by Liana Brooks
“So why is Ellen’s budget fifteen thousand?”
The Slasher CEO stilled, staring at me with unblinking black eyes.
No. It didn’t scare me. It made me want to smile in a way wholly inappropriate for the venue.
“Ellen’s budget is significantly higher than that.”
I pulled out Ellen’s paperwork and handed it to Seth, being carefully not to let my fingertips brush his. “She printed this yesterday.”
He frowned at it and then flipped part of the desktop up, opening a computer screen and keyboard. “That’s not right at all.” A few clicks and he turned the monitor to me. “This is Ellen’s budget. A little over one million, five hundred thousand. It’s everything that was in Cozy’s account when I bought the studio.”
“Then why doesn’t she see this?”
“I don’t know. It’s the account I checked when she emailed me last week.” Seth checked the account numbers, muttering under his breath. “Same account. Same bank. Her name is on here as authorized for access.”
I smelled shenanigans. Standing slowly, I asked, “May I see your screen?”
Seth hit me with a territorial glare. “Miss—”
I raised an eyebrow in rebuke.
“Merri, I appreciate you coming out to the studio. I appreciate you stepping in and bringing this problem to my attention, but I can solve this in-house. Alisson is an amazing CFO and I’m confident she’ll have it sorted by the end of the day. Slasher didn’t hire Sloan and Markham and we don’t need you here.”
Right. Simple miscommunication. Ellen had logged into the wrong account. Or the wrong website. Or used the internet wrong, even though she’d been using it since infancy because her parents had one of those invasive Baby Needs! panels attached to her crib so she could poke at colored things like a lab rat requesting food.[17]
It was cute Morana thought I was going to give this up. “I’m sure Alisson is very competent. And I’m not auditioning for her job. I’m putting my expertise at your disposal.”
“At a very high price.” Trust the Slasher CEO to cut to the chase.
“For Ellen, the cost is a meal.”
“You’re working for free?”
“Pro bono.” I smiled. “It’s a slightly different tax code. Besides”—I sat back down—“I have the entire afternoon free. The whole weekend, in fact. Nothing happening until Monday morning, when I strut down to the Oretega Mineral Exchange to find out why their sales numbers don’t have the dazzling gleam they used to.”
Seth’s smile tightened with suppressed frustration. “Shouldn’t you be doing something fun with your free time?”
“Math is fun.”
“Math is fun enough that you’ll work for me for free?”
I shrugged.
Most people would have been looking for a graceful exit. Seth leaned forward slightly as he uncrossed his arms.
He closed his eyes for a moment. Licked his lips. The look he gave me when he opened them was almost grateful, with only a touch of heat that could have been anger.
Or something else.
But it was probably anger.
“I’m not an idiot,” Seth said. “Cozy was a good buy. Henry Lord wanted to retire, he’d been with Cozy since it was still part of Whole Sum Entertainment. They’d made decent money, but everything had plateaued. He thought Mistletoe Mischief was cursed. Trouble with props. Trouble with the set. Trouble with actors and contracts.
“I figured all Cozy needed was some fresh minds in the writers’ room, a little infusion to get them up and running. Alisson and I checked everything. Multiple times. The company came to us clean.”
Plateaus in sales were a red flag. Combined with the turnover Ellen had mentioned, I smelled a rat.
A long dead rat.
“It may have been clean because it was scrubbed,” I said. “If that happened, I’m exactly who you need looking through the files. Give me a room with the paper records, access to the bank accounts, and I will find out what happened, why the sales went flat, and why Henry wanted to sell.”
“In under three days?”
I nodded.
The corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. “Knock yourself dead, Killer.”
“I’ll never fall that far. I’m not that girl.” I banged my head against my pillow and stared up at the ceiling. It was never a good sign when I had a Brutal Cheerleaders song stuck in my head at four in the morning.
After convincing Morana there was no harm in letting me sift through his budget, I’d spent the rest of the day doing archaeology work in the musty office where all the old records were kept. Some of them were still filed under Whole Sum, most were under Cozy, and all of them were dusty and erratic. The book-keeping system seemed to change on a whim, and old files had never been updated.
Alisson had helped, checking the numbers on Ellen’s computer against the paper records and the accounts Slasher could log into. She spent three hours on the phone with the bank, trying to figure out where the missing money was, only to discover that the account screen they saw didn’t exist on the bank’s server.
Words like Dummy Site, Cross Site Scripting, and Veiled Secondary Account escaped the conversation before Alisson stormed out of the room.
Ellen had brought us the leftover ham-and-cheese sandwiches from catering.
Noah, in his Santa Stud shirt, had brought us cookies and dropped his phone number off in case I needed him. I’d passed the number to Alisson, who passed it to Ellen, who passed it to the recycling bin.
Seth had dropped in a few times to whisper to Alisson and to give curious looks that turned to glares when I made eye contact.
It was almost midnight when Alisson had fallen asleep and we’d agreed to call it a night. I’d driven home as a storm rolled in over the lake, lightning dancing in the distance, but I couldn’t sleep.
I’m not the woman in your dreams. I’m not the one holding on. My brain was stuck on a loop of numbers and music. Why—Why?—could I not let this go? Amara was right. This should have been an in-and-out fling with Cozy’s accounts.
But I wasn’t going to sleep until I figured out what my subconscious had caught that the rest of my brain had missed.
Having decided that, I tossed off the black comforter and padded through the shadows of my apartment by the light of the street lamp.
Turning on actual lights seemed superfluous: even with the lights on the furniture was black, white, and minimalist, with no stray anything. Ever. Clutter was not my aesthetic.
I pulled on a pink-and-black jogging suit with silver reflective strips, grabbed my gym bag, and ran the two miles to the gym along the quiet streets of Chicago as the winds picked up. This was the respectable end of town, which meant the all-night parties were in someone’s penthouse suite, not on the street, and the security was unobtrusive.
Overhead, low storm clouds muttered in dissent.
My gym wasn’t a fitness spa with low security and lots of cameras; it was the pricey gym in a high-end hotel that didn’t ask names and had a very strict No Filming policy.
My freshman year of college, the specter of my very own porn movie—digitally created with footage of my soccer games—haunted my every move. It took seventeen months to take down because the people who can make digital revenge porn can also forge digital notes of consent. In the end, the judge took it down after my family’s lawyer proved that some of the shots were of Lucky, who was underage. But to get there I had to consent to a full-body shot presented in court to prove my freckles weren’t my sister’s.
It was one of the many reasons I kept my private life ultra-private.
I logged into the gym with a pin number, noted that there was one other person working out, locked my gear in a locker with another pin number, and dove into the lap pool to work my body while my brain turned over unconnected details.
Budget for props. Lap.
Accounting of lunches with staff. Lap.
Thank you gifts for TV talk shows hosts. Lap.
<
br /> Increase of union dues. Lap.
Lap. Lap. Lap. Lap.
Someone else entered the gym wearing emerald-green swim trunks, but I ignored him.
Two accounts. Lap.
Money sloshing back and forth. Lap.
Money sloshing and going missing. Lap.
Where would the missing money go, though? It wasn’t going to a shell company. No one was getting overpaid. I’d checked. Twice.
Lap. Lap. Lap.
I rolled in the water, kicking off the wall in frustration.
If I were a criminal wanting to siphon money from a studio, where would I put it? Tips? Paychecks? Props?
Lap. Lap.
Cozy sold replicas of everything in their shows, from the dresses to the furniture, and it was all appraised.
Appraisals could be faked.
Lap.
There had to be a third account.
I grabbed the wall as my thoughts churned. Holding my breath, I let myself sink down to the bottom of the thirty-foot pool.
A third account that caught the slosh when a prop was overvalued or overpaid for? That was sneaky. And not possible unless there was outside help.
Flexing my feet, I pushed toward the surface and hung off the wall again.
An operation like that would create a pattern not in money flow, but in types of payments around a transaction. And in trading partners.
If it were possible.
I sank back below the cold waters, letting the darkness steal away every distraction.
It was totally possible.
I needed to talk to Ellen.
I pulled myself out of the pool at the same time the other swimmer exited the far side.
He was a burly man who grabbed his green towel and water bottle in such a hurry that he dropped the bottle, sloshing it all over the tile floor.
As I dried myself off, I pretended not to notice the stranger’s embarrassing distress. There were many reasons a person would come to this gym and wouldn’t want to be noticed. And I respected all of them.
It would have been nice if the gentleman had come back to clean up the puddle, but what was more water on the floor around a pool? It was already spreading in front of the locker room doors, heading for the grates.
I ignored it and headed for the change rooms as my teeth started to chatter. It wasn’t my concern.
Until it was.
I stepped forward and my foot kept going. Sliding. Slipping.
I tried to right myself.
Found both feet going forward on the now-slippery tiles as my head went back.
This was going to hurt.
Velocity of my steps.
Potential energy of height and weight.
Momentum—
Nothing.
I’d fallen against something hard, and warm, and...
My fingertips brushed over soft skin and muscular arms. I’d fallen into someone.
Panic pushed me to stand up, but whatever that man had spilled on the floor, I couldn’t get any traction. I managed to twist around like a fawn on ice and fall right back into my rescuer’s arms.
“Can I lift you up?”
“Sure,” I said with a serious load of doubt seconds before the voice registered.
One of his arms went behind my back, the other swooped under my knees, and suddenly I was stunned silent and staring at Seth Morana, platinum hair damp from a shower—and missing a shirt.
Again.
I put my arms around his neck—just to help with the balance—and told myself not to stare. Heaven help me, but the man was hot enough to start another Great Chicago Fire.
Seth placed me on the metal bench by the door to the saunas and scooted away.
“Thanks.” I managed not to sound too breathless. “You have exquisite timing.”
“I saw a guy running through the locker room like the pool’d caught fire, so I thought I’d check to make sure no one needed help. I’m Red Cross certifi—” He glanced up at my face and he froze.
No-Makeup Merri... Yeah. Freckles, wide hips from a decidedly peasant heritage, ratty red hair tangled from swimming, bags under my eyes. No-Makeup Merri wasn’t the kind of woman who drew appreciative looks from anyone. I waited with a polite smile for him to find an excuse to leave.
“Merri?” He looked me up and down in confusion, flashed his eyebrows up, and smiled at me. “I suddenly see why everyone else works out in the mornings. I usually don’t get to the gym until after I wake up in the afternoons.” Seth blinked and shook his head. “Sorry, I’m rambling. I didn’t recognize you while you were swimming.”
“That’s fine,” I said in a singsong voice. “No trouble at all. I’m fine now, so no harm no... concussion, I guess.”
Honestly, the floors were hard enough that I probably would have had a very dramatic bleeding head wound if Seth hadn’t saved me.
Best not to think about it. Or how I looked like the girl from the revenge porn.
I stared at the pool, focusing on the smell of chlorine as I waited for Seth to leave.
“Are you hurt?” Seth inched closer, as if I were going to fall apart.
“No.” I turned back to him, waiting for the only-half-joking ‘You Look Like A Girl I Know’ that was always the opening line to asking if I’d ever filmed a sequel to Saint Nick’s Naughty List.
Seth looked me up and down once, a small frown on his face. Then he scowled at the mysterious puddle. “What happened?”
I shrugged, refusing to look at him. “I don’t know what happened. The other swimmer was hurrying to leave. He dropped his water bottle and it spilled, but he didn’t have time to wipe it up. It must have been, uh...” Something. My brow furrowed.
It hadn’t been water, but I couldn’t think of another drink that slippery.
Seth dragged a finger along the bottom of my foot and rubbed it between his fingers. “Baby oil?”
“Why would someone have a water bottle filled with baby oil at the pool?” I demanded, annoyance making me turn to him.
A mischievous grin crossed Seth’s face.
“A public pool,” I reminded him with an eye roll. Reclaiming my foot, I started scrubbing off the oil with my towel.
“Maybe he wanted to get oiled up before he took a selfie.” Seth managed to make a self-portrait sound salacious.
Or maybe I was projecting.
Seth was still sitting watching me with a half-smile and some very distracting abs.
“You can go,” I said, projecting cheerfulness and pointedly not looking at his abs. At all. For which I should have been given an award. “Really. I’m fine.”
“You say that, but I’m having trouble believing it.”
“This isn’t my first near-death experience.”
Seth leaned forward conspiratorially. “If you wanted to flirt with death, I was right there all day. I’m a much better bang than the tile floor.”
I held his gaze. “If I wanted to flirt with death, I would have winked in a mirror.”
“I’d like to think I’m a better date than a mirror.” Seth stood up and offered me his hand. “Ready to try walking again?”
“Sure!” His grip was gentle and sturdy, helping me stand on clean feet. “And look at that. I can stand again.” I stepped away. “Thank you for saving me from a nasty headache.”
“Any time.” Seth stepped out of the way.
Forcing a cheerful smile, I went to the locker room, carefully avoiding the spill, and carefully not freaking out. Seth had to have noticed what I looked like. Had to have some opinion, at least. We were close in age[18] and any internet search with my name was going to pull up the super-fun trial, complete with commentary.
The only thing that knocked the trial off the front page of search results was the fact that I’d recommended firing a bunch of people on Christmas Eve last year.
I tried to slow my heartrate as I rinsed off. It was still dark out. I was supposed to be calming down, even though the sun would be up in an hour. I was also extrover
ted, which for me meant that being around a lot of people was like mainlining espressos. I needed space away from people to calm down and to get my brain to shut up.
Swimming usually helped burn off the excess energy.
Slipping and winding up in Seth Morana’s arms? Not so helpful.
As I whipped my hair into a braid, I glared at myself in the mirror.
Was I really going to let myself think about a relationship? Sure, Seth was exactly my type: fit, tall, dark eyes, light hair, muscles, and a quirky sense of humor. Oh, yeah, and he didn’t back down.
But I had work.
I always had work.
Work was a beautiful, sturdy shield between me and Cupid’s arrows of love. As long as Lucky kept getting lucky, my parents were content that at least one of their beloved children was headed to a life of marital bliss. That left me free to... not be on the path to a life of marital bliss and dying slowly in the suburbs.
I hadn’t had a second date since college. And dating a guy whose company I was investigating?
Definitely off the table.
Most definitely.
Probably definitely.
Okay, I needed to stop thinking about Seth Morana and tables.
I zipped my jacket closed with more enthusiasm than strictly required. Nope. I was not being won over by dark eyes and sexy abs.
Grabbing my bag, I headed out, looking forward to renting a bike for a ride in the cool, early-morning air.
Seth was waiting by the check-in desk, wearing loose black pants and his oversized Slasher hoodie, casually leaning there and looking far too good for my peace of mind. “Merri.” He tilted his head in the universally recognized gesture of ‘Come Over Here’.
Reluctantly, I walked to him and the woman behind the counter. Her name tag said SYDNEY in blocky gold letters, and the yawn she was stifling said she wasn’t a morning person.
“Good morning, miss,” Sydney said without any pretense of perkiness. “We understand there was an incident in the gym this morning.” Her voice was flat and her eyes slightly unfocused.
“There was a spill,” I said, keeping my smile polite. I didn’t expect anyone to be their best before 5am.