It’s Just Business

One of the largest adjustments I had to make when I moved from upstate to the city was shopping.

Back home, I did it like most people think of when they think of weekly shopping. I’d get in my car (or most likely, rode shotgun in my mother’s SUV while Mom drove), and go down to the local shopping center. There, we’d go into the supermarket, pushing the cart up and down each aisle, picking up what we needed for a family of four for the week, and maybe at the same time, stop at the nearby Target for some fun retail therapy. We’d load it all up in the back of the car and drive home.This content belongs to Nô/velDra/ma.Org .

Shopping in the city is nothing like that. But I’ve adapted to city shopping, which means stopping by your local bodega or corner grocer on a daily or every other day basis, usually to grab the stuff you need to finish out your plans for the night. You can also, in some neighborhoods, find vegetable stands or meat shops, although that really varies depending on the economic status of the neighborhood you live in.

Then, when you need to, you go to a larger supermarket that might be a subway ride away in order to pick up the stuff that your local store doesn’t have. In my case, my local markets don’t have a lot of the spices I like, and the laundry soap choices all leave my skin drier than the Mojave desert.

So I take the subway out here, three stops, to the biggest shopping center near the Financial District, where I go up and down the aisles, plucking the things I can’t get from my local market while keeping in mind that I’ll have to carry them home.

It’s a lot nicer doing this now than it was just a few months ago. I’ve got money in my bank account now, and as I pass a display of aloe vera and fruit juice drinks imported from Korea, I pause and grab two. That way, Maggie can try them too. Unneeded luxuries wouldn’t have been possible not too long ago.

And then Dylan Sharpe came into my life. Just the thought of him forces me to smile.

After fitting my shopping into the big backpack I keep for these trips, I stop at Goldman’s Cafe for a bit of personal indulgence. It’s my reward to myself for battling the gauntlet that is the supermarket, and I’ve earned it.

I’ve just sat down with my slice and mug of cocoa when, out of the corner of my eye, I see someone stop beside my table and hear a throat clear. I glance up to find Evan looking down at me. He’s dressed casually today, or at least what passes for casual for Evan Faulkner.

My hands go numb and my heart stops. What the ever loving fuck?

I don’t say anything. Not a muscle on my face twitches as I stare at him blankly. His eyes flash as if he were expecting more from me, though I can’t imagine what. Does he think I want to see him? Did he think I’d cause a scene this time?

“Can I have a seat?” he asks once the silence stretches uncomfortably. “I need your help.”

“My help?” I echo, unsure whether I want to laugh or to throw my cocoa in his face. In the end, he doesn’t wait for me to answer, but rather, sits on his own accord. Irritated, I arch a brow that he pretends not to notice. “If you need help, go to Elise. And how the fuck did you know I’d be here?”

“Elise can’t. Not with this. But you can,” he says flatly. “As for how I knew you’d be here… Jeremy Willoughby spotted you shopping and texted me. I know this is always your next stop. Still buying that hypoallergenic laundry detergent, huh?”

He chuckles like he’s fondly remembering the time I freaked out because he used more than half a bottle of my preferred detergent to wash a single pair of underwear and one T-shirt. He hadn’t understood how to do laundry in the first place but was ‘trying’ for me because I told him it was shocking that he didn’t even know basic, functional life skills. Of course, I also never mentioned his lack of skills again either, so it all came out in Evan’s favor, the way it always does.

“Of course. And why would Jeremy message you?”

Evan sits back, relaxing like we’re two old friends catching up. “Because he knows that I want to talk to you.” He flashes a too-perfect smile, his eyes searching my face for something. “I haven’t come by your apartment because that crazy redhead you live with would probably try to castrate me if I did.”

“She’s got a good head on her shoulders.” I point at my cheesecake. “You’ve got until I finish this to say what you need to say and get the fuck out, or else I start screaming. Go.”

I pick up my fork, and Evan leans forward. “Come on, Raven. I get being pissed at me, even though…” He snaps before catching himself. I can virtually see him putting his charming façade back in place, using smoke and mirrors to hide the ugliness inside. More evenly, he says, “Look, the only reason Sharpe’s with you is because he’s trying to get back at me.”

He watches me closely, like he’s waiting for my heart to break at this totally earth-shattering news.

“You mean for fucking his fiancée?” I ask as I slide my fork through the cheesecake. “Yeah, he told me about Olivia. Apparently, you were fucking her behind his back. We’ve sort of bonded over that shared trauma.”

“Bonded?”

“Yes. Bonded,” I repeat, not giving him any more.

Scooping up my first bite of cheesecake, I tuck it in my mouth, luxuriating in the silky-smooth, sweet texture. “If that’s it, you can go.”

God, it feels good to be the one to dismiss him for a change. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work.

“No,” Evan says. “My God, don’t you see he’s doing the same thing to you that he did to her?”

“He’s not doing anything to me,” I say, then smirk, “well, not anything I don’t enjoy.” Is it petty to throw that in his face? Yep. Do I give a fuck? Nope. Not a one.

Evan frowns, not liking that one bit. “Or that he’s made you think you like,” he corrects. “Dylan’s a control freak. He’s mentally abusive. The man’s a fucking monster, Raven. And while I should have said something to you earlier about Elise, I never⁠—”

“Don’t go there, Evan. You’ve got absolutely no ground to stand on.”

Evan holds up a hand, begging off. “You’re right. But what I never did to you is what he did to Olivia. Dylan Sharpe blackmailed her. Why do you think she left town? Sure as hell wasn’t because she and I weren’t happy.”

That makes my fork pause, but I resume eating quickly. “Don’t believe a word you say, Evan.”

Do I think Dylan has the capacity to blackmail? Yes, absolutely. Mentally, emotionally, morally? All yes. To get ahead professionally, I think he’d do just about anything, especially back when he was coming up. He’s told me how hard it was to fight his way through, clawing and scrabbling for every lead. Do I think he would now? No. He wouldn’t let it come to that. He’s too smart, too calculating, and he sees the moves to make long before others do.

Now whether I think, even a long time ago, Dylan would’ve done anything to hurt Olivia is an entirely different question. He told me how much he loved her, how it gutted him to discover her and Evan, of all people, hooking up, and how he blamed Evan for taking everything from him. So no, I don’t think he would blackmail Olivia.

Evan, maybe, but not Olivia. Maybe…

“Look, you think I want to fucking be here?” Evan growls, pushing my hand to the table so I’ll stop eating and focus on him. “I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here. But Olivia’s not the only person Dylan Sharpe has shit on. That fucker’s got info on me, too. And he’s vindictive as can be. So I’m in a hard spot, and since you wouldn’t have shit if it wasn’t for me, I’m hoping you might find a shred of decency and help me.”

The anger and intensity in his voice give me a moment of pause. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this. Desperation looks good on him, I think with a tiny hint of sick satisfaction. “You do realize the size of the grain of salt I would need to take anything you say seriously, right?”

Evan scoffs. “You don’t believe me? Ask him. He’s a shit liar,” Evan says. “It’s how I took him in poker all the time. He can’t fucking bluff. Dylan’s barely able to hold his own in his little circle jerk of buddies playing together.”

I know about Dylan’s occasional card games. He told me about them after I first went to his apartment. But I didn’t think Evan knew about them. What else does Evan know? “Still, you’re out of your mind if you think I’m going to help you. Evan, your entire fucking world can burn down for all I care.”

“Yeah? But here’s the thing,” Evan says, his eyes going shrewd. “If my world’s going to burn, you want it to be because you caused it. Because you think I deserve it.” He waits a second, like he thinks I might say ‘oh, no, you don’t deserve that,’ so I pointedly lick my lips and then press them closed. He smirks like he finds it amusing. “You’re still someone who believes in fairness and justice. That’s why you want me hurt. Justice.”

“Perhaps,” I admit, knowing Evan’s got me pegged to a T. Even in the backstabbing world of the Financial District, there are lines I won’t cross.

“Justice is only justice if it’s delivered at the hands of those who are worthy of dispensing it,” Evan says. “Think that over. In the meantime, listen. All I want is an old email deleted. It’s on Dylan’s personal server and has some information in there he’s lording over me. That’s all I need.”

“More dirty laundry?” I ask, and Evan shakes his head. “What is it?”

“Something that would make my family very… perturbed,” Evan finally says.

I roll my eyes and stand up. “If they’re not perturbed by you by now, I doubt anything short of⁠—”

Evan reaches out, his hand quick as a snake, and grabs my wrist, cutting me off. “Look, he’s blackmailing me,” he hisses. “You want me to fucking burn? Fine. But at least let me fight from a fair standing against that asshole. That’s all I’m saying.”

I shake him off, jerking my hand free from him. “Don’t you ever touch me again,” I say loud enough to get attention. Last time Evan and I went face to face, I was worried about causing a scene, but I’m taking a page out of Ami’s book. Who cares what anyone else in Goldman’s thinks? “Because I swear to God, the next time your hand touches mine, I’ll leave with your fucking eyeballs in my purse.”

Ironically, it’s Evan who cares about the growing scene.

He lowers his voice so that it’s just between us, his eyes cutting left and right. “November sixth, eight years ago,” Evan says. “An email from me to him. I sent it at two fifty-three in the afternoon. Subject line is SUSHI DINNER AT KAZOKU’S. Just delete it, then you can go on and try to destroy me, Raven.”

Grabbing my bag, I turn and leave Goldman’s pissed beyond thinking straight. But as I descend into the subway, I can’t shut up the little voice in my gut that says there’s a chance that Evan might be telling the truth. Or that, at the very least, I want to know what the hell is in that email.

What could Dylan have over Evan?

Dylan, by his own admission, hates Evan with an acidic vehemence that matches only mine. It’s a hatred beyond the professional, into the personal.

Someone who hates that much… might just cross a line in order to enact his revenge.

When Evan leaves and the threat of having to listen to his voice and remember the time we spent together is gone, I can’t stop wondering what the hell would be in that email? What does Dylan have that has Evan scared that much?

And did he really blackmail Olivia and force her out of the city? Questions pile up, and I don’t like a single one of them.