Under the Table

by Stephanie Evanovich

  “Look, those are called reality shows, but there is nothing real about them. Those shows are mostly staged. They have directors and producers and make sure that no matter how much film footage they take of the people, they only broadcast the parts that are outrageous. Do yourself a favor and stick to game shows or comedies.”

  “There was one other thing I noticed. People on this channel right here? They go to see plastic surgeons a lot. Don’t like your face? Change it. Breasts or backside too big or too small, go under the knife and wake up with your heart’s desire. Apparently, there is no ugly, there’s only poor. Tragic really, since most of them look just fine. Nobody seems as concerned with being a good person.”

  He sounded sad. Zoey wondered if she had done the right thing, trying to break him out of his media blackout. It was starting to feel like she was the one in need of a makeover.

  “That’s enough of that,” Tristan said, grabbing the remote on the mantel and turning the television off, bringing them both back to the moment.

  “What do you feel like having for dinner? There are some great restaurants in Chelsea near where Ruth is meeting us later. We have plenty of time.” Zoey rolled her eyes. “The club doesn’t open till eleven.”

  Tristan’s reaction was nothing short of glee. “We may stay out all night! Very exciting.”

  Zoey smiled at his delight. She just couldn’t help it. His enthusiasm was infectious.

  Tristan’s smile instantly faded. “Do you feel all right?”

  She gave him a bemused look and then remembered. “I’m fine. I fell asleep with these strips that make your teeth whiter in my mouth. I ended up bleaching my gums.”

  He didn’t laugh. “Your teeth are already white. And you can barely notice it. I’m just captivated by your smile. It lit up my whole apartment the first time I met you.”

  Zoey had heard about how happy people only see the good in others, and Tristan was living proof. Then she smelled it, dumbfounded that she hadn’t noticed before. The faint smell of onions and garlic and . . . was that thyme? She actually lifted her nose in the air to see if she could decipher any other spices.

  “I can see you answered your own question about dinner this evening,” Tristan said with a grin. “I haven’t completely lost my roots. Tonight, I want to show off some of the first things I learned to cook from the islands.”

  They went into the dining room, and it almost took her breath away. The table once again was beautifully set. The floral arrangement was new, a huge glorious bouquet, not of romantic roses, but tulips and sunflowers, purple asters and daisies. It was placed directly in between and above the two place settings at one end of the table. In another life, she might have swooned.

  “Sit,” he said, pulling out her chair. “It’s all ready and in the warming tray.”

  He dashed off, returning with two bowls and setting one in front of her then taking his own seat.

  “This is callaloo soup, although I used spinach. I got the idea a little too spur of the moment and had spinach left over from the other day.” Tristan stopped when she raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I used week-old spinach, but it’s a soup, for crying out loud.”

  “Didn’t seem to affect it,” Zoey said after taking a spoonful. “This is delicious.”

  He brought out the main course and Zoey was blown away. “This is unreal!”

  Tristan grinned with pride. “This is Fish and Okra Fungi. Normally, you would cook the fish in a saucepan, but I broiled it. The fish is fresh, but I didn’t want to run the risk of stinking up my kitchen. And I love the smell of the cornmeal cooking, so, yeah, I’m selfish like that.”

  Then he took his napkin and tucked it into his shirt at the neck like a bib. Zoey laughed behind her napkin.

  “If I drop something on these clothes, I’ll kill myself. It took me all day to pick out this outfit.”

  He was onto something there. Zoey tucked her napkin into the neckline of her dress as well.

  The fungi wasn’t as spicy as Zoey thought it would be, but there was plenty of pepper and onion. The cornmeal had a marvelous texture, and Tristan proved his love of butter. Instead of her original plan to only pick at her food to keep from bloating, Zoey once again was cleaning her plate while their easy conversation flowed.

  “Do you miss home?” Zoey asked.

  “I used to.” Tristan smiled at her from across the table. “I wanted to make a change, but I had no idea just how big a change New York was. Or just how well my grandparents had sheltered me. Lately, I don’t miss it so much. I have you to thank for that.”

  “Wasn’t there anyone else you trusted to show you the ropes?”

  Tristan paused, put down his fork, and stared at her hard. It felt like he was looking through her, trying to see inside her. He placed his elbows on the table and made a steeple with pointer fingers over his mouth. It looked like he was praying for a sign on whether or not he should confess something.

  “I’ve seen things, Zoey. I’ve seen things and I know things.”

  The words and the way he said them were gloomy, with a touch of chilling.

  “The key to my success was also to my paranoia, I’m afraid,” he continued. “It was all right in front of my face and I missed it. Once I made the discovery and realized I should’ve known better, I started to question my own ability. About everything.”

  “I’m trying to follow, but I don’t get it.” Zoey set down her fork. “Is this about your work?”

  He paused again, then nodded. “It is. Sort of.”

  No help there. “Tristan, I don’t want you to betray a confidence, but if you’re worried about whether or not you can trust me, I promise you that you can.”

  “It’s not so much about trust. It’s more about not wanting to stick you in the same boat with me.”

  “I’m smart. And I’m strong. Try me.”

  He took a moment to measure his words. “The software I created enables the government to learn as much as they want to about its citizens with the touch of a button. Do you realize the implications of that? They can know where you are at any given time. Who you know. What you like and don’t like. What scares you. I’m not saying that they use it for nefarious purposes, but it only takes one bad apple to make another person’s life a living hell. The thought of that crushes me.”

  “If it wasn’t you inventing the program, it would’ve been someone else.”

  “Still, it’s an invasion of privacy. Even more frightening is the number of people who found out and have approached me to create something similar for them. I became the go-to guy without saying a word. I decided to hide in plain sight, stay away from social media and the online world. I only use my computer to order my clothes and my groceries.” Tristan gave her a little wink. “Or at least I used to.”

  “Sounds like your world got awfully big really fast. That’s enough to overwhelm anyone. And paranoia is like an open wound—if you don’t do something to treat it, it’s bound to fester. I let my mind run away with me too, sometimes, but the solution is to go out into the world and live your life. The way you want to live it. In another ten years, everyone will know everything about another person with the touch of a button anyway.”

  Tristan threw back his head and laughed. “I knew you would understand. The more time I spend with you, the more I realize I—what’s the phrase—can’t fight city hall? And I don’t think I want to anymore. At least not tonight.”

  “Speaking of tonight, what are your goals, Tristan?” Zoey knew she didn’t have to ask him about the random hookup scenario or getting blitzed off his rocker, but she also wanted to be sure exactly what her role was supposed to be.

  “I don’t know,” he responded, some of his shyness returning. He got up to clear the plates and she picked up her own before he could stop her. Together they took them back to the kitchen. “Maybe meet someone who wants to dance?”

  Chapter 10

  I could really get used to this, Zoey thought on the quiet ride back across town in t
he back of a cushy Mercedes.

  There were so many amazing things about New York City, and one of them was how alive it became the later it got. Back in Ohio, the sidewalks were empty well before midnight. The “nightclub” that Derek worked in was little more than a bar with a dance floor and a house DJ on Saturday nights. It closed at 1:00 a.m. and the parking lot was a ghost town by two. In Manhattan, the streets were just beginning to buzz with nightlife at midnight, especially on Saturday nights. Zoey wondered if it would have been better to start with something less manic, like a Broadway show?

  She should have known by now that Tristan Malloy was full of surprises.

  Their destination was a nightclub called Marquee, on Tenth Avenue. It was a hot spot that Zoey was familiar with only from Ruth’s frequent chatter. It was a place that Zoey feared Ruth had chosen not for Tristan’s comfort, but to show off. When the car pulled up in front of the building, the line outside was already long. The bouncers standing guard at the door were looking straight ahead. Clearly nobody would be flirting their way in tonight. Zoey hoped all of Ruth’s bragging was not her sister just blowing smoke or they’d be looking for another venue ASAP.

  “You ready?” she asked Tristan as he reached for her hand to help her out of the car.

  “Let’s do this thing,” he replied.

  “Before we head to the back of the line, let me call my sister. She’s probably already in there.” Zoey pulled out her phone from her tiny handbag, then heard her name being called.

  “Zoe!”

  They turned around to find Ruth and her girlfriends, in fabulous faux furs and stiletto heels. They were standing in the middle of the line with the rest of the crowd. Great.

  Ruth was clearly miffed, which seemed appropriate, because so was Zoey.

  “What is this?” Zoey asked as she approached the velvet rope that separated them, careful not to appear like she was going to cut in line, not that it mattered. The line wasn’t moving, and the only activity was from people walking past them with the smug looks of VIPs. It looked like everyone standing outside was going to be waiting a long time. “I thought you had an in here?”

  “There’s some big party going on,” Ruth told her defensively, her fingers tapping wildly on her phone.

  “I tried calling for tickets when we got here, and they were all sold out,” Ruth’s friend Abbie chimed in. Her voice would best be described as half excuse, half complaint.

  “Who is she texting with?” Zoey jerked a thumb in her sister’s direction.

  “Blake. He’s part of the bachelor party going on in there, taking up all the space.”

  “I only chose this place because he said it would be fun,” Ruth grumbled at her screen. “Sure, fun for him, he got in.”

  Blake Burton was an attorney in the legal department where Ruth and the girls worked. Recently divorced and in his early thirties, he was determined to get back into the swing and had spent the last six months saying yes to any sort of group activity. It started with lunch, and soon he was invited every weekend to join in whatever they were doing. Sometimes he brought friends, but he was no dummy—why share the company of the four or more girls? He also came in handy when one of the ladies needed to brush off unwanted attention in a hurry—he was always happy to pose as someone’s boyfriend.

  “This may be a blessing in disguise,” Zoey said with a returning optimism as she looked down the never-ending line of increasingly anxious partyers. This place might be a little much for Tristan on his first clubbing adventure. “Why don’t we take the party someplace a little more—”

  “Zoey!” She heard her name being called. When she turned toward the direction of the sound, she found Tristan not only standing near the front door, but also waving them over.

  Zoey and Tristan waited at the door while Ruth and her friends weaved their way through the mass of people on their side of the velvet rope.

  “What did you just do here?” It was a question that didn’t need asking, but she wanted the verification. The mere fact that he was able to engage the stoic doormen in dialogue could only mean one thing.

  He gave her a sly grin. “Money talks.”

  “How much exactly did you slip these guys?”

  “Now that’s just impolite,” he told her with a newly confident and adorable wink. Then he turned his attention to Ruth and her friends, who had caught up. “Good evening, ladies. I’m Tristan.”

  Zoey watched with mounting irritation as Ruth and the girls openly looked Tristan up and down and greeted him with coy smiles.

  Not only were they let into the club, but someone was waiting to lead them over to a single booth on the first floor, right near the bar but not below the DJ setup or too close to the dance floor. It was a prime location in a club that was rapidly becoming packed to the rafters.

  “I call bullshit.” Ruth got up close to Zoey’s ear to be heard above the noise as she walked closely behind her after they checked their coats, except for Tristan, who didn’t want to break up his ensemble. “This dude is way too smooth.”

  While Zoey would’ve liked nothing better than to scream back in Ruth’s face, she settled for a careless backward wave of her hand and a shake of her head as she kept one eye on Tristan’s back and the other on the people who were mingling and dancing. The whole bar was thumping with the LED lighting flashing to the music. She was no longer worried about Tristan having a panic attack as much as she was about all of them having epileptic seizures. Now she knew why her sister often never heard a word Zoey said to her the day after clubbing.

  Waiting at the table was a server, with a bottle of Dom Pérignon chilling in a bucket next to the table. Zoey watched Tristan move in close to the ear of the server, who bobbed her head repeatedly as her smile grew wider. Then she popped the cork on the bottle and filled the glasses before leaving. Tristan placed a glass in each of the girls’ hands before raising his own in a wordless toast. Above the din, Zoey could hear them all shout “Cheers!” except for Abbie, who said “L’chaim!” and Erin, who shouted “Salud!”

  Then Ruth ordered them all shots of Belvedere and, with the help of her friends, pulled Tristan to the dance floor, leaving Zoey behind to fume at the table alone.

  She craned her neck to watch them all form a tight circle around Tristan, shaking their booties to the pulsing beat that reverberated against her eardrums. From the glimpses that she was able to catch of him, he looked like he was having the time of his life, completely in his element, not like someone who was trying something for the first time. Simmer was ratcheted up to seething. But she had no vested interest in him, Zoey reminded herself. And jealousy had never been her bag.

  The server dropped off the shots and Zoey’s gaze traveled over the five tiny glasses lined up in front of her and she briefly deliberated whether drinking them all would make her feel better or worse.

  To his credit, Tristan was still too reserved to cut loose the way she had seen him do in the privacy of his own home. But he was able to find the bass line with ease, and Zoey’s eyes became glued to him.

  “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that pretty girls aren’t supposed to drink alone?”

  Zoey looked up at the faint sound of the voice. It was a man, and a handsome one at that. And young, possibly a year or two out of college. He was sporting one of those expensive tattered sweaters. He also had a close-cut beard that outlined his jaw, and a small mustache to match.

  He took a seat without being invited, forcing Zoey to slide over to accommodate him. And she did, thinking, Why not? It was better than being the matron table monitor.

  “I’m not alone. I’m on roofie patrol, watching the drinks,” she said, pushing one of the shots in front of him. “Go ahead and make my job easier.”

  “Join me!”

  All the yelling to be heard over the music was giving her a headache. She held up her champagne glass to appease him. She watched him down the shot and give the little head shake that often accompanies the action. The music had switched u
p and she watched as the rest of her party started returning to the table. She felt a surge of satisfaction when she saw Tristan’s smile become tight and guarded as he made his approach.

  “Everything okay here, Zoey?” She lip-read him perfectly.

  She gave a bright smile and said, “It’s fine,” not caring if he could hear her. Ruth’s friends were already squeezing in beside him and yelling their introductions, with Ruth leaning over the table to make hers, treating college boy to a healthy shot of cleavage. Zoey slid over to the far end of the booth, grateful that this was one of those problems that was going to take care of itself.

  Tristan sat down next to her before she could leave the booth entirely. The girls tried to hand him his shot, but he waved it off with a point to the other man, who happily drank that one as well. The music switched again, had slowed down. For the first time since they arrived Zoey didn’t have to scream her own thoughts to hear herself think. Then she felt a faint brush of fingertips down her forearm. The kind of touch that set her skin to tingle.

  “Dance with me,” he said as he stood back up and held out his hand. It was the first time he hadn’t asked for her permission on something. It was more of a gentle command. She took it and let him lead her to the dance floor. The last time Zoey had done any dancing was at her wedding. She didn’t care. He found them some space, gave her a twirl, and when he stopped, they were face-to-face.

  And they danced. They began to move with the music. Zoey was clumsy at first, feeling like she was dancing in cement shoes. She closed her eyes to try and block everything out and find the rhythm. When she found the beat and reopened them, his stare was still fixed on her, intense and overwhelming. She looked down at her feet.