the door and silence the alarm. My heels echo against the floor as I walk through, deeming the interior every bit as disappointing as the exterior: marble floors, lots of huge wood furniture, two winding grand staircases leading to separate wings of the house. I’m lonely sleeping by myself in a studio, so I can’t imagine how I’d feel in a space this vast. Then again, Hayes undoubtedly doesn’t sleep alone often.

I pull out the two cell phones I’ve inherited from Jonathan—one for Hayes’s normal calls and one for emergencies—and am about to arrange the newspapers when I hear him coming down the stairs. My heart begins to beat—overfast, nearly audible. Dealing with patients and running errands will be the bulk of my job. That I can handle. The one thing I’m not prepared for is meeting the man himself.

I glance in the mirror across from me, confirming that the new silk blouse is still tucked in and the spilled coffee stain on my skirt isn’t too obvious. Everything about me screams “pocket-sized and nonthreatening”—hair pulled back in a high ponytail, mascara and lip balm on my face and nothing more—aside from my eyes, which remain a trifle, um, defiant. I need them to say I’m here to serve, and at present they say something more like I’m carrying pepper spray, or I know gang members.

Before I can correct it, he appears, dressed in a crisp white shirt and black suit, even taller than I’d realized—and even prettier. Dark hair gleaming, damp and pushed off his face, a slight flush to his sharp cheekbones, still warm from the shower.

It’s a face that would force you to look a second and then a third time. A face that makes you brace for the sound of his voice...undoubtedly low and rough as gravel, the kind of voice that plucks a chord at the base of your stomach, makes you squeeze your thighs together in anticipation. Or would, were he not looking at me as if I’d just broken into his home.

“Is this a joke?” he demands. His voice is exactly as I imagined. Too bad he had to ruin it by being him. He must have known I was coming, and I haven’t done anything wrong yet.

“No,” I say, suddenly grateful the counter separates us. “I’m Tali. Jonathan asked me to fill in for him while he was gone. I assumed you knew.”

A muscle flickers in his jaw. “He told me my replacement was named Natalia,” he says, blowing out a tight breath. “Not his friend, the bartender.”

He says “bartender” as if it’s synonymous with racist or pedophile. I’d think a guy who drinks as much as he does would have a great deal of respect for my profession.

“Is there a problem?” I ask. My voice is probably more threatening and less conciliatory than is called for—no bad situation I can’t make worse. But I quit my job for this, so I’m not going down without a fight.

“I need to speak to Jonathan when he lands,” he says, pressing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “There’s obviously been a misunderstanding. I mean, do you even have any experience?”

Do I have experience answering the phone and picking up dry cleaning? Yes. Loads. I truly can’t believe Jonathan worried I’d sleep with this guy. Granted, I’d like to do plenty of things to him, but they mostly involve spit, and not in a sexy way.

“Yes,” I reply, folding my arms beneath my chest. “Last I checked, answering phones didn’t require an MBA from Harvard.”

“Which you clearly don’t have,” he says.

I could counter that I’ve attended grad school, but referencing something I quit probably won’t help my case.

He grabs the coffee, sighing as he glances at the sugars. Apparently, he is too busy and important to tear his own sugar packets. Lesson learned for tomorrow, not that it appears there will be a tomorrow.

“I’m calling Jonathan,” he says, already walking away. “Don’t get comfortable.”

The door slams and my breath leaves me, slowly and thoroughly. What the hell even happened? I’d understand if he disliked me after getting to know me—he wouldn’t be the first—but he was being a jerk before I even opened my mouth.

I lean against the marble counter and press my face to my hands, the disappointment sinking in at last. I’ve already quit at Topside and on very little notice. They won’t be hiring me back, which means unless I find something else quickly, I’m heading home to Kansas with my tail between my legs, just the way my ex-boyfriend predicted I would.

What’s hardest is that this job felt like a sign—that things would be fine, that I was going to be able to dig my way out of this hole I’m in. But every bit of luck I ever had evaporated the minute I accepted that advance. Why would this be different?

* * *

Eventually I makemy way to Jonathan’s office, just to the right of the kitchen. It’s small and sunny and Zen-like in its austerity. Aside from the desk and chair, the only décor is a single bright green fern and two framed photos—one of Jason and one of the three of us, laughing in the breeze with the Santa Monica pier lit up behind us.

I sip my cold coffee and begin to take down the weekend’s messages, waiting to be fired. I’ve almost, almost, accepted the idea, by the time he calls midday. But my stomach still drops. I’ve never been fired before. Nor have I ever lost this much money in one fell swoop.

“This morning,” he begins stiffly, “I was…surprised. I just want to be sure you know what you’re in for here. It’s not an easy job.”

Relief hisses through my blood, like steam escaping a valve. I’m not sure what changed his mind, and I don’t really care. “That’s okay.”

“You’ll be working long hours,” he says, “and you’ll have to do...other things as well.”

I sink into my chair. “That sounds like the sort of vague thing Harvey Weinstein would suggest,” I say with an awkward laugh.

This is greeted with utter silence. Apparently, I’ve once again derailed a conversation with one of my misplaced attempts at humor.

“No,” he finally says. “But there may be things about my lifestyle you find distasteful.”

“You mean the turrets?” It just comes out. I internally cringe at my lack of filter. I need a muzzle. “Never mind. I don’t care about the distasteful stuff. It’s fine.”

“Okay,” he says on a heavy, disappointed exhale. Clearly, he was hoping I’d walk away on my own. “You can stay on until Jonathan gets back. And I’m sure he told you this, but let me reemphasize: no one gets my personal number. No one.”

Jonathan already explained this to me, with the urgency of someone discussing nuclear codes. I’m to take messages if anyone calls, and forward any texts that seem pertinent, personal or otherwise. But the only people who actually have Hayes’s number are his friend Ben, Jonathan, and now me…so he’ll know who’s to blame if it gets out.

“Make sure people leave you alone. Jonathan told me.”

“Exactly,” he replies. “Yourself included.” And then he hangs up without another word.

I heave a deep sigh and close my eyes. It’s going to be a really, really long six weeks.