Hasty

by Julia Kent

  “Edgy?”

  “I–he never outright asked me to do anything illegal.”

  Ian snorts.

  “But he wanted to leverage loans. Do short sales that didn't make sense. Create shell companies to transfer money to other shell companies, and then to offshore accounts in the Caymans. He was gone a lot, so I just didn't follow up. It was easier to get into an argument over not doing something than to take the ego hit and approach someone about a weird deal. Our last fight before he disappeared was about using my corporate credit card to buy a bunch of plywood from China and float it for a month. His desperation was really intense.”

  “Now we know why,” Agent Medina says, looking at Ian. “He got in debt with the wrong people. Just like two years ago.”

  “What do you mean, two years ago? Burke was charged the day they arrested and charged me, too, eight months ago,” I ask Agent Medina, who twitches, eyes darting to Ian, whose own lids close in anguish.

  Caught.

  That's the look of a man who's been caught.

  20

  “I should have told you. I couldn't, Hastings,” he begins, the two agents cutting glances at each other, faces slack, revealing nothing.

  “Wait. Hold on. You've been working with the Feds for two years? Against Burke?”

  “I couldn't tell you.”

  “Wouldn't.”

  “No. Couldn't. I didn't have a choice.”

  “We always have choices, Ian.”

  He looks at Morrison and Medina, who give him curt nods. “We can follow up later.”

  Mom's phone buzzes. “Oh, dear. It's your father. He wants me to bring him lunch. I think I'll go to Taco Cubed and–”

  “Thanks, Sharon. See you later.” Ian's firm voice leaves no room not to be obeyed.

  She leaves. I start to go with her. He grabs my arm. I freeze, still facing away from him, watching Mom pick up her purse from the table in the foyer and look back at me, both her hands going to her heart, her wince palpable.

  “Hastings.” Hearing my name from his mouth is a new kind of pain.

  “Let me guess. It's not me–it's you.”

  “My work with the Feds was how you were protected. If I told you the truth, you'd have faced worse. Much worse.”

  “But you were part of the investigation that led to it all in the first place! Long before I was arrested. You knew what was coming before I–oh, my God... That's why you were at Essentialz that night, wasn't it? You knew. You knew? That wasn't a coincidence. And you came in and paid for the bill and–you bastard.”

  All the anger that Burke deserves has lived unexpressed inside me. It's finding a handy target.

  Ian.

  “All those 'coincidences,' the job offers, the relentless pursuit. Showing up in Anderhill all the damn time, in the exact place I was. Oh, God, Ian, the kisses? Making out in your car? The wedding? The offer to go to Australia, surprising me at the sugar house, and... last night? What the hell was last night? Ian–you played me!”

  “No. It's not like that, Hastings. I genuinely like you. I'm attracted to you, and–”

  “But you used me!”

  “Absolutely not. I was trying to protect you from Burke.”

  “You are Burke! As far as I'm concerned, Ian, you hurt me more than Burke!”

  He looks like I slapped him.

  “My marriage was dead, Ian. We were business partners for the last year we were together. Nothing more. The man wouldn't sleep with me! Do you know how degrading it feels to know he had five wives and I was the one he didn't bother touching? And then you come along, Mr. White Knight, telling me a story about being attracted to me all these years, how Burke didn't deserve me, blah blah–”

  “That was real, Hastings.”

  “You’re a liar! You're a con man and a liar. You conned me, just like Burke.”

  “I was helping you. Protecting you.”

  “I never asked for that! Why would you do that?”

  “Because I love you, DAMN IT!”

  The roar of anger rises up Ian's throat, pouring out of his mouth in a thunderous vibration that slips between my ribs, shaking my heart in place like an electroshock.

  “I love you and didn't want you to be hurt. Men like Burke are snakes, all over the financial industry, and I could tell something was wrong with him years ago. I got physical evidence and I went to the Feds. They asked me to help build a solid case against him.”

  “You've been investigating Burke behind my back for... how long?”

  “Not investigating. Just sending info when I came across it.”

  “You're an informant?”

  He nods.

  “And you've loved me all these years?”

  “No,” he confesses. “Not in the beginning. Attraction? Yes. Love? Not until we started dating–”

  “We had one date, Ian. ONE. And it was a wedding where you half-dumped me at the end.” I close my eyes. “That was it, wasn't it? When you said 'It's me,' you meant this, didn't you? You were working the investigation. Nothing about your feelings was real.”

  “Your attention to detail is normally charming, but right now, Hastings, I don't give a rat's ass how you categorize my emotional state. I just told you I love you.”

  “You love me. You love me? This is your idea of love? You're really messed up in the head, Ian. You collude with the Feds to set Burke up, then you–”

  He lets out an angry sigh. “I did not collude. I made a vow, years ago, that if I ever saw anyone cheating people out of money, I'd find a way to stop them. My grandparents lost their dairy farm in Wisconsin because of a man like Burke.”

  “What does a farm have to do with–”

  “They were conned, plain and simple, by an 'investment advisor' who convinced them to dump tons of money into a sham system. A Ponzi scheme. We used to call it 'pulling a Madoff' but now it's 'pulling an Oonaj'.”

  “Your grandparents got taken and you're some sort of financial vigilante for justice?”

  “My grandfather died from the shame of what happened to him, Hastings.”

  “He… did he...”

  “No. He didn't literally die from it. Or take his own life, though plenty of farmers do when they’re driven into bankruptcy. But he lost the farm, the land in his family for four generations. His heritage. My heritage. All because of a financial scammer who decided farmers like him were suckers and easy pickings.”

  “How did you figure it all out with Burke?”

  “You.”

  “Me?”

  “You took out a Small Business Administration loan at one of the regional banks I was partnering with. I'm on the board, and your name was floated. I thought it was odd that you would have a loan, because at the time, you worked for Keating Xin Luis. You made good money and you were in private equity. Why would you need a loan intended for beginners? It didn't make sense.”

  Images of the boxes of financial records my lawyer pored over, that I didn't even know existed, flash through my mind.

  “Burke did that. Forged my name. Opened shell companies using my social security number, then created EIN numbers for the LLCs. Delaware and Nevada corporations, with offshore–”

  “I know. I know exactly what he did. One hell of a web he spun.”

  “Of course you know. So the SBA loan made you suspicious?”

  “That, and I never liked the guy. Not from the moment I met him.”

  “You started building a case with the Feds because of a suspicious SBA loan?”

  “Never screw over the SBA. Those people are vicious. Auditors with backbones of steel. Once we followed the paper trail, we found shell company after shell company, then a money laundering scheme out of Monaco that took us to Gibraltar, then St. Kitts, and...”

  “And then, years later, you finally understood how thoroughly he screwed people over in at least thirty-seven countries.”

  “Yes. And he lives in one of them.” Ian's eyes drift to mine. “And now you have contact.”

&nbs
p; “I do. And the Feds are listening in on everything.” I snort. “What am I saying? You are the Feds.”

  “I don't work for them. I just work with them.”

  “Fine, Agent McCrory,” I say coldly. “You got what you wanted.”

  “I'm not an agent. And what I want is you.”

  “I'm off the table. You don't get to lie to me and expect me to forgive. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice–”

  “I haven't fooled you twice.”

  “Not yet.”

  “I will never, ever lie to you, Hastings.”

  “You already did!”

  “It was a lie of omission.”

  “OH. MY. GOD. Those were Burke's exact words just now, Ian! Do you big-money guys have a playbook you work from? Swap a deck and PowerPoint your way through crushing people's souls?”

  “I just told you I love you, Hastings. Crushing any part of you is the last thing on my mind. Especially your heart and soul.”

  “Too late. Too damn late.”

  Leaving is an option, but I stand my ground, shaking my head.

  Finally, I say, “So how are we doing this?”

  “Doing what?”

  “I'll do whatever I need to do to help find Burke. We have a lead now. He expects me to wire him money.”

  “Those numbers are useless. The real payoff is in how you lengthened the conversation. You're good,” he tells me.

  “All I had to do was pretend my self-worth is in the gutter and I'm nothing more than an object to be used for a man to achieve a goal. How is that 'good'?”

  “I'm sorry the conversation with Burke was that bad.”

  “I wasn't talking about Burke,” I spit out.

  The federal agents come back in, the woman’s mouth twisting with a smile. “Really good work, Hastings. We got background sounds that helped us pinpoint his location to a specific cluster of islands off the coast of Colombia.”

  “How?”

  “Bird calls and the ship's horn. He spoke Spanish. He's in a port of some kind in a distinct geographical zone. We'll work on getting him in custody, but also on closing down his financial options there. The noose is tightening, and it's all thanks to you.”

  “I just answered a call and played along.”

  “You did more than that. We'll be in touch.”

  Their departure is as abrupt as their arrival.

  My hands are on my hips and my body is shaking. Ian stands tall, staring at me with an intensity that reveals he has no shame.

  Not one drop.

  “You can leave, too.”

  “I'm not going anywhere until we talk this out.”

  “There is nothing to talk about.”

  He stays in place, watching me, the clock ticking between us, marking time.

  Marking my heart's place as it descends.

  “I mean it, Ian. Leave. You want to talk now? The time to talk was a long time ago. You lied to me.”

  “I did it to protect you.”

  “I think you did it to save your ass. Maybe you're not such a Boy Scout after all. Maybe you were forced to work with them because you did something wrong and this is how you get out of it.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “You chose to work with the Feds for good reasons. The moment you kissed me, though, this became something else entirely.”

  “No, it didn't. Kissing you didn't change anything other than my heart.”

  “Our entire relationship has been one big conflict of interest, Ian.”

  “Is that all? Nothing more? You feel it, too, Hastings. I suspect you felt it before, when we couldn't be together. Long ago, even before I learned about Burke's shady dealings.”

  “We talked about this. I am monogamous. Burke might be a cheating opportunist, but I take my vows–even if they turn out to be bogus–very seriously.”

  “And I take my feelings seriously. There is no conflict of interest when it comes to those, and you're not married now. I love you, Hastings. I love you when you're angry with me. I love you when you're figuring out a complex financial problem. I love you when–”

  I hold up my palm. “Cheesy declarations of emotion aren't going to work. Neither is some grand gesture, or a kiss that knocks my socks off, Ian. You lied. I feel conned. You knew that one of my biggest fears was being a sucker again, and you did it to me. You turned me...” My breath catches, the sob taking me by surprise, “...into a mark.”

  “I did no such thing. I made a series of decisions that made sense at the time, but hurt you in the end. And for that, I am so sorry, Hastings. I truly am.”

  Easy.

  It would be so easy to do what feels comfortable, retreat into old patterns, shut myself off after being hurt by Burke. To wallow in the self-righteous swamp of being the injured party.

  Easy.

  It would also be so easy to tell Ian off, make him the bad guy, blame him for everything that's happened to me at Burke's hand. I could drill down and make him the source of my pain.

  Easy.

  And it would be even easier to quit my job with him, to cut him off, to banish him from my life and live in a rage-filled state of judgment, because being destroyed by Burke's mess gives me the right to do that.

  Mom wants me to find a life that's easy.

  Ian's staring at me, giving me space and time, opening himself up and taking whatever I throw his way. He's not leaving. Not running away. Not escaping.

  Not abandoning me.

  He's facing the consequences of his choices and still–still–wants me to be real with him.

  So, I'm choosing hard.

  A hard life.

  “Why do you love me?” I challenge, needing more than my own acquiescence to feel the complexity. “And none of that Hallmark crap. Lay it out there.”

  “I love you, Hastings, because I have never met another soul who lights up my brain like you do.” His abs curl in with a single laugh. “Body, too, but that's secondary.”

  There is nothing secondary about Ian McCrory's body, but I keep my mouth shut.

  “When I am with you, I feel elevated. We can talk to each other in shorthand. Nothing's pretentious, even when you are.”

  “You really suck at this, if your goal is to woo me.”

  “That's not my goal.”

  “Then what is?”

  “To tell the truth.”

  “Go on.” I frown. Something's... off. I'm forgetting something. Radar in the back of my head makes me feel itchy, like...

  “Because, Hastings, I–”

  “OH MY GOD, THE CHEESE!” I scream, running past him through the back door, the giant drum of boiling milk a mess as it bubbles over, at least a gallon on the ground, ruining Dad's lawn. I grab the huge wooden paddle and stir, hoping it's not overcooked.

  “Can you still use it?”

  “Maybe. If it's overcooked, the cheese will be rubbery. The butterfat won't remain. Damn it,” I curse, stirring. The only saving grace is that I didn't feed the fire under it, which has gone largely to coals. Calibrating small batches means being intensively present, and Burke's texts and calls distracted me.

  Not to mention the seventy-six inches of hot distraction in my face now.

  “Can I help with anything? Need some muscle?”

  “I need to know what to believe.”

  “Believe me. Believe that I love you. Believe that my apology is sincere.”

  “I do,” I whisper. “I want to. And I'm grown up enough to also know that you were just trying to help me.”

  “No 'just' about it. I was trying to help. Still am. I worked with the Feds for my own reasons, Hastings. They were good, moral ones. Being able to protect you, even just a little, came after.”

  “I know. And I do appreciate it.”

  A war is being fought inside me.

  Team Easy vs. Team Hard.

  He reaches for my hand, the one not holding the paddle. The soles of my shoes swim in boiled-over milk, ewe's musk heady and overwhelming in the air, mixing with
the woodsmoke from the fire. There is no music. No electric hum from a device. No pretense.

  Nothing but us.

  “I want to be with you, Hastings. I don't know what that means, and I don't want to push you. Every second I spend away from you is filled with your presence. You take up a lot of real estate in my mind, you know.”

  Mr. Minsky's cat appears suddenly, nose twitching as it starts lapping at my shoe tip, then moves to the milk. Another one, an orange tabby, slips in with his calico compatriot.

  Ian sneezes.

  I bend down to reach for one of the cats and he grabs my arm.

  “Please don't. I'm ah–ah–ah–”

  He sneezes again.

  “Allergic?”

  He nods, stepping back from the cat.

  “That bad?”

  His answer is a sneeze.

  “The great Ian McCrory has a weakness?”

  “I also sunburn terribly and cannot stand Tori Amos' music.”

  “Well, now, those are dealbreakers.” I move up from my kneeling position and face him square on.

  “I promise to wear sunscreen, and I can take Benadryl for the cat issue, but I draw the line at Tori Amos. Sorry, Hastings. That's my hard line.” Sliding his hand under my cheek, he asks softly, “What's yours?”

  His phone buzzes. So does mine.

  We ignore them.

  “Tacos.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “How do you eat your tacos?”

  “Is this a euphemism for oral sex?”

  “No. I'm asking about actual tacos.”

  Please don't say soft. Please don't say soft. Please don't say–

  “Hard shell. Spiced beef. Fresh salsa, not canned, with more jalapeno than cilantro. Bibb lettuce, shredded really small, though iceberg's fine in a pinch. Never romaine. Monterey Jack cheese, sour cream, sometimes guac but the balance has to be–”

  “Just right,” we say in unison.

  Just right.

  21

  “Two hundred and twelve people came through this 300-square-foot store, and I sold out,” I tell a very naked Ian as we stare up at the exposed-beam wood ceiling in the sugar house, our bodies tangled in an old sleeping bag I unzipped and threw on the ground for an improvised christening of the Anderhill Cheese store.