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I hide my grin in my shoulder, but only because I know it would look more murderous than flattered. Mark is a necessary evil. I can handle him. I’ve dealt with worse.

  “Some of the interns asked if I want to go to dinner later. I was going to go, but maybe now it’s not such a good idea. Unless…” Cue pouty look. “Maybe you could come to smooth things over?”

  To his credit, a wary look passes over his face. He considers this for half a beat, then nods. “I had plans, but for you I’d make an exception.”

  I smile. And as I excuse myself to return to my post, I hope that anything I can get out of Mark will be worth the trouble.

  CHAPTER 12

  We meet at Risa’s, a taco joint just around the corner from the Macintosh Building, right after my shift. Since she’s already friendly with the interns, I drag Myra along. Most of us walk over together, but Mark insists on driving, either because he’s afraid the wind will bust through his concrete-gelled hair, or because he likes the idea of parking his Mustang in a thirty-dollar-an-hour lot where the rest of us can see.

  “Please tell me he isn’t your date,” says Myra.

  “Not my date,” I assure her. “Needed to make amends after the whole donation scandal.” I also need to get to know Mark a little better, and I’m not going to be able to do that in a meeting setting, where he’s busy playing top dog. An activity away from work might help him relax a little, and I have exactly zero interest in meeting this creeper alone.

  “Good, because if it was, we were going to have a serious talk about setting a higher bar.” She links her arm through mine as Mark hits the key fob three consecutive times, making his car honk so we all know it’s his. “Wish my daddy bought me a Mustang for Christmas.”

  “Wish I had a daddy.”

  Her face snaps my direction. “Ouch.” She laughs.

  I smirk, grateful that this rolled off without question. For a second, I forgot that I was Jaime Hernandez, college girl and senator-intern wannabe.

  “Seriously, though,” she says. “Careful being too friendly with him. Ever wonder why there aren’t more female interns?”

  I had noticed that there appear to be a plethora of white males in the meeting room, with the exception of Myra and me.

  She leans closer. “I heard they all quit because they can’t stand him.”

  “Maybe he’s misunderstood,” I try.

  “Yeah. I’m sure that’s it.” Her sarcasm is heavy enough to drown us both.

  As we head inside, I’m hit by a blast of hot air and a wave of regret that this friendship with Myra is only pretend. In some alternate universe, I can see us hanging out, getting one of those snooty coffees she likes or going to the movies.

  But that’s not my life, and I’m playing her just like I’m playing Mark.

  “Table for seven,” Mark says, pushing through the line to join our group. Ben hasn’t even reached the hostess yet to tell her, but I’m pretty sure he could have managed that simple math without Mark’s help.

  The hostess only smiles, the way I’m sure I must have the first time I escorted Mark to the meeting room at The Loft. Though I never would have noticed or cared before this job, I watch the way she bobbles the menus and think of how Jessica would run me up the wall for appearing so disorganized.

  We remove coats and gather around a large table near the front window. Outside, Moore is waiting somewhere in his car for my call, but I can’t see the SUV in the street traffic. If I could drive, he wouldn’t have to watch over my shoulder all the time.

  Not that I mind. The truth is, I don’t hate having him around.

  Mark takes the head of the table and I sit to his right. Myra sits beside me, and while Emmett runs over margarita options with our supervisor, she pulls the chip basket between us.

  “So,” she says, taking a crunchy bite. “What’s going on? How’re your classes? I can’t believe I’ve never seen you on campus.”

  I take a chip. “I’m taking a lot of the intro courses online.”

  “I’ve never done online classes. You still have to do fieldwork, right?” she asks, tying her long black hair into a bun. She steals the salsa from Ben just before he dunks a chip and sets it next to our private basket.

  I nibble on the corner of my chip, an image of Dr. O, standing in front of the portrait of his sister, flashing through my head. “I will eventually. Right now it’s just me and my laptop.”

  She’s looking at me, brown eyes round and inquisitive. I focus on the chips.

  “Seems like a lot of pressure,” she says. “Just you and your assignments every day.”

  The word rings through my body, like an out-of-tune string plucked on my stupid guitar.

  “It’s not that bad.”

  Myra grins. “I guess there is the added benefit of going to class in pajamas.”

  I force a smile. Myra’s controlling the conversation. I need to shift the tide.

  A girl with a nose ring and thick black eyeliner comes by to fill our waters. She’s goth from head to toe with the exception of a red T-shirt that says Risa’s in curly script.

  “You want something to drink?” Goth Girl asks.

  “Water’s fine,” I tell her.

  “She goes any slower, you girls are going to have to take over,” mutters Mark, loud enough that Goth Girl can hear over the piped in music. She stiffens, eyes narrowing the slightest bit.

  Myra and I laugh weakly.

  The guys order drinks, and when Goth Girl is gone, an uneasy quiet settles over the table. The college interns keep checking their phones. Myra chats with Ben about the finale of Pipes, the singing competition on TV Geri, Beth, and Alice never miss. Mark keeps making snide comments about the service and how we should get the waitstaff in line. I get the sense things would go a lot easier if the boss wasn’t here, which doesn’t exactly set me up for the Most Likable New Friend award.

  But I need more information, and Mark’s already admitted to knowing Jimmy Balder.

  “I called Jimmy,” I tell him. Beside me, Myra goes still, probably wondering what I possibly have to talk to Mark about.

  “Good for you.” He laughs unsteadily and looks to Emmett, who’s still staring at his phone. The others don’t see Mark’s insecurity, or how much he wants to be liked. They just see the jerk in charge.

  Which he is.

  “He didn’t pick up,” I say. “I called his house, but no one answered there, either.”

  “Sounds like he’s trying to tell you something.”

  Another waitress comes back with their alcohol, delivering both a drink and a shot to Mark. As Goth Girl returns to refill our waters, Mark downs the shot in one gulp. He slaps the small glass on the table, which surprises Goth Girl, and she spills some of the water she’s pouring, splashing Mark in the chest.

  “Are you kidding me?” he hisses. She hands him a napkin, which he snatches out of her hand.

  Bad idea to be nasty to the people who serve your food—you might just find a Band-Aid in your soup. Still, I wince, like I’m sorry that it happened.

  “I don’t think he’s dodging me,” I say when Goth Girl’s gone. “I think something’s wrong.”

  “Wrong with what?” asks Ben from the other side of the table. Mark is still dabbing at the water on his shirt like it’s permanent black ink.

  “I can’t get in touch with a friend of mine,” I say. “He worked on Sterling’s campaign last year.”

  “Yeah?” asks Ben. “What’s his name? I started after Christmas.”

  “Jimmy Balder.”

  “Jimmy? Yeah. I remember that guy,” says Ben. “Tall guy. Super funny.” He bumps Emmett on the shoulder. “Wasn’t Jimmy the one who got that lady to donate five thousand dollars at the art gallery fund-raiser last spring? Didn’t even know her, and by the end of the night she was writing a check.”

  Myra chokes on the water she’s drinking, her face turning red. “Wow,” she manages. “And I thought your hundred-buck tip for walking the dog was good.”

&nbs
p; My gaze shoots to Mark, hoping he didn’t catch that.

  “I think it was more,” says Emmett. The two interns at the end—Beckett and Nick—break from their conversation to join the party.

  “Fifty-five hundred,” says Mark flatly.

  No wonder Mark’s pissed that Jimmy left during donation season. The guy was raking in the dough.

  “Heard he got a job in Washington,” says Emmett. “Working for some House Republican.”

  I glance to Mark, who’s staring at his empty shot glass. Apparently not everyone knows Jimmy was fired, which seems odd with a tight group like this.

  “No,” says Ben in disbelief. “He wanted to do social programs, didn’t he? No way he’d sell out for Washington.” He frowns, then whips out his cell phone, typing at lightning speed with his thumbs.

  “Maybe he pissed someone off,” I suggest.

  “No way,” says Ben without looking up. “Everybody liked that guy.”

  “He was the best intern I trained,” Mark interjects.

  “Didn’t he start before you?” asks Emmett. Ben laughs down at his phone as they high-five.

  Mark’s lips pull taut across his teeth. He pounds back his drink fast enough to make even the boys cringe, then raises his hand to the waitress for a refill.

  Mark may be a sleaze, but I can’t let him be eaten by wolves. Not until he gives me what I need.

  “Careful,” I say. “Your boss is going to make you answer Sterling’s hate mail if you talk enough smack.”

  Emmett chuckles dryly, as if this is probably true.

  I kick Mark under the table. He jumps, then looks my direction.

  I tilt my head toward the others. If he wants to be liked, he should at least try to make himself likable.

  “That’s right,” says Mark. “And … and I’ll send you to Mrs. O’Leary’s house to personally invite her to the Greener Tomorrow benefit.”

  Ben tosses his head back and cries, “No!”

  Emmett cackles. A happy, booze-fueled flush rises in Mark’s cheeks. Everyone’s smiling but Myra, who’s staring blankly at the others like she hasn’t a clue what just happened. Even Goth Girl, who’s back to bring more chips, doesn’t look quite so annoyed as she squeezes by Mark to get an empty basket.

  Probably because, with a subtle turn of her wrist, she lifts his wallet right out of his back pocket as she moves past.

  I quickly look away, torn by what just happened. I need Mark on my side, but there’s code with cons. We don’t rat each other out.

  “Who’s Mrs. O’Leary?” I ask as Goth Girl speeds back to the kitchen.

  “One of Matt’s favorite people,” says Mark, and again I’m thrown by the use of the senator’s first name. “She comes to all the events to donate her bingo money and has been known to—”

  “Accost the interns,” says Ben.

  “That’s an exaggeration,” Mark says.

  “She sat on my lap!” He covers his face with his hands. “An eighty-year-old woman sat on my lap.”

  “Most action you’ve seen in a while, I guess,” says Emmett.

  “Well, yes,” says Ben, and even Mark laughs. “Here it is.” He shows Emmett his phone, and Emmett grins. “That’s him. Jimmy B. Good guy.”

  I nearly leap out of my chair reaching across the table for the phone, and when I accidentally lock the screen he has to give me the keycode to open it back up.

  The photo shows three people in black tuxes, arms slung around each other’s shoulders. Ben is on the left, Emmett in the middle, and on the right is a good-looking guy about the same age. He’s leaning forward a little, his mouth half open as if laughing.

  I’m here because of him.

  Because he disappeared.

  This guy, that everyone liked. That Mark fired for some reason.

  In a beat, it becomes hard to look at him. I peel my gaze away, realizing I was staring. Beside me, Myra was, too.

  She clears her throat. “You all look nice. Was that at a party?”

  I glance down again, seeing there are other people behind them in the photo. A woman in a yellow gown. A man with slicked-back black hair whose arms look like sausages stuffed inside his suit jacket.

  “A fund-raiser at the art gallery on Fifth,” says Ben. “I don’t remember a lot about it, if I’m being honest.” He takes another drink, and everyone laughs.

  I pass the phone back to him. “Can you send me that? Jimmy looks great in it.” He gets my number as the waitress returns with another drink for Mark.

  The front door opens, and from the corner of my vision, I catch the profile of a guy with raven-black hair and glasses. In an instant, my lungs cram straight into my throat, and I jerk so hard the opposite direction, my chair screeches on the floor.

  “You all right?” Myra asks.

  “Yep. Yes. Why?”

  She looks back toward the door, but Caleb is gone.

  Panic rises in my chest. It’s not just that his presence could potentially blow my cover on a job, it’s that there’s no reason for him to be here, now, unless he followed me.

  As the waitress comes back to take our order, I tell Myra to get me pork tacos. Then I excuse myself to the restroom. Cutting through the growing crowd by the door, I search for Caleb, but he’s not by the hostess stand or down the hallway to the restrooms. I scan the bar, but he’s not there, either.

  Stepping outside into the cold, I look up and down the street. It’s almost dark, but the sidewalks are crowded, and there’s enough light from the restaurants and shops to see.

  A hand closes around my biceps, making me jump, but it’s not Caleb, it’s Mark.

  “What are you doing out here?” he asks.

  “Nothing.” I look behind me, but no one’s followed. There’s now a crowd gathered outside Risa’s and enough voices raised in conversation to block out ours. “I thought I saw someone I knew. I was wrong, though.”

  “Oh.” He glances back at the door. “You having fun?”

  “Yeah.” I smile.

  Where the hell is Caleb? Maybe I didn’t really see him. Maybe I’m imagining things.

  “Good,” Mark says, as if he’s the reason why. There’s a goofy smile on his face, and I remember he’s been drinking. “I didn’t want to say this in front of the others, but you were right about Jimmy.”

  He’s got my full attention now.

  “How’s that?”

  “Matt didn’t like him.”

  A couple standing in line to get inside bumps against him, and he motions us toward the street.

  “The senator told you that?”

  “Let’s go over to my car,” he says. “I don’t want anyone else hearing this.”

  He must think I’m pretty stupid to fall for that one.

  “No one’s listening here,” I say, motioning to all the people on their phones or talking to their friends.

  He shakes his head. “This isn’t something Matt wants getting out.”

  Damn. Damn it all to hell.

  “Just across the street,” I tell him.

  He heads into traffic without looking both ways, and I throw up a hand to wave at a driver who stops before running him over. We make it to the opposite sidewalk without dying and soon are standing in the shadowed lot, behind his Mustang.

  Out of habit, I keep my eyes roaming, and stand more than an arm’s length from Mark. I wish I had my knife, but I can’t take it through the metal detector at the office. It’s just me and my cell. At least Moore can track it and knows where I am.

  I look around again for Caleb but don’t see him. Maybe he wasn’t following me after all.

  “You have to be eighteen to work at The Loft, right?” he asks.

  “That’s the rule.” A chill crawls over my skin. Nothing about this is okay. “So what happened with Jimmy and the senator?” I flash to Jimmy’s face, warped with laughter.

  “Shh.” Mark holds a hand to his lips and beckons me closer.

  Reluctantly, I lean in.

  “He t
old me not to tell anyone.”

  “Who? The senator?”

  Mark reaches for my arm, sweaty hand closing around my wrist. I jerk back automatically, but he doesn’t let go.

  “Come here,” he says. “You want to hear or not?”

  A warning pounds through my temple. I try to shake his hand free, but he grabs on with the other and laughs, like we’re playing a game.

  “Let go,” I tell him, trying to wrangle free from his hard grip. My joints crack as I try to get loose.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he says, worry warping his expression as he searches the lot. “You’re making a scene.”

  He drags me out of the light, telling me to calm down.

  “Mark, let go!”

  A rushing fills my ears, so loud that I miss the sound of footsteps running toward us until they stop right behind me.

  “She said let her go.”

  I turn, and there in the streetlight, wearing his leather jacket and a look of cold, hard fury, is Caleb.

  CHAPTER 13

  This is bad.

  Like plane-crash-on-a-desert-island bad. Like just-fell-down-a-mine-shaft bad.

  Caleb shouldn’t be here. He and Mark should not cross paths.

  “We’re good.” I put on a cheery smile. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  “Maybe you didn’t hear her.” Caleb’s tone is light, conversational, but laced with threat.

  “Maybe you didn’t hear her,” Mark tosses back. “She said get lost.”

  He slings an arm over my shoulder. Now I can smell the alcohol on his breath, and I can’t help turning my face away. He smells like volatility, like ticking time bombs. Like my mom’s old boyfriend, Pete.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Mark asks for the second time in two minutes, only now the question’s directed at Caleb. It makes me think of this thing my mom used to say. How if you wake up in the morning and someone’s a jerk, they’re the one with the problem. But if you wake up and everyone’s a jerk, surprise! Time to take a look in the mirror.

  “Let go of her,” Caleb says.

  I glare at him. He can’t blow this for me. I can turn this around. I’ve dealt with worse.

  At the same time, there’s a sob burning my throat, and all I want to do is shove Mark away, grab Caleb’s hand, and run until I can’t breathe.