Incentive (Infidelity Universe)

“I’ve been better.” He tucks his hands in his pockets. “I miss him.”

I don’t really know Evan, but my gut tells me his kindness is genuine. I hope Infidelity doesn’t give him false hope in his second agreement. He deserves happiness.

“We couldn’t have predicted…” She straightens her suit jacket. “When we hired him, his ex was out of the picture.”

“I know.” He smiles sadly. “There’s no blame here.”

When the doors open, we file in, and she presses the button labeled I. The only other option is O—the floor we’re on.

“I and O?” I raise an eyebrow. “Is that some kind of secret binary code?”

“Mm,” she answers, which isn’t an answer at all.

The elevator moves, and the popping sensation in my ears suggests we’re speeding toward the top of the building.

“Does it stand for in and out?” I clasp my hands behind my back. “Could be an interesting innuendo. Do you repeat that in your head every time you’re in here? In and out. In and out.”

Evan stares at his feet, shaking his head, while Karen bites her lip, her expression otherwise neutral.

“No?” I wink at her. “I bet you think it from now on.”

“Charming, Mr. Gabrielli,” she says as the elevator stops on I. “Right this way.”

I step into another swank lobby with another glass desk, receptionist, and an Infidelity sign on the wall. Instead of corridors leading off into a maze of offices, there’s only one door, secured with a keypad.

Passcodes are only necessary when there’s something worth protecting. Like secrets. I bet the I and O in the elevator represent inside and outside the true Infidelity, and I’m now standing in the inner core of the company.

Karen enters a code and leads us into a classy office with a large desk, leather chairs, and rich wood cabinets. A wall of windows frames the glitter and stone of Manhattan’s financial district. At another—less desperate—point in my life, I might’ve appreciated the view, but I’m not here to be impressed and wooed. If Infidelity doesn’t pay me for the interview today, my ass is homeless.

I trail after her toward the desk. “About the payment for today—”

“The receptionist will have a check for you on your way out.” She lowers into the chair behind the desk.

“Thank you.” Tension loosens from my shoulders, making the tie feel a little less tight.

“You’re welcome. I suspected there might be some urgency given your situation.”

Situation. That’s one word for it.

“If you’re thirsty, help yourself to the wet bar.” Karen opens a laptop and taps the mouse pad. “There’s water, coffee, and spirits.” She nods at the built-in cabinet on the far wall. “Since you’re a bartender, I assume you’re particular about how your drinks are made.”

It’s ten in the morning. Does she think I’m a lush?

Anxious to get this over with, I sit beside Evan in the chair facing her desk. “I’m sure you’re aware that as of two days ago, I’m no longer a bartender.”

“Yes.” She slides the laptop to the side and clasps her hands together on the desk. “Decker Gabrielli. Twenty-eight years old. High school diploma. Average grades. No college. Recently fired from Blue Dixie.” She tilts her head. “Not the most impressive résumé. Which makes the success of your business venture remarkable.”

My chest clenches. “If you call it a success, you haven’t done your homework.”

“Oh, I’d say Contender Sports did extremely well. Three store fronts in just a few years. Investors lined up at your door. Prime real estate. You had a gym right here in Manhattan, did you not?”

“Yeah.” Resentment bubbles up, gnawing just as sharply as it had a year ago when I lost everything.

“It was an ingenious idea,” she says. “While many would love to learn MMA fighting—”

“Combat sports, not cage fighting.” I glance at Evan’s unreadable expression and return to Karen. “We taught boxing, Muay Thai, and wrestling to serious students. Some were on track for the Olympics.”

“My mistake.” She narrows her eyes. “My point is that most people aren’t willing to spend money on themselves, not to learn a new skill like boxing. But the sky’s the limit when it comes to investing in sports activities for their children. That’s one of the reasons your business did so well.”

It’s also why it failed. I hold her stare, despite the shame tightening my throat.

“Your business partner, Adam Lamont,” she says, focusing on the laptop screen, “was sentenced to seventy-five years in prison for three counts of sexual abuse and sodomy with children under the age of ten. You were exonerated of all involvement.”

“Tell that to the parents who pulled their kids out of my schools.” Within months of the initial charges, I went from three-thousand students to zero. Resentment surges through my veins and roughens my voice. “Doesn’t matter that the charges weren’t against me. I ran a sports school geared toward children with a pedophilic instructor. That is on me.”