Archer scoffs. “He’s five-ten.Maybe,” he says.
“I’ll be sure to bring my tape measure,” I say with another eye roll, then peer back down at my phone. “He’s getting his MBA at IU, and he likes road biking, bar trivia, and spy movies.”
“Let me see his picture,” Archer says.
He takes my phone and begins swiping. Norm uses his rest period to peer over Archer’s shoulder. From what I can tell, Jack is your standard-issue college town white boy. He’s got an orthodontist smile and wears a lot of khaki. His sunglasses are on a leash in every photo. He looks like a basic bitch, and honestly, at this point I’ll take it. If the man is polite to servers and doesn’t comment on my weight or my diet, I will happily crawl into bed with him. If this gym outing is any indication, I need to get laidyesterday.
Archer shakes his head when he reaches the end of Jack’s photos. “This guy is giving big steak-well-done vibes,” he says.
“That boy looks like a hangnail would take him out,” Norm grunts.
I snatch my phone back. “You guys are more judgmental than Grace and Wyatt.”
“Maybe you should listen to your friends,” Dan says.
I glare at him. “My friends are busy. And anyway, it’s one date in broad daylight in a public place. How bad can it possibly be?”
“That’s what people say right before they end up on Dateline,” Archer says.
I glare at the lot of them. “Yuk it up, but both of you are single, and I haven’t seen either of you go on a date in two years, so maybe shut your smug, stupid faces!”
“My face isn’t stupid!” Archer cries, then looks at Dan for backup.
Dan, as usual, says nothing.
CHAPTER 17
DAN
Marcel
They’re pushing the deposition again. Something is definitely up, but I can’t tell what yet. I’m hoping it’s a good sign and that they’re narrowing in on Holt. I’ll keep you posted.
Marcel’s text came through an hour ago, and I walked straight out of the house and got into my car, leaving behind the stack of documents I was trying to commit to memory. I was supposed to fly to New York next week to give testimony in the SEC investigation regarding the missing money from Holt Capital. I’ve been subpoenaed. But that meeting is now on hold.
Again.
Marcel hopes it means that I’m not on the verge of getting indicted, that the investigators believe my side of the story and plan to turn their focus to Anders Holt.
It’s a nice thought, but the problem is that Anders Holt has hundreds of millions of dollars and a suite of lawyers, each of whom makes more money in an hour than Marcel makes in amonth. Even with the truth on my side, I’m expecting this to drag on forever.
Which means I’ll stay adrift for a good long while.
But the only thing I can think about?
Carson. My roommate. Myfriend.
So I drove.
I should not be here.
It is categorically insane that I’m here at a crowded college brewery on a Friday night.
And not just because there are fourteen televisions over the bar, each playing a different sporting event, and one television the size of a Winnebago on the wall to my left that’s showing a football game that looks like it happened in 1974. The sound is blessedly muted, but the flashing colors and silent screaming fans are still a nightmare of overstimulation.
No, there’s no reason I should be sitting in a sports bar in Bloomington, trying to hide from my roommate/friend/object of my unfortunate affection while she has a fucking internet date. Not a good reason, anyway. Not one I want to examine very closely.
I sigh. This whole place reeks of Axe body spray and mediocre conversation.
