Dating You / Hating You
Page 67

“No, Brad. I just wanted to clarify—”
Brad holds up a finger to stop me. “The only thing that needs clarifying is that you work for me. And right now I want you to get the hell back to your office and do exactly that—work. Just like I hired you to do. I don’t want your drama in here. Evie fucked up, period, and it isn’t the first time.” He slides his hand horizontally above his desk. “Let her roll under the bus.”
I think back to the day of the merge and how thankful I was that I still had a job. I remember the relief of thinking I was in the clear, and being in this very room when I realized that I wasn’t. We did exactly what Brad had hoped we would do and went for each other’s throats, in the hope that only one of us would be left standing. It’s shocking to realize that the only one standing is me.
“Actually,” I start, and the more I think on what I’m about to do, the more I know it’s the right thing. “I don’t think so. I’m done.”
Brad sits back in his seat, surprised.
“Don’t be an idiot, Carter. Think on it tonight. Don’t be a hero and wake up regretting a decision you made with the wrong fucking head. Because whether you’re here or not, she won’t be.”
• • •
My phone goes off on my way out of the office, but I ignore it. I don’t bother to take anything, deciding there will be plenty of time, or I can have Justin send it to me . . . somewhere. My head is an absolute mess and I have zero idea what I’m going to do now, but at least it will be on my terms.
I take the stairs to the second level of the parking garage and unlock my car, sliding inside. My phone vibrates again and I go to reach for it, realizing it could be Evie.
It’s not.
Chapter twenty-five
evie
“You can’t put up with this anymore,” Amelia says, well on her way to wearing a path in Daryl’s new carpet. “I’ve sat by and let a lot of shit go because he’s your boss and sometimes we all have to turn the other cheek, but this is it! You have to do something.”
I close my eyes and lean my head against the back of one of Daryl’s plush chairs. I read the script, took my meeting with Trent, met Sarah Hill for a lunch meeting, returned approximately seventy thousand phone calls, decided it would be best to avoid Brad entirely until I’d figured out what to do, and left the office at five for the first time in years, heading straight here.
Thankfully I have friends who will listen to me complain, rant on my behalf, and pour me lots of wine. It’s only six o’clock and I’m on glass number three.
“What would you have me do?” I ask her. “I have fewer than forty-five days left on my contract. Brad is an asshole, but he’s never done anything I could officially complain about. Reporting him now—after I’m about to be blamed for this enormous agency faux pas—would make me look like a crybaby who can’t hang with the big boys. No way will I give him that kind of satisfaction.”
Daryl groans into her glass. “I hate to say it, but she’s right. Brad isn’t an idiot, and he’s been very careful not to do anything she could specifically call him out on.”
I nod, quickly swallowing a gulp of wine to add, “It’s a hostile work environment, sure. But name me a place in Hollywood that isn’t.”
Amelia drops onto Daryl’s fluffy white couch and gives one of the throw pillows a good shove. “We’re three brilliant, successful women. There has to be something we can do.”
“I have a grandpa who knows people,” Daryl says without hesitation.
I cock an eyebrow at her. “Meaning?”
Daryl smiles innocently. “Murder?”
“Once again,” Amelia says, motioning to Daryl, “too far.”
There’s a knock on the door, and realizing I haven’t moved in a while, I offer to get it.
“I mean, at least I’d have three meals in prison and a little self-satisfaction?” I say, crossing the room. “A roof over my head?”
“You can barely watch Orange Is the New Black without getting queasy,” Amelia reminds me. “Let’s not go picking out your prison name just yet.”
Opening the door, I’m surprised to find Eric on the other side with two steaming pizza boxes in his hands.
“Hey,” I say, taking a step back so he can come in. “So do you just carry pizza around, or . . .”
“I ran into the pizza delivery guy in the stairway,” he says, nodding hello to Amelia and making his way to the kitchen. “Thought I’d bring them up for you.”
“That was sweet,” Daryl says, taking down a stack of plates, motioning for us to help ourselves. “This is how my favorite porn films start.”
I watch the two of them move back into the kitchen with renewed interest. They’re bent together, whispering. Amelia catches my eyes, mirroring my Are they fucking? expression. I look back and forth between Daryl and Eric when they emerge.
“Are you two, um, working tonight?” I ask, picking up a slice before taking a bite.
Daryl nods while she chews, but Eric answers, “Actually, I’m glad you’re here, Evie. I need your help.”
I point a tipsy finger to my chest. “Mine?”
He nods, and Daryl explains, “Remember how Jess off-the-cuff asked him to come up with a program that reconciles expenses with invoices?”
Squinting, I admit, “Sort of?”
She waves this off. “I liked the idea—and this audit was a drag. So, Eric came up with the most ingenious program. It finds and cross-references all my charges, and then reconciles them with the right client, the relevant invoice, and the correct in-house expense account.”
I think about how much time this audit has taken and what a miracle something like that would be. “Oh my God, that’s amazing.”
“So I ran yours, too, to help Jess,” Eric admits. “That’s . . . um, why I came over.” He scratches his jaw. “See, something isn’t working right, because we found some charges on your expense card that don’t line up with any orders or invoices. I didn’t want to go through it at the office.”
“What do you mean by ‘don’t line up’?” I sit up straighter. My wine buzz is keeping my heart from taking off like a flock of hysterical birds. “On mine? I haven’t had time to sit at my desk and go through it yet this week, but Jess also said something about weird charges.”
Eric pulls his laptop from his duffel and takes a seat at the bar. “Let’s see,” he says, opening the program. “Okay, here’s one from September. There’s a charge from a catering company—we actually saw it enough times that we tracked each one. The charge says you spent a hundred and twenty-three dollars for Debbie’s Events—”
“But according to Jess’s notes in your calendar,” Daryl interrupts, “that day you were with a client for only an hour or two for voice-overs. There wasn’t any catering on set because it wasn’t on set. You met in the studio. What was that other one, Eric? The laundry?”
“Hollywood Linen,” he answers, and I pause, that name poking at something in the back of my head.
“That’s the one,” Daryl says. “And with that one, it’s not that the charges are for crazy amounts. Most of them are pretty small, like fifty dollars here, or a couple hundred at most, but they’re recurring and add up. You probably would have never noticed if you didn’t have to pull the reports for the audit.”