She climbs in and leans out the window. “Thank you for the opportunity to come and experience this.”
“Guess I don’t have to ask which session was your favorite. Banner, right?”
“You looked like you were enjoying her . . .” Mischief sparks behind her eyes. “I mean the talk, too.”
“What happened to consider it dropped?” I lightly tap the hood, signaling it’s time to head out. “Go exterminate my niece’s hair.”
As soon as I enter the hotel lobby, Mitch and a few other agents accost me.
“Foster,” Mitch slurs, already halfway to falling down. “Join us at the bar.”
Why the hell not? Alone in my room, I’ll only rehearse what I heard today, the things Banner said that have been looping through my head. The last thing I need to be thinking about is Banner. She works for a rival firm. She’s dating a man widely considered the NBA’s patron sa
int. And the main reason I shouldn’t be thinking about Banner? She hates me.
All day I’ve walked around with this . . . emotion I can’t quite name agitating my insides, seething under my skin. Of all the things Banner said in her session today, the least impactful thing has impacted me the most. The one I can’t stop rehearsing.
My boyfriend is a good man.
Zo Vidale digs wells in Africa, feeds hungry kids in India, and probably helps old ladies cross the street. Every Good Samaritan and Citizen Award there is, he has won. He is a good man, and I, along with the rest of the known world, admire him. I respect him.
So why the hell does it bother me to hear Banner call him a good man?
“So, Foster,” one of the agents—maybe Jimmy, I think is his name—says. “I heard you went to college with Banner Morales. That right?”
Is the world conspiring against my peace of mind?
“Yeah,” I one-word it, prop my elbows on the bar and motion to the bartender. “Jameson, please.”
“I heard her session was packed.”
“Yeah,” I answer automatically.
“You were in there?” Mitch perks up to demand. “I thought it was just for chicks.”
“I needed my sister-in-law,” I lie. “So I poked my head in to find her.”
“What I want to know,” Maybe Jimmy asks, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Did she look that good in college?”
Frumpy sweater. Baggy sweatpants. Hair scraped back. No makeup. Seven freckles.
“Yeah,” I reply, staring into my drink. “She did.”
“Did not,” Mitch counters with a sneer. “I interned with her at Bagley. She didn’t look anything like that, but I guess it didn’t matter to Vidale.”
“What’s that mean?” Maybe Jimmy asks, practically smacking his lips for some juicy gossip.
“I was supposed to meet with Vidale.” Mitch leans forward, glancing around to make sure he’s not being overheard . . . or more likely to make sure he is overheard. “Last minute, Cal grabs Morales for the meeting. She goes into the conference room. Next thing I know, wham, bam! She’s Zo’s agent. Hadn’t even graduated or taken the exam yet. How’s that happen?”
Mitch’s “theory” of how that happened is scrawled all over his face.
“Whoa,” Maybe Jimmy says, eyes stretched. “Are you saying she fucked Vidale to get the job?”
My muscles tighten, straining with the effort not to slam Mitch’s head into the bar. Everyone knows how good Banner is. These assholes don’t commission a third of what she makes. Jealousy is an ugly emotion that makes you do and say petty things. A defense for her burns the tip of my tongue, but I say nothing. I swallow my Jameson, my frustration, and that same nameless emotion clawing at my insides.
“At least now they aren’t trying to hide it anymore,” Mitch says. “I’m surprised Cal hasn’t put a stop to it. If their relationship goes south, Bagley could lose our best baller.”
“What if he knows it won’t go south?” Maybe Jimmy asks. “If this has been going on for years, they might be getting married or something.”