Chapter Three: "Where the Devil Fails"
When Felicity arrived at work the next day, she was exhausted.
"Felicity!" Regina exclaimed. "Do you know how worried I was that you wouldn't be here?"
"And miss all this? I'm living the dream," Felicity replied glibly as she adjusted her glasses on her nose, grateful the spectacles hid the tiredness of her eyes. "It would be a shame to let that extra coffee and muffin go to waste," she added, gesturing at the brown bag that Reggie had in hand that was slightly soaked through with grease.
Regina set the bag and the small cup on Felicity's desk, parking on the edge of it. Yes, she should be at her own desk working at this point, but it wasn't every night that her best friend dealt cards in an illegal casino and lived to tell about it. "You look like you need to be fed coffee through an IV."
Well. So much for her glasses hiding her fatigue. "You and me both," Felicity pointed out.
"Yeah? Well, these dark circles are your fault. You scared me to death. He scared me to death, even if I could identify him, no problem. I mean, who can't?"
Felicity looked at her friend, puzzled. "I'm fine. It was fine. Oliver just wanted to apologize and offer me a job."
"What?!" It was Reggie's turn to be surprised.
Felicity started to smile, even though she was ruffled by the shocked look on Reggie's face. "Yep. He wants me to deal cards every week. You are not going to believe this, but last night, I made two grand in tips!" And that was after he'd taken his rather dubious cut.
"Oh, frack." Reggie jumped up and shut the door to Felicity's office. "I…this doesn't even make sense. I saw Oliver Queen, and I figured he wanted something other than your card skills."
"Oliver…Queen?"
Reggie snorted when she saw her friend's reaction. "Seriously, Fliss. Have you been living under a rock?"
Well, Felicity sort of had. Her pop culture references were sorely lacking since cable was a luxury she couldn't afford, but even she knew the name Oliver Queen. He was Starling City royalty, and his last name was on the side of the building where she worked. Ugh. Royalty. Queen. Terrible pun, she thought to herself. Look what a lack of sleep will do.
But that was Oliver Queen? Of the Queen gazillionaires?
"I'm not from around here," Felicity reminded Regina as she mentally assimilated this new information, moving Oliver from the avoidance slot to the mystery-that-needs-to-be- solved category.
"But seriously, sister, we have got to get you another hobby besides computers. Back in the day, Oliver Queen was the it-guy. I mean, he was a train wreck, but he was the hottest train wreck you ever did see until he and his father were lost at sea, presumed dead. I was gutted when it happened."
"You knew him? Er, know him?"
"Just of. But I was totally going to marry him and have his babies. You know, after I tamed his playboy ways—or tried to," she added with a shrug. "Him 'dying' kind of ruined that dream. Seriously though, he was gone for like, five years, and survived on a deserted island until some fishermen from China or Japan or someplace over there discovered him."
Felicity nodded numbly trying to imagine the cocky, assured man she met the night before as a castaway. It must have been terrible. Lonely. Difficult. Arduous. Frightening. She had a vivid imagination—it had been a blessing and curse her entire life—but Oliver Queen just did not strike her as a man who had been through something as transformative as what her friend described. He had a swagger, an arrogance that was paradoxically off-putting and fascinating. Not that she was an expert on human behavior, but wouldn't an experience like that make a person want to be a better version of himself? See his life as a second chance? But Oliver himself had warned her that he wasn't a good man.
"I remember the memorial to Mr. Queen." Felicity had seen it the first day she stepped foot in the Queen Consolidated building—the same day the suicide bomber went split-splat a hair too early, the same day she'd been catapulted to darkness in an elevator with a stranger who still made her wonder about him from time to time. "And I vaguely remember about a year ago the buzz in the building about the son's return. I just…wow…didn't realize." She shook her head, as the wheels cranked to life despite the lack of proper caffeination. "What in Google's name is he doing running an illegal gambling ring?"
"The lives of the idle rich. Must be nice."
It was a string, a thread that needed tugging.
Ultimately, it was Oliver's jacket that provided the opportunity to tug at that string.
Oliver Queen would have been dead a dozen times over if not for his inability to trust. From Lian Yu to Hong Kong to Russia, he had received a world-class education on the prevalence of evil masquerading as good and foe masquerading as friend.
He trusted no one completely, not even his own mother, who he was quite certain knew more about the Gambit's destruction than she admitted. Laurel was not an option. For as often as his thoughts went to the fantasy of her during his time away, the reality was quite different. She was a lawyer, an officer of the court duty-bound to uphold the law, and Oliver—well, he wasn't exactly an upstanding citizen. Thea was too young, had her own problems, and needed to be protected from what he had become. The closest he came to trusting anyone was Tommy. And even then, he did not share every aspect of his life with his friend. It was too messy. Too dangerous. Too unpredictable. And Oliver did not like what he could not predictably control—or at the very least, influence.
A part of him wished he could still be as blissfully ignorant as that boy who boarded his father's yacht six years ago, but the awareness that coursed through his veins, through his very being, precluded that. His father had understood the seedier side of life, as it turned out, but that boy—well, to him the seedier side of life had more to do with the trouble his dick could get him into than illicit drug smuggling, weapons trade, or human trafficking. Robert Queen had left Oliver quite the legacy, along with a connect-the-dots map of who's who in Starling City's Corruption Hall of Fame, and since his return, he had been influencing when possible—and eliminating when necessary—the names on his father's list.
Organized crime was an inevitability in a large port city. Oliver couldn't eradicate it from Starling, but he could wield some control. Having Bratva connections certainly proved useful. In his role as капитан, he could keep the other outfits in check—the Bertinelli family, the Triad. Perhaps he couldn't shut out the base side of human nature, but he could at least make sure that he kept it pinned down.
It was a tight rope. His organization wanted to make money. It was, after all, a business above all else. And Oliver wanted...what did he want? Anything that could be bought with money was already at his fingertips. When he had been away, he had longed to return home. He had idealized it in his mind. Home. If only he could get home, if only he could be with the people he loved, he would cease being a monster and be a man again. Easier said than done. Yes, he wanted to be like that foolish boy he had once been, ignorant of the evil swirling around was no such place as home, and lurking beneath the surface of every person was the potential to be a monster.
As Oliver sat in his office at Verdant looking back through the surveillance video footage of the night before, his eyes fell on Felicity Smoak, an image he froze. Even her. Even she could be a monster.
No one—especially pretty blondes—would pass scrutiny blindly. He had watched too many within the brotherhood fall prey to temptation, to poor judgment. But he had to admit, there was something unique about her, something that went beyond the apparent attributes she had—a pretty face, an amazing ass, fire and sass. Just the perfect blend to pique his curiosity.
Where had she come from? A precursory search on the computer showed she worked in the IT Department of Queen Consolidated. He huffed out a breath at that coincidence, and yet he wasn't surprised. Before that, she graduated from MIT with a Master's in Computer Science and Cyber Security when she was only 20. Smart. Possibly too smart.
Before that, she lived in Las Vegas, which explained her affinity for cards.
There was something else about her though, something familiar that was not evident from perfunctory internet searches, but something that was all the more telling. He had once met a young woman named Felicity in an elevator at Queen Consolidated when he was believed by the world to be dead. It was the day he had snuck back to QC on a mission for Amanda Waller—the same day a bomb attributed to an anti-capitalism activist detonated—but like so many other stories woven by the PR department was a far departure from the truth. This Felicity had come to mind from time to time, the way her voice shook as she realized they were trapped in darkness, the way she confessed the secrets she held, the way she breathed humanity back into him for those brief moments when his lips had touched hers.
She was dangerous.
"Когда сам дьявол терпит поражение, он посылает женщину," he uttered. When the Devil himself has failed, he sends a woman.
"You never did say...how did you learn to speak Russian?"
"Tommy." Though he did not outwardly show it, his friend's presence had startled Oliver slightly. Normally, his reflexes were impeccable. He sensed a shift in the air, or perceived the slightest sounds. This time, Tommy had snuck up on him without even trying.
Felicity had distracted him. She was dangerous, indeed, and she didn't even know it.
"I'm not asking for the full edition," Tommy coaxed. "Maybe just the recap."
"Some other time," Oliver dismissed.
"She's hot," Tommy commented looking at Oliver's screen. "Do you think she tends bar?"
"I have her in mind for another job. A side hustle, if you will. I have a feeling we'll be seeing her today."
Verdant during the day was an entirely different beast from Verdant at night. The pulsating music and equally pulsating crowd were distinctly absent, giving the club a comparatively wholesome, if not eerie, feeling. Felicity hadn't been sure she would actually find anyone there when she went on her lunch break, but she was relieved to discover her errand to return Oliver's jacket was not in vain when a handsome, dark-haired man with a ready smile let her into the club.
"I'm not sure what you're selling, but whatever it is, we need a dozen."
"Oh, I'm not a vendor," she quickly told the man as she straightened her glasses. "And I'm clearly not trying to get a jump on the crowd for tonight. Unless business casual is the new sexy. Not that I think I look sexy. That would be arrogant and..."
The man's eyes shone brightly in amusement. Right. She was rambling. Again. Get to the point, Felicity, and let this man get back to his work. "I'm actually just returning this jacket to Oliver. If you wouldn't mind giving it to him."
Tommy called over his shoulder, "Cinderella, someone brought back your slipper."
Oliver stepped out from behind a door wearing—of all things—an apron over his button-up shirt. The sleeves were rolled up, revealing strong forearms. "Hi."
She looked at him a moment, dumbfounded, before it occurred to her that a normal person would actually utter a response. "Hi."
If Oliver noticed her awkwardness, he gave no indication, as he smoothly launched into introductions. "Tommy, this is Felicity Smoak. Felicity, this is my friend and business partner, Tommy Merlyn."
"Nice to meet you, Tommy," Felicity said taking Tommy's proffered hand, expecting a hand shake. Instead, what she got was a first for her: Tommy kissed her hand like something out of a movie. She fought the urge to giggle because it seemed so outlandish. Did people actually do that?!
"The pleasure is all mine. Truly." Tommy added with a sigh letting go of her hand. "And as much as I hate to meet and run, I am late for a lunch date."
"Give Laurel my best," Oliver said politely.
"Will do. Felicity. Ollie." Tommy headed toward the door, looked back at Oliver, and mouthed, We're talking. Later.
And then the buffer between them was gone, and Felicity felt her heart kick up a notch.
"I didn't think I'd see you so soon." Oliver's words were the sort of thing that a person might be expected to say, but Felicity had the feeling that he wasn't being one hundred percent forthright with the way his eyes studied her. It was as though he had anticipated her move and knew she would be there even before she knew she would be.
"I brought your jacket." She had to fight the urge to roll her eyes at herself. Not exactly as embarrassing as 'I carried a watermelon,' but just as obvious.
"I see."
She awkwardly handed it over to him. He took it and draped it on the back of a chair.
"Thank you."
A silence hung in the air between them before she pointed to the door and said, "I should get going."
"Could I get you something?" It was an innocuous question, but something in the intensity of his gaze had her cheeks flushing.
"It's a little early to be drinking, and I have to go back to work. Besides, I imagine you have work to do, too, so..."
"I was actually about to make some lunch," he said looking down at the apron he wore. "You were kind enough to spend your lunch break trekking out here. The least I could do is make sure you don't leave." He paused a beat. "Hungry, that is."
She was in over her head. Of that, she had no doubt. The smart thing to do would be to turn around and leave. For that matter, she should tell him that she would not be dealing cards in his underground casino again. And yet she found herself drawn—by her curiosity, by the very mystery surrounding Oliver Queen, and by the growling of her empty stomach.
"Any dietary restrictions?"
He assumed she would agree.
And he was right.
Within a few minutes, Oliver had plated an omelet for each of them and set the plates at the bar. Felicity sat in one of the high seats and watched as he stepped behind the bar, quite in his element, and pulled orange juice and champagne. "Sure I can't interest you in something from the bar?" he asked as he prepared to mix himself a drink.
A mimosa did look heavenly and would be so good with an omelet. It wasn't often that she got to indulge, but her head felt like it was swimming already—partly from the lack of sleep and partly because there was something intangibly intoxicating about him. The last thing she needed was to add alcohol into the mix. "Thanks, but I think I'll stick with water."
"As you wish," he replied, retrieving a bottle of Evian from an under-counter refrigerator and passing it to her. He deftly made his own drink before walking around the bar and situating himself in a seat next to hers. "Dig in."
If it were possible for flavor to literally explode, that was what it felt like the moment the omelet hit her lips. Everything about it was perfection—from the buttery fluffiness of the eggs to the ooey-gooey cheesy goodness. "Oh good Google. How did you learn to do this?"
"Just something I picked up along the way. If my other business ventures fall through, at least I have one marketable skill to fall back on."
"So you're not a one-hit wonder?" Felicity asked.
"I know my way around a kitchen," he asserted, no hint of arrogance in his tone.
It certainly wouldn't hurt with the women either, Felicity thought. An errant image of morning sun, a warm cozy bed, and Oliver carrying a breakfast tray filled her head. "I'm surprised you cook," she said bluntly, chasing away the image.
"Why's that?"
"Well, for one, you're really, really in shape."
He chuckled slightly, revealing dimples. Her heart flopped—either from her inane comment about his physique (This is your boss, you moron!) or from the sheer effect of witnessing what had to be the handsomest man she had ever seen close up chuckle at said inane comment over the scrumptious meal he had prepared.
Her ovaries.
"I'm not sure I see the connection."
"If I could cook like this I would be so chubby. Are you sure you don't have a chef hidden back there?"
"A whole army of them," Oliver deadpanned. He shook off her admiration of his culinary skills. "It's just an omelet."
"To you maybe, but when you're like me and have mastered the art of burning water, there's no such thing as 'just an omelet.'"
"I'm glad you like it."
That was an understatement. "It's amazing. What's your secret?"
"You know what they say about secrets. 'Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead.' Can you keep a secret, Felicity?" It was an innocuous enough question, but something in the way his dark lashes framed his clear blue eyes and the way his velvet-smooth voice took on a husky tone made her think they weren't talking about omelets anymore and that Oliver Queen hid many, many secrets.
"Does my life depend on it?" She asked the question glibly, but a part of her wondered if perhaps her life did depend on it.
"Olive oil," he replied, ignoring her question. She looked at him quizzically. "Extra virgin. A hot pan and olive oil. The secret to my omelets."
A silence fell between them. Felicity could feel his eyes studying her even as she savored every flavorful morsel.
What was this? Surely he didn't make brunch for every new employee. Based on what she saw last night, Oliver didn't seem like a 'I want to be everyone's friend' type of boss. His men respected him; some feared him. All wanted to avoid displeasing him, that much was clear. But this definitely didn't feel like a business lunch. On the other hand, this also didn't feel like a seduction routine. Not that she'd had much experience with that as of late, but she wasn't a total novice when it came to men and sex.
What did he want from her? Because one thing that had been made perfectly clear growing up as she did—everyone wanted something. Oliver was a mystery wrapped in an enigma with a paradox-as-a-bow for good measure.
"You look different today." His comment shook her from her thoughts, knocking her off-kilter.
"I was out with friends last night and not at work, which is where I've been today. Clearly, I don't work at a club," she indicated her conservative pink blouse and pencil skirt. "I work in IT, and showing cleavage doesn't make computers behave themselves."
"Showing cleavage doesn't make men behave themselves either." He paused a beat. "But it does make them far more likely to part with their money."
Felicity pursed her lips and tilted her head.
Amusement shone in his eyes. "I take it my suggestion last night that you not be afraid to show skin insulted you."
"Is this the part where you insult me only to come back with a compliment?"
"No. Unless you're looking for a compliment, that is. It wouldn't be too difficult to find an attribute worthy of mention." He took a drink of his mimosa, his first, she noted.
"Not necessary," Felicity countered. "What you see is what you get. I don't want empty compliments from you or anyone, for that matter."
"Any compliments I give you will not be empty. Despite my clumsy words, I did not intend my comment about the difference in your appearance as a criticism. This version of you—you just remind me of a young woman I once met."
Was that why he kept studying her? "She must have made an impression."
"She did," he replied simply. Felicity opened her mouth to probe further about Oliver's mystery woman, but he beat her to the punch, steering the conversation in a different direction before she could press. "So...IT. Why IT?"
Felicity hesitated. She knew she was being steered, but she would play along for now. "Computers are predictable. They run on algorithms, just a series of 0's and 1's. Computers are..." she searched for the right word before settling on "easy."
"And people are hard."
"They can be," she conceded. "Unpredictable. Complex."
"And you need to be in control," Oliver surmised.
Felicity shook her head slightly. If she was one who needed control, she certainly lacked control over so many aspects of her life. "Not necessarily, but I suspect you do."
"Ouch."
"You are mapping me out, Oliver, as though this conversation were a chess match. All the while, you are avoiding revealing much of anything about yourself."
"And here I thought that I have been quite forthcoming with you." He leaned forward slightly and lowered his voice, speaking conspiratorially. "I even told you my secret ingredient."
Deflection.
Retreat and regroup. To be continued later.
"I should get back to the office. My boss frowns upon me taking too long of a lunch break."
"I'm sure I can pull some strings."
"Thank you but no. I've got to sink or swim on my own merits." She slid off the bar stool. "Where should I put the plate?"
"Leave it. I'll clean up after you leave."
"Thank you again for lunch. It was delicious and unexpected."
"I'll walk you out."
She nodded and followed his lead. As they got closer to her dilapidated compact car, she felt her cheeks burn. It was foolish to be embarrassed by her lack of wealth; it had little bearing on her value as a person, but there was a part of her that wanted to impress him, she realized.
She cared what Oliver Queen thought.
If he was disgusted by the clunker she drove, he gave no indication as he opened the driver's side door for her. She started to get in, paused and turned, surprised to find him so close. "I didn't realize until this morning that I work for your family's company. My friend helped to fill in some of my knowledge gaps."
His arm rested on the top of the door, boxing her in. "And now that you know?"
"I'm wondering what the scion of a family who owns a Fortune 500 company is doing running an illegal gambling ring."
"Let's go with unsanctioned. Illegal is a rather ugly word."
"Semantics. Look, I'm not judging. Clearly I'm in no position to judge you considering I am now involved. I'll be honest. I can really use this second job. It has come at just the right time."
"Queen Consolidated doesn't pay you enough?" he asked.
"The pay is competitive for the industry. I just have other obligations." The image of her mother holding her phone, tears rolling down her cheeks as she asks for money yet again filled Felicity's mind's eye.
"Making money."
"Come again?"
"You asked what I'm doing. I'm making money."
"But surely you already have more than you could ever need or..."
"Stick with the computers, Ms. Smoak. You don't want to dig too deep. You might not like what you find."