Annihilate Me 2: Vol. 1 (10 page)

CHAPTER NINE

When the elevator arrived at the
forty-seventh floor, it came to a gradual stop, the doors slid open, and there
was Alex waiting for me just beyond them.
 
He looked as handsome as ever casually standing with his hands in the
pants pockets of his slim-fitting tux.
 
He grinned the moment he saw me, and when
he did, those dimples of his that pretty much always did me in had their way
with me again.

No one is going to touch you
, I thought when I stepped out of the car and into his arms.
 
Not if I can help it.
 
All of the pressure you’re receiving
from the board could very well end tonight.

But what if I make it only worse?

Not happening.

How can I be sure?

Because of every damning detail
Tank gave me about Rowe.
 
It’s the
details that will throw him off.
 
It’s the details that will let him know that I’m not bullshitting
him.
 
I’ll make certain that there’s
no question in his mind that I’m willing to go public with what I know about
him, and that I’ll ruin him if he doesn’t stop harassing Alex now.

“You look beautiful,” Alex said.

I kissed him lightly on the lips so
as not to get my lipstick on him, and felt his stubble graze across my upper
lip and chin, sending a chill through me.
 
“And you look delicious.
 
How
are you, my love?
 
Ready for this?”

“I should be asking you that.
 
Are you ready to go back to
Dufort’s
after what happened last time?”

“I know that you’re concerned about
that—and I’m not being flip here, Alex—but Jake Kobus is still as
dead as the first time you asked me that question.
 
Does that place hold good memories for
me?
 
No.
 
Can I get beyond them?
 
Yes.
 
And I have.
 
I don’t see any of this as an issue.”

In fact, all I see is a potential
feast.

“I just want to make sure.”

“And I love you for that.
 
But all of that is behind us now.
 
Life goes on, and this party is
important for a whole host of reasons that we must seize.
 
People need to see us out together.
 
The press need to see us at our best and
record it for the world.
 
We need to
show them that, regardless of what’s happening to Wenn’s stock right now,
Alexander Wenn nevertheless goes on and meets his commitments, especially for a
charitable event as large as this.
 
So, how about you?” I asked.
 
“Are you ready for tonight?”

When his eyes met mine, there was
steel in them.
 
“Oh, I’m ready.
 
On the surface, this is just a
party.
 
But who’s fooling whom?
 
There will be all of the other layers,
which I’m prepared for.
 
What can anyone
at that party do to me at this point?
 
Ask me questions?
 
Let
them.
 
I’m filled with answers.
 
Today, in fact, I had a crash course in
answering dozens of questions about Wenn and its future.
 
I’m happy to inform anyone about the
state of Wenn should they have the balls to ask.”

“You know, when you get like that,
I just want to tackle you.”

“There’s nobody here—please
do.
 
When we’re finished, we can go
to the party.”

“We can’t.
 
Bernie and Blackwell just got me whipped
me into shape and I can’t mess that up—but maybe later?”

“You’re on.”

“Remember to introduce me to each
member of the board sometime during the evening, preferably as early as
possible.”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

“Especially Stephen Rowe.”

We stepped into the elevator, and
Alex turned to me.
 
“Why are you so
fixated on Rowe?”

I pushed the button for the lobby,
and as the elevator dropped, I turned to him.
 
“As your wife, I want to know your
enemies.
 
That’s all.
 
I want to see what you’re up against,
and I want to form opinions of my own about them.”

*
 
*
 
*

To our relief, when we left Wenn, there
were no members of the media waiting for us.
 
But there was Tank, who met us at the
door as we crossed the lobby.
 
We
moved onto the sidewalk, and stepped into the limousine waiting for us at the
curbside.
 
Tank and I met eyes long
before we spoke to each other, and when we did, it was casual.

“Hi Tank,” I said.

“Jennifer.
 
Alex.”

Alex slapped his best friend on the
shoulder.
 
“Sorry to keep you up so
late and away from Lisa.”

“Don’t worry about it.
 
She’d say otherwise, but I know she’s
happy to have the time to work on her new book.
 
Tonight will give her a few hours to
work out what happens next with her zombies.
 
And if Lisa’s happy, I’m happy.”

“I love the two of you together,” I
said.

“The feeling’s mutual,” Tank said.

“You don’t even want to know what
it takes to keep this one happy,” Alex said.

“You’re terrible,” I said.

“You know I’m joking.
 
You’re one of the most tolerant,
easy-going people I know.”

Until I’m forced to become a viper.
 
Like I will be tonight.

I started to step into the car, but
paused to face Tank.
 
“When you see
Lisa, tell her for me that I can’t wait for our lunch tomorrow.
 
It’s been a week since I’ve seen
her.
 
I’ve been going through
withdrawals.”

“She also has.
 
She tried to call you last night to
offer support, but she only got your voicemail.”

“I know.
 
I tried to call her back, and I only got
hers.
 
But we each know that the
other is busy, and it’s no issue between us.
 
We’ve known each other so long that just
a voice message can say that we have the other’s back.”

“You know, she’s so excited about
seeing you, that she’s already picked out an outfit for your lunch date.”

“God I love her.”

“She loves you, too.”

“I know she’s busy writing about
her zombie peeps, so I just hope that she doesn’t order a side of brains to go
with her lunch tomorrow.”

“I’ll be pleased to pass that on.”

“Please do.”

On the drive to Henri
Dufort’s
penthouse on Fifth, I sat close to Alex, and he held
my hand in his.
 
He squeezed it
harder than he usually did and held it in his lap.
 
I squeezed his back just as hard, took a
breath to collect myself for all that was to come, and looked out the windows,
where the city passed by us in colorful vignettes in a host of untold
stories.
 

There was the kid on the skateboard,
roaring down the sidewalk without a care; the older man and woman, walking side-by-side
with bags in their hands; the homeless man, curled up against one of the
buildings; and the three young women dressed in little black dresses, all
primed for a night on the town.
 
One
of the young women had her head thrown back in laughter.
 
I knew that feeling all too well.
 
It was Friday night—the night was
theirs, and it was peppered with promise.

Alex and I were so deep in our own
thoughts that the ride was silent until we arrived at
Dufort’s
building, which he not only owned, but where he also lived in its two-story
penthouse.
 

Fresh into his seventieth year, Henri
Dufort was one of the more vital, interesting men I knew.
 
He owned a massive media empire that
included Streamed, a Netflix rival, with which Wenn Entertainment had joined
forces months ago in an effort to take the service global.
 
So far, the joint venture had been very successful.
  

Now, Streamed was in more than a
dozen countries, which was huge considering that it had only partnered with
Wenn a few months ago.
 
Joining
forces with Dufort had been yet another brilliant move on Alex’s part, as
Streamed was now growing faster in some foreign countries than Netflix
was.
 

Infuriatingly, its successful
acquisition was also something the media hadn’t mentioned in its aggressive
takedown of Wenn Enterprises.

When the car slowed to a stop, I
saw a line of well-dressed people waiting to get inside and a crowd of
paparazzi snapping photographs of them.
  

“Are you ready for this?” Alex
asked.

“Oh, I’m ready,” I said.

“When you say it like that, why do
I feel anxious?

I didn’t answer.

Tank got out of the car and opened
the door for me.
 
Flashes of light
began to pop as the crowd of reporters and the paparazzi standing along the
sidelines realized that it was Alex and I who had arrived.
 
I held out my hand to Tank and stepped
onto the sidewalk as elegantly as I could given the length of my dress and how
nauseous I felt from the sudden rush of nerves that overcame me.
 
When Alex emerged from the car, he
acknowledged the crowd with a wave, and then, on impulse, kissed me full on the
lips as our bodies were sheathed in an unimaginable display of light.
 

Men and women from the press called
out to us.
 
We were asked to turn
this way and that.
 
I heard some
call out questions about Wenn’s stock and future plans for the
SlimPhone
.

“Will you scrap it?” one man asked.

“Why would I scrap something that’s
sold millions of units in its first week alone?” Alex asked.
 
“Wouldn’t that be silly?
 
The
SlimPhone
is a success, and it’s here to stay.”

Without another word, Tank ushered us
past the crowd, into the building, and to Henri’s private elevator, which he
had instructed Alex and I to use earlier in the day.
 
He was sensitive to Alex’s
situation.
 
He knew that we’d want
to bypass the lines and get to the party with as little interference as
possible.

Earlier that day, he’d said,
“You’ll go to the bar.
 
You’ll have
a drink to calm your nerves.
 
Members of the press will be there, but just put them off, and tell them
that you’ll answer their questions later.
 
Bring your man, Tank, with you.
 
I’ve seen him, and I have a feeling that—with him in front of you—few
will dare to get in your way.”

When we arrived at the penthouse,
Henri’s private elevator opened away from the fray in a small alcove just out
of sight of the massive entertaining space.
 
As we stepped out and saw the crowds of
people teeming in front of us, I took Alex’s hand.

“Would you like me to stay?” Tank
asked.

“We’ll be fine now,” Alex
said.
 
“But thank you, Tank.
 
I’ll call you when we’re ready to
leave.”

Once Tank had stepped back into the
elevator and the doors had slid shut behind him, I turned to Alex.
 
“So, how about that drink?
 
If I remember correctly, the bar is just
off to our right.”

“It is—and yes.
 
I could use one.
 
Martini?”

“When has this girl ever refused a
martini?”

He grinned at that and we moved
into the crowd.
 
I was immediately aware
of the attention we caused, but I tried my best to ignore it.
 
Instead, I once again admired the first
floor of Henri
Dufort’s
penthouse.
 
It obviously had been designed for
entertainment since it essentially was one long rectangular room paneled in
deep mahogany.
 
It was a huge,
decadent space, and—not unlike his rooftop, which hosted one of the
city’s most fabulous gardens—it was designed to impress.
 

Everything was on point—from
the warm parquet flooring to the antique wall sconces to the massive
chandeliers that glimmered twenty-five feet above us.
 
Original paintings from his private
collection were prominent, and, despite how many people were there, the
noise-level was manageable because Dufort had placed acoustic tiles in
discreet, strategic locations along the ceilings to diffuse the noise.
 
What I could hear is exactly what he
wanted me to hear—a bit of the crowd and a lot of the orchestra, which
was at the far left of the room where I could also see heads lifting and
dipping as bodies swirled to the music.