Meg is taking surface streets, the late afternoon traffic making the freeway almost impassable, and the start and stop of the car as we move through Culver City and beyond adds to my queasiness. That and Ron’s cologne, which feels as if it’s seeping into my skin.
“I’m assuming all of this is covered by agent-client privilege, correct?” he says to Meg.
Her eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror and hold. “Of course,” she says, giving me the smallest of winks as she pulls up in front of an apartment building just off Normandie Avenue—a stretch of concrete, graffiti, and decay.
“Kat and I will wait out here and enjoy the sun,” Meg says. “I called ahead and had the manager open up Unit 4 for you.”
“Back in a flash.” He bounds up the front steps, his expensive suit in stark contrast with the cracked stucco, rusted hand railing, and trash gathered at the base of the building. When he’s gone, I say, “He’s awful. How can you stand spending so much time with him?”
Meg sighs and leans against her car. “Believe it or not, I’ve worked with worse.”
Who? When? What did you do, and are you doing it again? The questions dance inside of me, aching to be asked. “There’s no such thing as client privilege with real estate agents, is there?” I ask instead.
“Of course not. The only thing I’m not allowed to do is disclose his financials—assets, bank account information, routing number—to anyone outside the context of a deal.”
I search her face for a hint of what she might be thinking. Emptying his bank account? Making it vulnerable somehow? But her expression is unreadable as she tips her face toward the sun.
We stand in silence for a while, the sound of traffic and the distant crash of a trash truck somewhere behind us, before she says, “Were you okay back there, in the car? You looked like you were going to bolt at the next red light.”
She looks at me, waiting, and I wonder what she’d say if I told her about Nate. How she’d played a role in it, and whether she might want to make amends. She’d had no trouble tearing Cory Dempsey’s life apart, and it’s obvious she’s planning something similar with Ron. What might she do on my behalf? The question jolts through me, electric and raw. “Men like him make me feel boxed in,” I finally say. “Like I can’t think clearly enough to get away.”
“Did someone hurt you?”
I savor the warmth of the sun on my shoulders, glad to be out here instead of trapped inside somewhere with Ron. “Yes, but it was a long time ago, and I don’t like to talk about it.” I have to remind myself that I’m not here to confide in Meg. She hasn’t earned the privilege of my secrets, no matter how much I might want to tell her this particular one.
Meg’s expression softens into concern. “I never would have brought you along if I’d known.”
“Why did you?” I ask. “You certainly don’t need the help.” Meg isn’t someone who would do anything on a whim; there must be a reason for my presence here today.
“Appearances matter to a man like Ron. Hired help, personal chefs, valet parking, and assistants scurrying after him. It’s all part of the facade I have to build.”
I give her a sharp look. “For what purpose?”
She grins and says, “A big commission, of course.” When I don’t return her smile, she says, “You look disappointed.”
My cheeks flush. “No, I just hate people like him, sliding through life always getting what they want.”
She glances toward the corner of the building, where Ron emerges from a side walkway. She bumps her shoulder against mine. “Me too,” she says, pushing off the car and making her way around to the driver’s side.
It’s only later, when I’m home again, after the hot shower I took to wash off the clinging scent of Ron’s cologne, that I realize the entire outing felt like performance art, Meg serving Ron up to me on a platter, garnished with his most horrible traits, aligning me alongside her, despite my best intentions.