6. Tallus

We took Diem’s Jeep. He didn’t fit comfortably in the Jetta. Challuah Designs Inc. was located in a lower-scale corporate office building on West Adelaide Street. The fashion company occupied four of the six stories, leaving the remaining two shared among three independent businesses of no great acclaim. I’d done research—much to Diem’s surprise, it seemed—so I would know how best to play my cards.

While Diem found parking, I reviewed the notes I’d made on Critique Magazine, the publication house I was meant to represent, not that I expected to get drilled at the front door, but better to be safe than sorry. To say I was intrigued and excited about this opportunity was an understatement. I was a sucker for investigative work, a drive born back in my high school days when I’d thought I would go to the academy and become a detective.

My colorblindness and poor vision had put a stop to that dream when I discovered protanopia was an automatic disqualifier. Of course, the job Diem had presented came with risks. If we were caught, it could mean trouble. It could mean my job if the police were called, but I doubted it would come to that. At the most, we might get tossed into the street, but not if I played my cards right.

Acting had always been a fun pastime in school. In college, I’d taken a few interest classes in dramatic arts. It had been years since I’d been on stage or put on a costume, but the urge to shine under the spotlight wasn’t gone. A tiny diva lived inside me and wanted out.

I would not disappoint Diem.

We arrived shortly after three. With his nose in a permanent wrinkle, Diem stared through the windshield, seemingly lost in thought or contemplating his life choices. For all I knew, he was thinking about hamburgers.

The ball cap shadowed the top half of his face, hiding his scars and the knot on the bridge of his nose from a long-ago break. But it didn’t conceal the storm permanently brewing behind his eyes. It didn’t cloak the obvious agitation coiling his muscles.

“Have faith, Guns. This will be a piece of cake.”

He eyed me from under the cap. I hated that all I could see was shadow. Reaching out, I tipped the brim enough to cast sunlight across Diem’s face. He stilled. Diem wasn’t a fan of unsolicited contact—contact of any kind, really. I’d noted it when we’d done this song and dance back in December, when we’d taken it one step further and he had given me the most frigid fuck of my life. The man had a deep well of unresolved issues, so I’d decided there was no way we were going there again. Diem was an onion, and I was sick of complicated men. Why couldn’t life be simple for a change?

“What do you need me to do?” His tone was quiet and rumbly. It killed him to refer to me as though I was in charge.

“Just follow my lead and don’t speak. If I ask you questions or make demands, stick with what you do best.”

His brows met in the middle. “Which is?”

“Grunting and grumbling.” I smirked.

His frown deepened.

I jiggled the brim of his hat. “Stop worrying. We’ve got this in the bag. I’ve cast you in the perfect role.” He didn’t seem so sure. I removed the hat and scratched my fingers over his scalp, absorbing the feel of his shorn hair. Diem didn’t move or breathe. Was I overstepping? Maybe, but I’d been dying to recall the feathery softness of the short cut. It conflicted with the prickly man’s attitude.

Hell, it conflicted with my decision not to invite more.

Since I’d made him sufficiently uncomfortable, I replaced the hat, winked, and reached into the back seat where I’d tossed a bulky shoulder bag—filled with nonsense items to solidify my position as a journalist—and the camera. I handed them both to Diem. “Carry these.”

“I’m not your pack mule.”

“Actually, today you are. Consider yourself Xavier Downing’s handy assistant.” I didn’t wait for a response and got out of the Jeep, straightening my clothes and ensuring not a hair was out of place.

Diem joined me, struggling to get the bag and camera strap over his bulky shoulder.

“Do you have the name badge?”

“Yes.”

“The map?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” I spun and marched away, using the swagger Diem had requested, knowing where his eyes were the minute a string of nonsensical words fell from his mouth at my retreat.

I chuckled. I was strong and powerful, and most people underestimated me. I loved being in control. I especially loved ensuring men with macho attitudes knew I wasn’t someone they could manipulate. Diem fell into that category.

Most of all, I loved it when men wanted something they couldn’t have.

The event had opened its doors less than twenty minutes before we arrived. With the early hour, only a trickle of people flowed through them. A couple more had gathered on the street to chat or finish cigarettes they couldn’t bring inside. Most attendees wouldn’t arrive until at least half past or even closer to four. Fashionably late was the in-thing, so I anticipated that the real Xavier Downing from Critique Magazine had yet to make an appearance, which suited my plan.

As we crossed the street, I got into character, picking up my pace and letting Diem flounder to catch up. I hadn’t explained my method to the poor guy, but I was banking on him reacting appropriately enough to sell my story without coaching.

Two suited men with tablets were staged inside the front doors, checking tickets, ticking them off on a virtual list, and welcoming guests. The high-ceiling foyer was brightly lit, and fashionably dressed men and women mingled as they chatted. Luxurious lounge areas were spread throughout, and a cloth-covered table off to the side was set up with hors d’oeuvres and flutes of champagne. Freestanding banners occupied every nook and cranny, displaying new fashion designs I couldn’t wrap my head around. Memphis would have loved this.

I scanned the crowd as Diem and I approached the suited gentlemen, but I didn’t see the blonde beauty who was the focus of Diem’s investigation. Either Olivia Lansky was in another area or hadn’t arrived.

The tall gentleman on the left held out a hand when I drew closer. “Ticket, sir.”

Chin high, I spun on my heels to face Diem. “Find my ticket.”

Diem darted a panicked glance in my direction before surreptitiously eyeing the man working the door. Grunting questioningly, right on cue, Diem’s exclamation said everything and nothing, and it took effort to stay in character and not chuckle at his obvious discomfort.

“I need my ticket,” I said with an ounce of annoyance. “I gave it to you before we left the office. Get it.” Snapping my fingers, I pointed at the shoulder bag.

Diem blinked, scowled, and remained immobile and confused.

“Good grief.” I approached my adequately befuddled assistant and tore the shoulder bag from his arm, rooting inside as though searching for the nonexistent ticket. After a suitable amount of time had passed, I shoved the bag against Diem’s chest and lowered my voice for effect. “Where is it? Do you think Annette will be pleased when I tell her you fucked up and I couldn’t attend the show? This was supposed to be a featured piece. Now where is my goddamn ticket?”

Catching on, Diem shook his head and shrugged his shoulders simultaneously.

Feigning annoyance, I turned back to the tall gentleman and gave him a winning smile laced with embarrassment. “Apologies. They gave me a pit bull for an assistant. My usual guy is off sick. I told them I’d come alone, but no. Annette would rather make my life difficult. Now look where we are. You’ll find my name on your list. Xavier Downing. Critique Magazine. Or call my boss. Annette Blaise. She’ll tell you I’m supposed to be here.”

I subtly scanned the suited ticket-taker, trying to get a read on him. A high percentage of men in the fashion industry were gay, and if I sensed a pull in that direction, I might flirt to help my case, but the tall man in the suit was not giving off gay vibes, so I geared back.

The man studied Diem, shared a commiserative look with me, and scrolled through the list on his tablet before hitching his chin and inviting us inside. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you,” I said to the man. “Again, I apologize.” Then, to Diem, I snapped, “Come. Try not to trip on your feet or break my camera.”

I strutted beyond the ticket line, admiring the room, nodding and smiling at a few guests as though I knew them. People smiled back, likely assuming I was someone of importance they had yet to meet. I sauntered to the spread of snacks and secured a flute of champagne, sipping and sighing.

“Benefits of the job. Delightful.”

I smirked at Diem, who was giving me a death glare.

“Who’s Annette? Did you make her up?”

“No. She’s the editor in chief at Critique.”

When Diem looked almost impressed—a feat since his facial expression barely changed—I shrugged. “I did my homework. Don’t be so shocked.”

We mingled for a few minutes, and I mentally overlaid the floor plan I’d studied the previous night with the space we were in. Once I had it sorted, I found somewhere quiet to chat with Diem. The inconspicuous alcove was still in view of the guests but far enough away our conversation wouldn’t be overheard. Also, it was adjacent to the hallway leading to the janitor’s supply room.

“You did well.” I sipped more champagne, enjoying the fizzy bubbles as they danced over my tongue and tickled the back of my throat. When I offered Diem a sip, he shook his head.

His attention was on the crowd. “The minute the real Xavier shows up, your cover will be blown. We made enough of a scene that the door guy will remember us.”

“I’m aware. That’s why I’m tagging along with you.”

Diem’s head snapped around, and his gray eyes, tiny storms brewing in his irises, burned a hole through me from under the brim of his ball cap. “Excuse me?”

I set the flute aside on a decorative table. “You heard me.”

Before he could respond or object, I strutted toward a deserted hallway as though I knew exactly where I was going and belonged there. That was the key to acting. Believing you were who you portrayed. In this case, I was a man in the fashion industry.

Diem cursed under his breath but scrambled to keep up.

Once we were out of sight of the gala’s guests, I steered Diem down another hallway to an out-of-the-way area where the janitor’s room was located. Only then did I stop. The door was locked.

“Okay, Guns. This is where we part ways. Give me the props and get yourself outfitted as a sexy custodian. I’m going to find Olivia’s office, and I’ll text you the second I locate it.”

Diem fumed. If he was a cartoon character, smoke would have billowed out his ears, setting off the alarms. Was I walking all over his case and springing stuff on him last minute? Yes, absolutely. But had I discussed my true intent back at his apartment, he would have told me to go to hell.

When he didn’t move, I stripped him of my shoulder bag and camera. Then I shoved two fingers into the front pocket of his jeans, and Diem jumped back, swatting my hand away. “What the fuck are you doing?” he growled.

“Not copping a feel. Relax. Badge. Put it on.”

Nostrils flaring, Diem did as he was told, but the fires of hell still radiated from his eyes. “This was not the plan,” he groused.

I smirked. “No, but you’ll go along with it anyhow because you have no choice now. Get in the room and get some props while I wander around and figure out where we need to be.”

“You can’t wander. You’ll get caught.”

“Nope.” I performed a magician’s flare with my hand. “Presto chango. I’m no longer Xavier Downing from the magazine. If anyone stops me, I’m a new hire at Challuah Designs, looking to deliver my employee package to Mrs. Olivia Lansky’s office as instructed since I start work on Monday morning.”

Diem opened his mouth to object, scanned me once, then snapped his jaw shut.

“Not bad, huh? You can admit it. I’ll only gloat a tiny bit.”

“A fucking heads-up next time.”

“Oh, come on. Say it. It’s a good idea.”

He growled and unearthed a lock-picking kit from the back pocket of his jeans. “Move.”

I guess admitting he was impressed was too much to ask. “I’ll text you the second I find her office.”

“Just don’t be stupid.” Diem squatted and studied the lock.

I brushed fingers over his exposed neck, aiming for reassurance, before sauntering away.

On a Sunday, most businesses were closed. The only reason the building was bustling was because of the gala, but the function was being held in a handful of rooms on the main level, so theoretically, everything above should be deserted.

Wandering in the opposite direction of the party, I looked for a bank of elevators at the back of the building, or a sign, or a poor lackey working overtime on the weekend who might be gullible enough to believe I was Olivia Lansky’s newly hired employee, seeking her office.

I found no one. The main elevators were in the lobby, but there had to be another set or a door to a stairwell. The building might not have been huge, but it was too vast for only one bank of elevators.

Locating a stairwell first, I slipped inside the concrete well, taking the stairs two at a time until I reached the second floor. I slipped into a deserted hallway and taxed my ears. Without the commotion of a gala in the background, it was quiet. A vacuum sounded from farther away. A real custodian must have been making his or her rounds. Not good.

I thought about texting Diem a heads-up but decided to follow the sound instead. Cleaners wouldn’t have a clue about new employees, but they might know where specific offices were—or at least where I might find a directory.

I weaved along a few blandly carpeted corridors with beige walls and past several closed office doors until I reached the area where the lobby elevators might deliver the usual crowd to the second floor. The vacuum was louder, coming from a nearby office down a hallway I hadn’t explored, but I didn’t need the custodian. A plastic sign on the wall by the elevators provided a list of important people and where they could be found.

It didn’t indicate specific names, but since I knew Olivia was the CEO of Challuah Design, I learned she and her colleagues occupied offices on the sixth floor. I should have guessed. Bigwigs always preferred the upper levels.

I texted Diem, letting him know to head to the top, then backtracked to the stairwell. I could have used the elevators, but I didn’t want to chance running into someone if I didn’t have to. Besides, I could use the burst of cardio.

The number of times I’d envisioned Diem at the gym since his announcement was shameful. No wonder the guy oozed muscles. If he used their shower facilities daily, which he’d suggested, it meant he was working out daily. It showed. Maybe I didn’t want relations with the guy, but I could appreciate a well-honed package when I saw one.

I had thankfully been blessed with a high metabolism, but it didn’t mean my bad habits of lattes, pastries, and late-night drinks wouldn’t catch up with me someday.

My steps echoed off the concrete walls as I jogged up the stairs. Three floors later, I regretted my decision and slowed my pace.

When I reached the top floor, I was winded and too warm in my sweater. I stood and listened briefly to determine if anyone else might be nearby. How many custodians would a building of this size have? I had no idea, but it was silent. I slinked along the corridor, reading the nameplates set into each door. In the end, it proved to be far easier than I expected.

In under five minutes, I found a closed door to a corner office marked Olivia Lansky, CEO.

“Bingo.”

Of course, it was locked. No surprise there. I retrieved my phone and shot another text to Diem, giving him a general idea of where to find me. He read it and responded with a thumbs-up emoji. The same one he’d given me for the previous two messages.

Man of few words, even in text.

I waited.

I wasn’t sure what exactly Diem was looking for or what kind of evidence might suggest Faye’s husband was cheating with this woman, but the adrenaline rush at simply being part of the process was a high in and of itself.

Diem may not be the most amiable person to work with, but I was stoked he’d come to me for help. If I proved myself, maybe it wouldn’t be the last time. God, I was pathetic. I had a job. Was it a job I loved? Not so much. Was the idea of latching onto Diem because his PI work interested me a bad idea? Probably. We shared a mutual attraction to one another—despite the long list of reasons we needed to avoid hooking up again. It was a mess waiting to happen if we didn’t keep things professional.

It took over ten minutes before I heard the clatter of what sounded like a cart coming in my direction. Someone was approaching. I opened the leather folio and feigned interest in the interior, looking like I was supposed to be standing in a deserted hallway outside Olivia’s office.

A second later, Diem rounded the corner. Not a clattering cart but a mop bucket. An empty mop bucket. Diem wasn’t keen on details. He shoved the contraption by the handle of a mop he’d stuffed inside. It was evident in his body language that the job I’d assigned him was beyond humiliating.

I grinned to help lower his animosity and gestured at the bucket. “Dry mopping the carpeted floors up here, are you?”

“Shut up,” he said when I couldn’t contain a smirk.

“Just asking a question.”

“You’re gloating.”

I thumbed over my shoulder. “How about a thank you for concocting such a stand-up plan.”

“How about move.” Diem manhandled me out of the way of the door, but the way his lips twitched told me his irritation was an act.

“You’re kind of a bully, you know.”

Ignoring me, he found his lockpick kit and dropped to his knees. I was too intrigued about breaking into Olivia’s office to continue goading, so I squatted to watch him work.

“Is it hard?”

“No.”

“Ever broke a pick?”

“Yes.”

“That would be bad, right?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you learn to do this anyhow?”

“YouTube.”

I laughed. “Are you serious?”

He grunted, fumbled a slim tool inside the lock, and in less than a minute, the door opened.

My brows rose. “Wow. That was impressively fast. I don’t remember you being that good with your hands.”

The double entendre did not go over Diem’s head.

He stilled while replacing the pick in the case. His shadowed eyes found mine. Okay, the joke didn’t land how I’d hoped, and I regretted opening my mouth. Our encounter back in December was a touchy subject, especially considering a major part of the issue was Diem’s complete inability to touch me at all. In fact, he’d gone out of his way to keep his hands to himself. I still didn’t get it. He was obviously attracted to me, but he downright refused to make physical contact. I was a tough guy who didn’t get his feelings hurt easily, but it stung my ego more than I expected.

Diem jammed the pick into its case with more force than was necessary and stood. I followed him inside, gently closing the door behind us. Since there was a gala in full swing and Olivia was the head representative of the company, I doubted she would wander to her office at any point, but it didn’t mean other employees wouldn’t come to the sixth floor—particularly a real janitor—and we didn’t want anyone to find us slinking around where we didn’t belong.

At this point, if we were caught, the police would be called, and I’d be out of a job.

Diem turned on a desk lamp and sat in Olivia’s plush leather chair, opening her laptop without compunction. It was a functional office with a scattering of prints lining the walls. Potted tropical plants decorated the windowsill overlooking Adelaide Street. A few pictures of Olivia’s family were displayed on half-empty bookshelves along with certificates and several award plaques.

“What should I do? How can I help?”

“You weren’t supposed to be up here. Stand there and look pretty for five minutes while I figure this out.”

“Aww, you called me pretty.”

A rumble sounded from deep in Diem’s chest.

“Come on, Guns. I’m here. I can be useful.”

He mashed buttons on the computer without responding.

“Diem.”

“Fine. Go through the desk drawers. Maybe she has a planner. Maybe Noah wrote her love letters, and you’ll find them bundled with twine.”

“I know you’re being a sarcastic dick, but when I find those letters, you will be the one looking like a fool.”

Diem huffed.

I huffed back.

He made a noise in his throat. It was the mere suggestion of a laugh, but it felt like a win.

I stopped pestering and got to work, squatting beside the desk and opening a drawer. Before I could root around inside, I was distracted by whatever Diem was doing. The laptop screen showed a black background with tiny white numbers and letters across the top. It wasn’t a Windows home screen. It was the innards of a computer. The back door stuff I knew nothing about. I wasn’t sure what to call it.

“What are you doing?”

“The computer is password protected. I have to bypass it.”

“You know how to do that?”

“Yes.”

“That is so cool. Where did you learn?”

“YouTube.”

I deadpanned. “For real? Does your entire PI training come from YouTube?”

He ignored me. Fair enough. If the answer was yes, who was I to judge? My job description consisted of filing cases and posting information to a website. Boring. Maybe I needed to browse the big YT in my spare time. Expand my resume.

I got to work, snooping through the contents of Olivia’s desk, seeking something incriminating. It was ridiculous. Faye’s request was inane. At the end of the day, proving her dead husband’s infidelity changed nothing. Didn’t she see that?

Were all Diem’s cases this odd? Was this a typical request? I made a mental note to ask him later. I didn’t know much about PI work, but it made me curious.

Olivia was a pack rat. The first drawer was stuffed with all kinds of useless crap, from makeup to magazines to empty granola bar wrappers. The woman seemed to have a fetish for those Crystal Light water flavor packs. Dozens had been tossed haphazardly into the drawer. She collected fancy erasers by the look of it. Ones shaped like fruit and cartoon characters, all of them wafting artificial sweet odors. I sniffed a few—strawberry, grape, orange—before Diem shot me a look.

“What? I remember these from grade school.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“Smell.” I held one under his nose, and he jerked back, intensifying his glare until I put the erasers away and kept going. He was such a spoilsport.

No day planner. No pack of secret love letters—not that I expected them, but I’d wanted to find them if for no other reason than to shove them in Diem’s face. I moved on, but before I abandoned the top drawer, I pocketed the double cherry eraser. Olivia wouldn’t miss it, and I’d had one exactly like it as a kid. It had been my favorite.

The drawer beneath contained flyers, memos, and tons of loose papers in various stages of neatness. Some were bills. Others were notifications for events. Some were marked with pen. Others were scratched through with marker. It took longer to get through, but again, nothing stood out.

I glanced at Diem to see how he was doing. He’d successfully logged onto the computer and had opened Olivia’s email account. Diem had removed the ball cap and set it on the desk beside him. He scrubbed a hand over his shorn hair as he puzzled over the endless list of correspondence. The more prominent scar, the one from his slightly disfigured ear to his jaw, caught my attention. Not for the first time, I wondered what had caused it. Diem was littered with scars. They told a story, and I had a feeling it wasn’t a good one.

He must have sensed my attention and glanced over. “What?”

I nodded at the screen. “Do a search.”

Diem’s stormy gray eyes flicked to the computer and back. “A what?”

“A search.” I pointed to the top corner of the screen. “Use the magnifying glass. You can search email content for keywords. Try Noah’s name.”

Diem selected the search box and two-finger pecked Noah’s name into the bar before hitting enter. In a flash, six emails were highlighted. The surprise on Diem’s face was priceless.

“Ha! I’m not just a pretty face, Guns,” I said a little too close to his ear. “Thank me later.”

He stilled, body tensing. I hadn’t meant the words to sound suggestive, but I supposed that was how he took them.

“Open them,” I prompted to break the ice.

I was in Diem’s space, practically leaning on his shoulder and breathing down his neck so I could be part of the search, but he hadn’t said anything, and he hadn’t shoved me aside or growled.

Progress? Who knew.

As he moved the cursor to click over the first email in the list, a woman’s voice sounded in the distance. It came from down the hall.

And it was moving toward us.