I’m almost there, but I’m not comfortable with how I need to approach this one. This isn’t the same as my meeting with Tomas—I’m just supposed to show up and confront her, somehow get her to talk to me, of all people, and then report back to the man of the hour. All sorts of things could go wrong, and some of them are pretty likely. She could easily just tell me to fuck off, or curse me out, or just refuse to tell me anything. If that happens, I need to figure out a plan B right on the spot. Hopefully it won’t come to that.
The Green Cactus is a weird name for a diner, but this whole area is a little. . . different. A lot of people think of Long Island as rich—and there are a lot of areas you can visit here that’ll confirm that stereotype, but like everywhere else in America, there are some bad areas also. I never lived on Long Island, but I had some good friends who did. One of them I haven’t seen in a while—an old military buddy. Maybe I’ll give him a shout when all this is over.
It’s noon—just past the breakfast rush and just before the wave of people coming in for lunch begins. My original plan was to go into the diner and talk to her there, but the more I thought about it on the way over here the worse the idea seemed—what if she freaked out and lost her job because of me? So instead, I decide to wait in the parking lot for a few minutes.
I worked as a waiter for a few weeks when I was a senior in high school. That was all I could take. Having to serve people, especially at a restaurant, is being in the shit-eating business. Now, I’m no master of human psychology, but I know that every waitress in the country steps outside for her break. I only wait about ten minutes, most of that time spent thinking of how I can tell Penelope about all this business, and the rest of me wondering why she hasn’t texted me back.
I know she was going to see him this morning. I’m guessing that didn’t go the way she wanted. I text her one more time, telling her that I want to see her, and then I put my phone away and wait. I must have been a psychologist in another life, because Teresa walks out the back almost on cue.
I get out and walk over as casually as I can. When she sees me approaching, she doesn’t recognize me at first, but the closer I get the more I see a look of recognition creep across her eyes. It’s not a good look.
“You?” she asks. “What are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you. And I think you’re going to want to go back inside and tell your boss that you need a longer break.”
Five minutes pass before she comes back out, looking less than happy. I half expected her to tell me to shove off, but I took the Jedi mind trick approach to the whole situation. I just told her what needed to happen and she did it, without question. She must know that I’m here on his behalf—otherwise she’d never agree to speak to me without asking why, and she sure as hell wouldn’t take an extra-long break right before the lunch rush. She knows what this is about, and as we take a walk over to the park across the street I think about exactly how I’m going to word what I need to say.
“He sent you, didn’t he? Chandler.”
I guess she’s going to start the conversation for me. “He did, yes.”
“Great. Now he won’t even talk to me directly. I knew this was a huge fucking mistake. I never should have gotten involved.”
This is supposed to be all business for me. An interview of sorts. A task. But as dumb as this sounds, part of me is mad that all this happened to Penelope because she’s a great girl who doesn’t deserve it, so I go off the script in my head because I’m nosey like that.
“Then why did you?”
“Huh?”
“Get involved,” I repeat. “Why did you do it if you knew it was a bad idea?”
She laughs. “Do you always know the right thing to do in every situation in your life?”
“I know not enough to get involved with an engaged person and then show up to their home and make a scene.”
“Is that why you came here?” she asks. “To give me shit?”
“No. It’s not.”
“Then what? Why did you come? Why did he send you? It was the media thing I said, right? That got him nervous even though I said I wouldn’t really do it. That’s it, isn’t it?”
I’m not sure what she’s talking about exactly, but she’s sparked my curiosity again, so I decide to play into it a little to get her to elaborate. “You tell me, Teresa. Why do you think he’s so nervous about you going to the media? Does he really think a pregnancy scandal with a woman who’s not his fiancé is going to stop a huge, multimillion-dollar deal?”
“What?” she says, like she hadn’t even considered what I just said. “No. Jesus, that’s what you think this is about?”
I’m confused. Really confused. I decide to play along and fake that I know what she’s talking about. “Why don’t you tell me?”
“You’re new, aren’t you?”
“New?” I ask, confused.
“You’re not one of Chandler’s regular people. I know most of his staff and I’ve never seen you before—outside of you escorting me out of the building, that is.”
“I’m new, yes. So new that I’m not even really an employee just yet. But I will be soon.”
“And let me guess—this is part of your interview, right? Jesus, he hasn’t changed at all.”
How does she know that? I’m a little freaked out. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that our mutual friend—big air quotes there—is nothing if not predictable. It’s his one fatal flaw. Once you know who and what he is, you can predict how he’s going to respond to things. If he has a weakness, that’s it.”
“So you knew I was going to come here, then?”
“No,” she tells me. “But I knew that someone would eventually come see me, especially after the scene I made, and that it wouldn’t be the man himself. It was just a matter of when, and I guess today’s the day.”
“I guess it is.”
“And why did he send you? To see if I was serious about not going to the media?”
“Something like that,” I tell her. What’s striking me as odd about this conversation is how conversational it feels. I expected to encounter the Teresa I met at the building—irrational, angry, unreasonable. But instead, I’m talking to a perfectly calm woman who seems to know Chandler a little too well. Still, I have to remember why I’m here.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t seem like the type that Chandler usually sends to do things like this.”
Things like this? How many things like this has he had to deal with?
“I guess I’ll take that as a compliment. And you’re right, I’ve never done anything quite like this before.”
“That’s probably a good thing. You know, it just occurred to me that I forgot your name.”
“Dylan,” I tell her. “I’m Dylan.”
“Well, Dylan, do you really think that a pregnancy scandal would scare a guy like Chandler? You know him, right? He easily crushes little dramas like that the way Godzilla crushes Japanese cities. No, Dylan, that’s not what I meant when I said what I said to you back at his place about not going to the media.”
“Then what?”
She takes a deep breath before looking me in the eyes. “I meant that I was not going to go to the press to give them something that he fears the most—the truth about his data mining scandal.”
I don’t believe my ears. My first thought is that she’s completely full of shit. “What are you talking about, and what do you know about all that?”
She starts to cry out of nowhere, and I have no idea how to react. “If anyone would know, it would be me.”
“Huh? What are you talking about?”
“I was the Vice President of his company, Dylan.”
If jaws actually dropped, mine would be on the ground right now.
19
Dylan
Penelope finally texted me back, but I couldn’t answer at the time.
I was getting a story. Teresa’s story.
We fin
ished around two, and I’ve been driving around aimlessly in God-knows-where Long Island for a few minutes, trying to process everything that I was just told. I pull over into a random CVS parking lot to text Penelope back.
Me: Hey. How was your thing?
Penelope: Ughh. Long story. How’s your day?
Me: Even longer story. Drinks later?
Penelope: I need one. BAD!
Me: How’s six sound?
Penelope: Perfect. See you then. Text me a place.
I put my phone down and take a deep breath. This whole situation just got a lot more complicated. I need to drive back to the city, which is going to take me at least an hour—probably even longer. That gives me plenty of time to think of something—anything.
I reverse my original directions, eventually getting on the Long Island Expressway, which will eventually lead me to the Midtown Tunnel and into the city. That sounds like a much faster process than it is. Even at this time, I’ll hit city and construction traffic, but this is the one day I’m not in any sort of rush. More time in the car alone is more time to think about how I’m going to play this whole thing.
I had this whole situation read completely wrong. Turns out that Teresa is not just some waitress who Chandler knocked up, she was the VP of his social media company. She worked about as closely with him as anyone in his organization. They spent long hours together, one thing led to another. . . blah, blah, blah—typical story of entitled asshole fucking his employees. That was a surprise, for sure, but it’s not what shocked me the most.
Teresa was fired without any warning when she started asking questions about this whole data mining issue that keeps coming up. According to her, not only was there no hack into their system, but Chandler knowingly sold user’s data to other companies to fund some of his other business practices without putting it into his Terms & Conditions. She claims that when she discovered that it was happening and confronted him, he denied everything. And right after that is when she told him that she was pregnant with his baby.
She was fired the next day, and has been working at this diner ever since, trying to figure out what to do with her life and how to get him to return her calls.
Before I left her, she told me that all she wanted was for him to get back to her—to get some answers as to why he ended things so quickly, and why she lost her job despite getting great performance reviews from Chandler for the past two years. I felt bad. I had the worst impression of her the first time I met her, albeit for good reason, but I can tell that she’s not looking for money, and she has no interest in bringing his company down—she just wants the man who probably promised her the world to live up to his responsibilities. For that, I can’t say I blame her.
I’m not sure how I’m going to communicate all of that to Chandler, but luckily, I don’t have to just yet. I got an unexpected text that he has to fly to Europe. I take a deep breath, knowing that I have some time to work everything out.
* * *
The rest of the day is unexpectedly quiet. Chandler will be away in Europe for a few days, so I don’t need to report back to him right away like I did last time. That gives me time to process. I’m really not sure that I want to do this if it means working for a criminal. The last thing I ever wanted was to be a party to illegal activity. Not only does it go against everything that I stand for, I could get caught up in some serious legal trouble if I do anything more than I’ve already done.
I need to disengage from this whole situation, whatever the consequences. Even if that means I can’t live in the building anymore. Even if that means moving back in with Nonna back in Queens and getting a real job. I don’t care.
I’m not going to be an employee of a guy like Chandler Daniels.
By the time six rolls around, I head out to this dive I know—one of the last New York City has to offer. The whole city has become Disneyfied— family friendly entertainment and expensive restaurants as far as you can see. The old New York—the grimy one my uncle used to tell me about—doesn’t really exist anymore, and that means bars like O’Callaghan’s are an endangered species.
I love these kinds of places, and I’m not embarrassed to meet a girl like Penelope here. I’m guessing that she’s also had enough of all the rich fancy places. I get there first and a few minutes later I see her Uber pulling up to the curb. She jumps out in a black dress, looking hotter than I even remember, if that’s possible. Her hair is down, and swept to one side. The lights from all around are reflecting in her eyes and making them sparkle. She’s already driving me nuts and it’s only been three seconds.
“Hey there.”
“Hey,” she answers. Her arms fly around my neck and she kisses me right there on the street like there’s no one else around. My cock gets hard the second she touches me, and I become suddenly aware that we’re standing on a busy Manhattan street.
“Good to see you too. What was that for?”
“It doesn’t have to be for something, does it? I’m just really glad to see you.”
“I’m glad to see you too. And you look incredible, by the way.”
“What, this old thing?”
She really does look incredible. I can see guys behind her checking her out, and the fact that she’s here with me makes me forget all of the bullshit from before. We head inside and get the first round of drinks. I order a beer to start but she goes right for a shot of whiskey.
“A whiskey girl, huh? There aren’t many of you.”
“I’m special,” she jokes. “I’m also trying to forget the encounter I had with our mutual friend.”
“Ah. I see.” She looks upset. Not tragically, and not in a way that’s preventing her from being normal with me, but I can tell whatever happened between them didn’t go the way she was hoping it would. “Well don’t get too messed up. He’ll still exist when you sober up, only you’ll have a pounding headache. If you need a distraction, here I am.”
“And how are you going to distract me?” she says flirtatiously.
I lean forward. “I can think of a few ways. Even better ones than the other night, but for right now how about we try some good, old fashioned conversation.”
“That actually sounds really great. I have an idea—why don’t you tell me something about yourself that not a lot of people in your life know about you.”
“And why would I tell you if I don’t tell a lot of people?”
“Because I’ll be your secret keeper. Your words will just stay inside of me like a lock box. But I’ll feel special because I’ll be one of the only people who know.”
I smile. There’s something about her that makes me want to tell her everything—and I wish I could. But not yet. I’ll settle for something a little less complicated. “Okay. I was in the marines for four years.”
She opens her eyes as wide as they’ll go. “You can’t just throw stuff like that out there.”
“Like what?”
“Casually throw out that you’re a hero.”
“I’m not a hero. I promise you that.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Did you serve overseas?”
“In Afghanistan, yeah. But I’m serious—I’m no hero. I got to witness a lot of heroism, but I’m not a hero. I just did what I needed to do.”
“I think you’re being modest, Dylan Murphy. You can brush it off all you want, but I think anyone who went overseas and served is a hero, so I’m going to call you that, whether you like the title or not.”
“I’m not trying to be falsely modest, you know? I just think we need a higher standard for that word than anything I did over there. I saw people lose their lives, lose their limbs, and lose their minds over there—all in the name of keeping America safe. Compared to them, I had it easy. But the experience changed me forever, no doubt.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“I told you already, you can ask me anything, anytime.”
“I know you did, but when guys say stuff like that they’re usually just saying it. Then you go
and ask them something they’re sensitive about and all bets are off.”
I lean forward and look her right in the eyes. “Penelope, do I seem like other guys to you?”
“No,” she answers. “You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met before.”
“I take that as a tremendous compliment. Now ask me what you wanted to ask me.”
“Why did you join in the first place? I don’t mean this in the wrong way, but you don’t exactly strike me as the type to be in the military. Maybe that’s just a stereotype I have in my head.”
“It’s the tattoos, isn’t it?”
“The tattoos, yes. But also, I just don’t see you in a uniform—even though I’m thinking about it now and that’s really hot.”
I smile. “I’ll keep that in mind. And the tattoos came later. I got a lot of work done after I was discharged. I needed to replace the military with something at first—some guys choose the bottle or drugs—I chose ink.”
“I think you made a good choice, there.”
“I think so too. But I didn’t answer you, did I? Why did I join? Let’s see—to be brutally honest, there were good and bad reasons. Which do you want to hear about first?”
“I feel like you’re supposed to say the bad whenever anyone asks you that question.”
“Bad it is, then. My bad reason is that I didn’t know what else to do. I was a failed businessman, and I didn’t know what to do with myself, and I didn’t want to be like the guys from high school working in their dad’s garages or installing pipes with them. So, the only thing left was the military, and I always wanted the adventure that came with that.”
“And did you get it?” she asks. “Your adventure.”
“And then some, Penelope. But I was also raised in a pretty patriotic family, and deep down I always felt bad about not serving.”
“That’s really incredible, Dylan.”
“Thank you,” I tell her. “But now it’s your turn.”
Secret Keeper Page 11