Play with Me

I haven’t even unwrapped my food yet when Damion walks back in. “Get Frank Meir from Chase Bank on the line. I’ll send you a virtual address book.” He’s past me and in his office that quickly.

I pull up my computer screen and find the number. Frank isn’t in. I punch the intercom. “He’s not in.”

“Tell them to get him on the damn phone.”

“Yes. Okay.” I redial and I am as insistent as Damion. Three minutes later, I hit the intercom again. “He’s on the line.”

He doesn’t answer me. The line lights up in his office and I know he has the call. From there, a whirlwind of calls erupts and one thing after another has to be juggled, but I like it. It’s high energy and kind of fun.

At about three o’clock, an FBI agent shows up, and he, Damion, and Terrance go behind closed doors. I give up on eating my lunch and start making my calls. The news is not good: Half the people have not truly been contacted, and a few say they sent in donations that I don’t see a record of and need accounting to research.

When Terrance and the detective finally exit the office, it’s after six and Dana has been gone an hour. I’m working through my list. “Still here?” Terrance asks, stopping at my desk as the FBI agent heads past.

“The charity event is coming up fast. I’m trying to make sure it goes well.”

“Ah, yes. That’s Damion’s pet project.”

“So I heard.”

“Once you get the players’ list confirmed, I’ll need a copy.”

“Yeah, well, that may be a few days. It’s not exactly been handled as we thought.”

He cringes and lowers his voice. “Does he know? Because tonight isn’t the night to tell him.”

“Does he know what?” Damion asks, appearing in the doorway, his hair a rumpled mess, his tie loose.

“I’ll leave this to you,” Terrance says, giving me a sympathetic look.

I roll around in my chair. “You look like shit.”

“Thank you, Ms. Miller. Now, what don’t I know?”

“I have it under control.”

“Kali,” he says softly. “Just tell me so I can get it the hell over with in one day.”

Kali. My heart squeezes. “The charity list you gave me—most weren’t scheduled at all.” I leave out the missing donations. No need to stress him more than he obviously is until I know there’s a real problem.

“Fuck.” He shoves his arm on the doorjamb over his head. “How many are confirmed?”

“Maybe twenty percent of the ones I called, but most of those I convinced to get involved. They hadn’t been contacted or they were told details would follow that never did.”

“How far into the list are you?”

“Halfway.”

“I’ll call the heavy hitters and then split the rest with you. If there is one thing I do today that matters,” he says, “it’s this. If you get someone on the fence about their involvement, put them on with me.”

After three calls that require his assistance—one of which is an arrogant jerk of a Hollywood star—Damion suggests I just pull up a chair at his desk and use his second line. I grab my sandwich and my work and head into his office.

“Have you eaten?” I ask.

“Not since breakfast.”

“Me, either. I picked up lunch but never ate.” I open the container. “It’s ham and cheese. You want half?”

He stares at me for a moment, and I wish I could read him but I can’t. “Yeah,” he finally says. “I’ll take half.” He stands up and walks to the fridge in the corner of the room and brings back two sodas. “I don’t have diet.”