Page 50 of Boardroom Mask

I don’t have to think hard about it. Last night. Jillian’s window. The counter. Her legs around my waist and that desperate little whimper she made when I?—

“Yooo, Kir!”

“What.”

“You went somewhere just now. In your head. Where’d you go?”

“Nowhere.”

“Mm.” Mat sighs. The bass thumps on behind him. “This is still about the girl, isn’t it?”

“No.”

“It’s definitely about a girl.”

“It’s not about a girl, motherfucker.”

“Okay. Let’s say I believe you. Come to Sapphire and prove it. Plenty of beautiful women, zero emotional complications, and I’ll even buy your first drink.”

I don’t want any part of what he’s offering. Dim light? Heady perfume? Some stranger grinding her ass on my crotch, a woman who isn’ther?The idea of another woman’s hands on me feels about as appealing as chewing glass.

“I’m not in the mood,” I say.

“That’s what concerns me.”

“Since when are you my therapist?”

“Since your actual therapist quit after writing you off as a loss cause. Come on, you sad sack piece of shit! One hour. You sit in the booth, you drink, you don’t touch anybody if you don’t want to, I don’t give a rat’s ass either way. Just get out of that fucking penthouse. It’s a death trap.”

“Mat.”

“Yeah?”

“Fuck off.”

He exhales long and loud. “Fine. Sit in the dark with your vodka and your Russian literature. See if I give a shit if the maid finds you with cockroaches eating your brains out or whatever.”

I’m already pulling the phone away from my ear, more than done with this conversation. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Will you, though?” he questions. “Or will you just brood for another twenty-four hours and then text me something cryptic at 2 A.M.?”

“Probably the latter.”

He chuckles. “At least you’re honest.” I hear more noise behind him. “Alright, I gotta go. People who actually like fun want me to join them.”

“You do that.”

“Happy Thanksgiving, Kir. Try not to do anything stupid tonight.”

“No promises.”

The line goes dead. I drop the phone on the coffee table and reach for my glass. But at the last second, I veer off-course and grab my laptop instead.

I balance on my knees and boot it up. My fingers start flying eagerly across the keyboard like they’ve been waiting for me to commit this little indulgence. I cue up the encrypted feed before the rational part of my brain can talk me out of it.

I planted the camera last night. It’s a pinhole lens, smaller than a pencil eraser, wedged into the air intake vent above Jillian’s bedroom door before she got home and wired to a battery pack that will last months. It took all of two minutes to install, andshe’s none the wiser. She’s got bigger things on her mind than a tiny little light in her vent that wasn’t there before.

The feed loads in high-definition color, bright and sharp. Her bedroom is neat and tasteful. There’s a queen bed with a white duvet and too many pillows, all thoughtfully arranged. The nightstand holds a lamp, a half-full glass of water, and a stack of books with cracked spines and dog-eared pages. A framed print hangs above the headboard—Matisse, one of the cutouts, blue shapes on white. Chic. The whole room looks like a magazine spread for a young professional woman who has her shit figured out.