: Chapter 7

The Evil Corporate Empire

Lucian

Rollins Consulting offices occupied the top floor of a postmodern building on G Street in DC’s central business district. The proximity to the White House meant that the street in front of the building was regularly closed for the motorcades of visiting dignitaries.

The elevator doors opened to sleek marble, stately gold lettering, and a dragon.

Petula “Thou Shalt Not Pass” Reubena took her role as gatekeeper seriously. No one got past her unless expressly authorized. I’d once found her performing a bag search on my own mother when she’d come to meet me for a rare lunch.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Petula said, rising from her chair to stand at attention. She’d had a long, decorated army career and after one month of retirement had decided she wasn’t cut out for a life of leisure.

She dressed like someone’s wealthy grandmother, and while she did indeed have three grandchildren of her own, Petula spent her spare time rock climbing. This information was gleaned from the extensive background check all employees were subject to. She had never once commented on her personal life and had a low tolerance for anyone else who did.

“Good afternoon, Petula. Any emergencies while I was gone?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” she said briskly.

I held the glass door for her, and Petula marched ahead of me, rattling off the day’s schedule.

“You’re expected to sit in on a conference call at 2:15. You have Trip Armistead at 3:00 and Sheila Chandra scheduled for 3:15. I assume this is either another diabolical power move, or you finally made your first mistake.”

Trip was a Georgia congressman and a client who was not going to enjoy our fifteen minutes together. “I never make mistakes,” I said, nodding to the associate in the gray suit whose name I couldn’t remember.

Petula gave me a bland look. “I’ll alert security. The cleaners won’t be pleased if they have to get bloodstains out of the rug again.”

“I’ll do my best to keep the bloodshed to a minimum,” I promised.

We headed into the busy field of cubicles where phones rang and employees diligently did whatever it was I paid them to do. The starting salary at Rollins Consulting was $80,000 a year. It wasn’t that I was generous. It was that I didn’t want to waste time constantly filling low-­paying positions. The money also helped compensate for the fact that I was a demanding boss, an asshole as it was probably whispered around the watercooler. If I paid my team members less, I’d have to be nicer. And that didn’t interest me.

We strolled through the cubicles and past three occupied conference rooms. What had begun as a one-­man boutique political consulting firm that was willing to get dirty for its clients had evolved into a one-­hundred-­and-­fifteen-­person organization that put people into and took them out of office when necessary. And I still didn’t mind playing dirty when it suited my objectives.

A shrill whistle caught my attention and I spied ex-­U.S. Marshal Nolan Graham behind his desk in his glass-­walled office, a phone pinned to his ear. He’d come on board a few months ago after he’d taken a bullet for my friend. I’d made him an offer it would be stupid to refuse, and he’d kissed his government job goodbye.

“I’ll leave you to Prince Charming,” Petula said with what could almost have passed for a smile in Nolan’s direction. It seemed that the man’s charm had managed to put a few cracks in my no-­nonsense sentry’s armor.

I paused in Nolan’s doorway. “What?”

He hung up the phone and triumphantly riffed a few keys on his keyboard. “Cyber team got a few more suspicious money trails for you-­know-­who that we’re unraveling. Couple of fronts that look about right for laundering. Writing up the report now in case your Bureau buddies want to take a closer look.”

It was a fine line to walk. My cybersecurity analysts—­colloquially known as hackers—­worked their not-­technically-­legal magic to find threads to pull. Once we knew where to look, the rest of the team worked to confirm and pass along that information in ways that wouldn’t get the case bounced out of court.

Special Agent Idler was smart enough not to ask too many questions about how information fell into my lap.

“We need something bigger. A stash house. Distribution routes. A higher-­up with a grudge who can be turned.” Something that would dismantle the organization from the inside out.

“What can I say? The guy’s not as big a fucking idiot as his son. If you don’t mind me saying, why not let Lina take a crack at some of the intel? She’s in the office today. Maybe she can find an avenue we’re overlooking.”

“She has a personal bias,” I insisted. I was not a my-­door-­is-­always-­open, here’s-­the-­suggestion-­box kind of boss. I didn’t want feedback. I wanted to tell people what to do and then not have to worry about them doing it.

Besides, in addition to being royally pissed at the Hugo family for abducting her and nearly killing her fiancé, Lina also refused to fully commit to this job. At first, her part-­time dabbling power play had been amusing. Now I found it irritating.

Between Petula, Nolan, and Lina all being blatantly unafraid of me, I had concerns the rest of the employees would follow suit and start doing things like knocking on my office door for “a quick chat” or suggesting I host an office holiday party.

Nolan kicked back in his chair. “Let’s see. If Lina’s the kettle, that would make you the pot.”

“I don’t have time for your nonsensical bullshit this afternoon.”

“Just to be clear you’re the pot calling the kettle black in that metaphor,” he said.

“I don’t have a personal bias,” I lied.

Nolan began a dramatic search of his desk drawers.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.

He paused, then grinned. “A fire extinguisher to put out your pants fire.”

“I thought you’d gotten less annoying since you shaved your mustache. I was wrong.”

He’d actually become significantly more likable after he’d stopped dating Sloane, a requirement of his employment with me.

Fuck.

I glanced at my watch.

I hadn’t even made it into my office before my first thought of her. I’d had breakfast with the woman. Why couldn’t I just set her aside and move on to the next thing that required handling? Sloane Walton never did anything I wanted her to. I wanted a life where nothing made me feel powerless, out of control, and until I found a way to exorcise the woman, I would always be vulnerable.

“Just saying. Seems like you’re waiting for her to prove her loyalty, and she’s waiting for you to prove you’re worth being loyal to. If you two don’t try to meet in the middle, no one’s getting off this fucked-­up power trip merry-­go-­round.”

It took me a moment to realize he was talking about Lina, not Sloane.

“I don’t recall asking you for your opinion.”

“That’s what friends are for. Speaking of, you want some backup with the feds today? I can stand behind you and make menacing faces,” Nolan offered.

“I don’t need backup.” The fewer people directly involved in the Anthony Hugo investigation, the better. When Hugo caught wind of what I was doing, I wanted his attention focused solely on me. “What I do want is the deep dive on Fund It’s partners in ten minutes,” I ordered.

“Already on your desk,” he said, smugly tossing a peanut M&M into his mouth.

It was less fun ordering people about when they’d already predicted what I needed and delivered it.

On a grunt, I left his office and headed toward mine.

“You’re welcome,” Nolan called after me.

Sometimes I wondered why I’d bothered hiring employees. They were all annoying.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Rollins,” chirped a perky redhead who looked more like she should be studying for her driver’s license test than working for one of the country’s most ruthless consulting firms.

I should have worked from home.

Holly was twenty-­two years old, the mother of two, and this was what she referred to as her first “grown-­up” job. She acted abominably grateful toward me as if the job and salary were personal favors I’d granted her.

It made me uncomfortable and awkward.

“Your hair is…interesting,” I said.

She turned around, giving me an unrequested view of the back of her head. Today she wore her hair in two thick braids that looked as if birds had uniformly worked their way down each one, attempting but not quite succeeding to pull them apart.

“Do you like it? It’s called bubble braids. I have a YouTube channel—­”

“I don’t care,” I said.

She let out a girlish giggle. “You’re so funny, Mr. Rollins.”

“No. I’m not,” I insisted.

She waved away my statement. “I just wanted to let you know that I left a little something for you on your desk. You asked me about my lunch yesterday, so I brought you some to try.”

I hadn’t asked her about her lunch. I’d suggested she not microwave fish chowder in the break room because it made the entire office smell like the belly of a crab trawler.

“You really shouldn’t have done that.”

“It was the least I could do,” she said cheerfully.

“How thoughtful,” Petula said, reappearing at my side like an elite sniper. “Mr. Rollins will certainly enjoy your chowder for his afternoon snack.”

Holly beamed sunnily at us. “Just wait until I make you my tofu curry!”

We watched her all but skip away.

“Christ, what was I thinking hiring her?” I muttered.

“You were thinking she desperately needed a job that could support two kids. She thinks you’re a knight in shining armor,” Petula explained, opening the door to my office.

I wasn’t the knight. I was the dragon.

“Then she’s either criminally misinformed or delusional,” I muttered as I entered my space. It was designed to intimidate and impress. There was nothing homey or cozy about the glass desk, the stark white couch, the dark wood. It was formal, cold. It suited me.

“It’s not the worst thing in the world to have employees who aren’t blatantly terrified of you,” Petula said, busying herself by hitting remotes to open blinds, switching on my desk monitors, and organizing paperwork by priority while I hung my coat on the rack inside the door.

“Between Nolan and Holly, you’re going soft,” I complained.

“I insist you take back that insult, or I’ll tell everyone you cry during SPCA commercials.”

The wall of windows revealed an impressive view of DC’s business district. Most of it was still blanketed in a pristine coat of white thick enough to cover the stains and sins that happened behind closed doors in the nation’s capital.

“I prefer people to be terrified. Then they don’t try to talk to me about whatever the hell bubble braids are. And why are you so nice to her? You’re mean to everyone.”

Petula huffed. “I’m not mean. I’m efficient. Niceties are a waste of time and energy.”

“I wholeheartedly agree.”

“What do you want me to do with this?” she asked, holding up the container of homemade fish chowder.

“Throw it out the window.”

She stared me down and waited.

“Fine. Put it in my refrigerator.” I’d throw it out when I was sure I wouldn’t get caught.

“Don’t throw out the container. She’ll need it back,” Petula ordered.

Damn it.

“Anything else?” I asked with irritation.

Petula aligned the folders on my desk with a sharp tap. “These are priority. You have drinks at 7:00 p.m. at the Wellesley Club with two of the vice presidents from Democracy Strategies. And that investigator will probably be here shortly. I informed her you were absolutely not available this afternoon, but she was rudely insistent.”

While she talked, I walked to the wall of glass and stared out over Washington, wondering what Sloane would think of this place and what I’d accomplished.

I’d become someone. Forged an empire. And I’d gotten strong enough, rich enough, powerful enough that no single threat could take what I’d built. I’d vanquished the ghosts of the past.

“Thank you, Petula. That will be all,” I said, suddenly anxious to bury myself in work.

She looked down her nose at me. “I know that will be all, because that’s all I had for you. I’ll let you know when that investigator arrives. And I’ll send Holly back with your coffee when it arrives.”

“Don’t—­”

But she was already smugly sweeping out the door, dismissing me.

It took three excruciating minutes of small talk about the weather and her son’s sudden interest in watching other kids play video games on YouTube for me to pry the coffee out of Holly’s hands.

I was only on my second priority folder, a background check on a gubernatorial candidate in Pennsylvania, when “that investigator” riffed a two-­fisted knock on my glass door. I gestured her inside.

Nallana Jones was a private investigator whose deep pockets were lined by clients like me who could afford to pay a premium for dirty work. Today, she was dressed like a middle-­aged suburban mom out for a power walk in dumpy sweats and a bulky belt bag. She was wearing a short, brown wig under a car dealer baseball cap. Her pink sweatshirt said I Love Maine Coon Cats.

“You look ridiculous,” I said.

“That’s the idea. Nobody gives Middle-­Aged Maude a second look when she hits the treadmill at their mistress’s gym.”

“I take it this is for someone else’s job?”

“Yep.” She produced a flash drive from her belt bag and set it on my desk. “This came in from my girl in Atlanta yesterday. The backups are already in the cloud. I also added a little juicy footage from your guy’s arrival in town this morning. Right place, right time. Whatever you plan to do with this info, it’s solid. There’s no way he can wiggle out of it.”

“Impressive as always, Nallana.”

“Yeah, well. That’s why you pay me the big bucks,” she said, slapping her knees. “Anyway, I gotta jet. There’s a certain twenty-­two-­year-­old who’s about to meet her fifty-­eight-­year-­old, married sugar daddy for a personal training session. I can’t be late.”

“I’ll call you when I need you again.”

She tossed me a two-­finger salute and sauntered out the door.

I inserted the drive into my secure laptop and scrolled through the files. There were over two dozen pictures and a handful of video files as well. Each one was enough to destroy a man’s career. I printed two of the better stills, copied the files to a new, secure folder in my own backup, then wiped the drive.

I picked up the phone and dialed Lina’s extension.

“What’s up, boss?” she asked with a hint of sarcasm so subtle I wasn’t sure it was actually there.

“I might have a job for you,” I said.

“A real one or another gopher task?”

“Just get in here.”

Seconds later, she appeared at my door. I waved her in and gestured for her to take a seat.

Her long legs ate up the space between the door and my desk. She sank into the chair and crossed one neatly over the other. “How do you not get fingerprints all over all that glass?” she asked, staring at the pristine surface of my desk.

“I refrain from getting sloppy. Which is what I’ll need you to do.” I slid the two photos across the desk to her. “Do you know who this man is?”

She studied the pictures. “The guy who looks like he was born in an ascot is Trip Armistead, our client and current member of the House of Representatives. I have no idea who the topless dancer is, but I’ll shave my head if she’s eighteen.”

I glanced at my watch. “You have twenty-­three minutes to take these photos and the information in the secure folder to build a compelling anonymous tip to be sent to the reputable news organizations of your choice.”

“Are we actually pressing Send, or are we using it to scare the shit out of our old buddy Trip?”

“The latter.”

The man had the backbone of a crustacean. One quick snap was all it would take.

“Fun. I’m in,” she said, rising from her seat.

“Why haven’t you accepted the job?” I asked.

She paused, then lowered herself back into the chair. “Does it matter?” she asked cagily.

“I won’t know until you tell me. Is it the compensation? Does Nash have an issue with you working for me?”

“The compensation is fair. The work seems like it’s interesting from the glimpses you allow. Nash is thrilled that I get to be home every day.”

“Then what is it?”

“Sloane.”

My grip tightened on the pen in my hand. “You don’t seem like the type of woman to let other people call the shots in your life,” I said evenly.

Lina scoffed. “Sloane didn’t tell me not to take the job. My hesitation lies in the fact that you’re an asshole to one of my only friends for vague reasons that you both refuse to explain.”

I said nothing and Lina continued.

“Maybe you’re carrying some multi-­decade grudge about something that happened when you were practically children, which would be pathetic. Or maybe you had a secret torrid affair that went south and now you can’t stand her, which would be immature. Maybe she ran over your pet tarantula when she was learning to drive. I honestly don’t care about the why. The bottom line is I don’t want to dedicate my working life to a man who treats my friend badly. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a politician to blackmail.”

Trip Armistead was a blond-­haired, blue-­eyed southerner who prided himself on his charm and pedigree.

He was also an asshole who had officially outlived his usefulness.

He entered my office, arms spread, palms up, a man certain of his importance. I looked forward to ruining that.

“Lucian, old friend. We should have done this in Atlanta. I was in my shirtsleeves on the golf course two days ago,” Trip said, heading straight for the decanter of bourbon I kept on a side table. He poured himself a glass and gestured toward me with it. “Want one?”

“No thanks, Trip. I’m afraid our meeting won’t last long enough for you to finish that.”

“Now what’s this all about?” he asked affably as he took a seat in one of the chairs in front of my desk.

“You’re not going to run for the Senate. In fact, you’re not going to run for reelection. You’re going to resign your position and scurry out of the spotlight like a cockroach on a kitchen floor.”

“I beg your pardon?” His knuckles whitened against the glass.

I got out of my chair and rounded my desk. “When we came on board, you assured me there weren’t going to be any problems, any dirty little secrets. Do you remember that?”

Trip swallowed reflexively. “Of course. I gave you my word. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I’ve been nothing but—­”

“I’m going to stop you there, Trip, because if you lie to my face, this will get ugly. And I don’t have time for ugly.” I handed over the folder Lina had prepared in record time.

The glass slid from Trip’s hand.

I caught it before it hit the ground and placed it on my desk with a hard clink. “I see I have your attention.”

“How… Why?”

The bravado, the confidence was unraveling faster and faster now.

“You do know who I am, don’t you, Trip? You understand how serious I am about protecting my clients while paving their way into history. Can you really be that stupid to think I would take you at your word? I protect my investments…even from themselves.”

“I have a wife, daughters.”

“You should have thought of them before you hired two sex workers in less than twenty-­four hours.”

He was visibly shaking now.

“I warned you what would happen if you crossed me,” I reminded him.

“I didn’t cross you. This isn’t what it looks like,” he sputtered.

“The girl you hired this morning? She turned eighteen last week. Your oldest daughter is what? Sixteen?” I asked.

“I-­It’s a sex addiction. I’ll get help,” Trip decided. “We’ll keep it quiet, I’ll get treatment, and everything will be fine.”

I shook my head. “I see it’s not sinking in yet. You’re finished. There’s no way for you to throw yourself on the mercy of the court of public opinion, because they’ll eat you alive. Especially seeing as how you missed the vote on veterans benefits because you were paying to have your cock sucked.”

Little beads of sweat dotted his forehead.

“You threw it all away because you couldn’t keep your dick in your pants. Your career, your future. Your family. Your wife will leave you. Your daughters are old enough that they’ll hear every salacious detail of Daddy’s extracurricular sex life. They’ll never look at you the same again.” I nodded at the open folder in his lap. “I’ve already had a press release drafted about how my firm was forced to sever ties with you after learning about your sexual exploits.”

He closed his eyes, and I had to turn away when his lip began to tremble.

“Please. Don’t do this. I’ll do anything,” he begged.

He was yet another weak, pathetic addition to the long list of men who risked everything just to get off.

“I’ll give you a choice. You’ll resign from Congress immediately. You’ll go home and tell your wife and daughters that you had an epiphany and that your time together is precious. You don’t want to work a job that keeps you away from them so much anymore. You’ll go to fucking therapy. Or you won’t. You’ll save your marriage or you won’t. One thing you won’t do is ever cheat on your wife again. Because if you do, I’ll deliver copies of every photo and every video to your wife, your parents, your church, and every member of the media between here and fucking Atlanta.”

Trip put his head in his hands and let out a broken moan.

I almost wished he’d put up more of a fight, then smothered that feeling.

“Get out. Go home, and don’t ever give me a reason to share the information I’ve collected.”

“I can be better. I can do better,” he said, rising from the chair like a puppet on strings.

“I don’t give a fuck,” I said, leading the way to the door.

He was weak. No one could build a foundation on weakness.

I opened the door and held it. Trip walked through, eyes down.

“I was just bringing Ms. Chandra to you, sir,” Petula said.

Trip looked up, defeat fully settling over him as his shoulders hunched.

“What a small world, Trip,” Sheila Chandra said with the honeyed tones of Georgia. She looked back and forth between me and my ex-­client.

“Sheila is going to be running for the seat you’re so graciously vacating, Trip,” I said. “I’m glad we can count on your support.

Trip shot me a parting look with red-­rimmed eyes and said nothing as he marched out of my office.

Sheila turned to me, eyebrows high. “I think I’m gonna need an explanation…and a drink.”

A knock at my office door dragged me out of my never-­ending inbox. I looked up to see Lina on the other side of the glass. It was after six. The city outside my windows lit up the night sky. Most of the staff had gone home for the day, but I still had hours of catching up thanks to my time in Knockemout.

I gestured her inside.

“Is it done?” I asked, firing off the reply and opening the next message.

“Yes.”

“Good. Get out. I’m busy.”

She ignored the command and dropped down in the chair across from me. “How did it go with Chandra?”

I took off my reading glasses, resigning myself to an unwanted conversation.

“Fine.” The woman had accused me of Machiavellian-­level manipulations, which I took as a compliment. Then she’d insisted on taking some time to consider my proposal that would have her taking Trip’s seat before making the run for higher office. The fact that she didn’t immediately jump at my offer assured me I’d made the right decision. She’d poll higher with younger voters, do more for her constituents, and wouldn’t fuck around with a golden opportunity like her predecessor had.

She would see my offer for what it was: a chance to finally do the work she’d always wanted.

“What’s your end game?” Lina demanded.

“That’s an awfully personal question for someone who doesn’t officially work for me.”

“Humor me. Today alone, you forced one of your own clients to resign the seat that you won him and made him do the walk of shame past the replacement you personally chose. Then you had me deliver an envelope full of cash to a sex worker who looks like she’s barely old enough to vote and opened the door of a very expensive, gated home in Georgetown.”

“Is there a question in there?”

“I ran the address,” she said, pausing to admire the engagement ring on her left hand.

Of course she had. “Is there a point to this?”

“It took quite a bit of digging. But it appears that that big, beautiful brick house in the nice, quiet neighborhood is a halfway house for victims of domestic abuse and sex trafficking. It also appears to be owned by Yoshino Holdings, a subsidiary of a subsidiary of a subsidiary of this very consulting group.”

It was annoying how good she was at her job.

“I’m still waiting for your point,” I said.

“I can’t tell if you’re a good guy or a bad guy.”

“Does it matter?”

She looked me straight in the eye. “I think it does to both of us. Are you just making power moves to remind people you’re a big, strong man who needs to be feared? Or are you moving pieces around on the world’s biggest chess board for the greater good?”

“I attempted to hire you for your brain. Why don’t you use it and tell me what you think?”

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “I think you are putting friendly people in positions of power and not just because they pay you to. Sheila Chandra is an elementary school principal. She doesn’t have pockets deep enough to pay your fees. You don’t just give Trip and his fat wallet the boot, you destroy the man’s career, citing the fact that he lied to you. But I think it’s more than that. I think you don’t like bad men in positions of power. Which goes against the reputation you’ve built for being terrifying, ruthless, and maybe even a little evil.”

I opened my hands. “What can I say? I’m a complicated man. You should go home to Nash.”

“He’s working late tonight. If I’m going to come on board, I want to know what you want out of all this. Are you hoping to get a U.S. President in your pocket?”

“Is that what you think?”

“On the surface, that’s what it looks like. But I wonder if you’re on some solitary quest to force the world to become a better place.”

“Don’t mistake me for some kind of hero.”

“Oh, I’m not. Let’s not forget the trail of ruined lives you leave behind you.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “I don’t ruin any life that doesn’t deserve to be ruined.” At least I tried not to.

“But you take great pleasure in ruining the ones that do.”

“I do.”

Lina cocked her head and grinned. “Guess I kind of like that about you.”

“I’m delighted you approve,” I said dryly.

She gave me another long, assessing look and then nodded. “Fine. I’ll take the job at ten percent more than you offered since Nash and I are building a house and I want a closet the size of a basketball court. But if you start turning toward the dark side or whatever, I’m out of here.”

“Fine. Ten percent. No dark side. I’ll talk to HR. Now leave so I can focus on ruining more lives.”

“There’s something else I want.”

“What?” I asked, exasperated.

“I want in on the secret Hugo investigation.”

“What secret Hugo investigation?” I hedged.

“The one I’m not supposed to know about. Because of Hugo, I almost lost Nash, and he almost lost me. I want that man in a cell or a box. I’m not picky. But I do want to help put him there.”

“Deal. Now leave me alone.”

“One more question. Why are you such a dick to Sloane?”

“Go away.”

“And why is she a dick to you?” she asked, cocking her head.

“Goodbye, Lina.”

“If one of you doesn’t tell me, I’ll just have to start digging on my own.”

“And then I’ll rescind my offer and fire you.”

She rose and flashed me a grin. “I think it’s going to be fun working with you.”

“How’s Nash?” I asked as she headed for the door.

Lina turned, eyebrow arched. “Shouldn’t you be asking him that?”

“I’m asking you.”

Nash had gone through a dark period after being shot, one Lina helped pull him out of.

Her expression softened as it always did when she talked about her fiancé. I doubted she was aware of it and doubted more that she’d like attention drawn to that fact.

“He’s good. His shoulder is almost back to one hundred percent, and he hasn’t had a panic attack since the fall.”

“Good.”

“Speaking of Nash. I’m going to need to start my official full-­time employment Tuesday. Because Monday is wedding dress shopping day.”

“If you’re looking for someone to ask you why you sound like wedding dress shopping is torture, you came to the wrong man.”

She scoffed. “I don’t sound like wedding dress shopping is torture.”

“I don’t care whether you do or you don’t.”

“I’m just not into the girly, fluffy bridal thing, and Naomi and Sloane took the day off to drive down here and watch me parade around like Bridal Barbie.”

Sloane. My heartbeat picked up.

Despite my best efforts, my brain cataloged each and every time the woman’s name came up in conversation.

Sloane would be in my city.

“Bring them by the office,” I said.

Lina looked as if she thought I’d lost my mind. “Why?”

“They’re your friends. I’m sure they’d like to see where you officially work as of two minutes ago.”

She narrowed her eyes and brought a manicured finger to her jaw. “Hmm. It’s almost like you want me to bring Sloane into your inner sanctum.”

“You’re annoying me. Go home before I fire you.”

“Be nicer to her,” she ordered.

“Or else what?”

“Or else I’ll make your work life as miserable as possible while still doing my job. And I’m really, really good at miserable.”

Emry: Is the pair of symphony tickets you had delivered to my house your way of asking me out on a date?

Me: Take them across the street. Knock on the door. And ASK. HER. OUT. But change your shirt first. You’re going for “dateable man,” not “cuddly grandfather.”

Emry: There’s nothing wrong with cuddly.