Vodka Espresso

19. deal

August, 2017

Ingrid's first move was to get in touch with her most trusted advisor. Agata's connections in HR were sure to come in handy at a time like this. Ingrid asked her friend to put together a list of important Evans-related contacts, then sat back in her chair and remembered her flask was supposed to be in one of Edgar's desk drawers, all of which she found locked.

"Dammit."

Ingrid regretted not having learned how to pick locks when she'd been given the opportunity. Out of desperation, she tried the drawers again and to her relief, one of them did come loose. It was full of random bits and pieces and she spotted a pack of cigarettes at the very back of it. Empty.

She'd just have to get her fix back at the house. In the form of a bottle tonight, since she doubted Edgar would go to bed with her after she had just potentially thrown him under the bus. To be fair, she had expected it. But she thought she'd have at least twenty-four hours to get a countermeasure ready. Now it seemed like she had been mistaken in her estimations.

Ingrid figured she could pick something up on the way home, before it struck her that they should still have some Brennans lying around the house. Amsterdam had made a dent in her bank account – significant because she hadn't planned it into her budget – and she'd decided she'd better save up wherever she could to make up for it.

She rummaged through the kitchen cupboards, where she'd seen Edgar fetch the whiskey from before, except now there was none there. For a moment, she assumed they'd run out. Upon doing some quick math, though, there was no way they could have.

The only logical explanation left was that Edgar had put the booze away due to her embarrassing episode at work. And as a man who'd had to raise two kids, of course he knew to hide shit so well it couldn't be found.

Ingrid groaned. Her last option was to confront Edgar directly about it. After she showered and changed into her pyjamas, she went to knock on his door and poised herself for battle, arms crossed over her chest.

"I need whiskey," she said as soon as the door opened.

"Ingrid – " Edgar began, looking way too tired to humour her.

"Dick or whiskey," she cut him off. "Clock is ticking."

"I'm really not in the mood...," Edgar tried to argue, but her eyes said it all: whiskey it is, then. He gave a defeated sigh. "Go on, I'll bring it up to your room."

She popped a tight smile on and skipped upstairs. Five minutes later, he showed up with a clean tumbler and a bottle of Brennans.

"Merci, garçon," Ingrid said, with an exaggerated accent, as he set the glass on her desk and screwed the bottle open. "Put it on my tab."

He quirked an eyebrow at her. "I really hope you don't actually use garçon on your French waiters."

"Obviously not." She took a sip, relishing the first burn with her eyes closed. "You can go now," she waved him off, "I'll see you in the morning."

"Have you made any progress?"

He screwed the lid back on and pondered whether to leave the bottle. Ingrid made the decision for him by taking the bottle away and pushing it into a corner of her desk, far from his reach.

"You will know when you need to. Good night, Edgar."

He ran a finger through her hair. "I'm really so sorry, Ingrid."

She stood up to walk him out. "Don't be. Not your fault."

"No, I'm..." He chuckled. "I'm sorry I had to bring you whiskey," he whispered in her ear, then kissed her cheek. "Good night."