Suka.I grab a towel, wipe down the wall, and clean myself up, cursing under my breath. This isn’t me. I’m The Reaper, not some lovesick idiot. I don’t chase women. I don’twant. ButMary’s under my skin, and no amount of jerking off is gonna change that.
I pull my jeans back on, the fabric rough against my still-sensitive cock, and head back to the room. The spreadsheets are still there, Igor’s thief still hiding in the numbers. I need to focus, need to deliver.
Suka.
But my phone buzzes, pulling me out of my haze.
A text from Boris.
Boris isn’t just a hacker; he’s my insurance policy. If I’m the knife, he’s the lockpick. We’ve been working together for a decade, ever since he rerouted an FSB trace off my trail and sent it back to their own servers. He’s the one I go to when muscle isn’t enough. Tech genius. Paranoid as hell. But loyal.
Boris: “Got your bank records. Brightside National has been filing SARs every month. Same pattern. Cash deposits, $47K+, always different names. Want me to dig deeper?”
Brightside National.A lead, finally. My gut twists. Something about that name feels too close, too familiar.
I type back:
Dig. Now.” Then I lean back, staring at the ceiling, Mary’s face still haunting me.
Fuck, this is gonna be a problem.
6
Mary
It’s ten minutes to five, and I’ve had about twenty cups of water—give or take a few spilled ones—because apparently, mixing instant coffee with a wine hangover is a chemical experiment in stomach homicide. My stomach does a slow roll of protest, and I swallow hard, trying to keep the acidic aftertaste of red wine from clawing up my throat.
God, what was I thinking last night?
No, wait. I know exactly what I was thinking.Nothing.I was thinkingnothing.Because if I’d paused for even a second, I wouldn’t have ended up half-naked inJasper’s apartment, wrapped in a throw blanket like some unhinged burrito, drunkenly monologuing to a six-foot-something death stare in human form. And I definitely wouldn’t have—oh God—strokeda stranger’s dick like it was a stress ball and I was filing a workplace grievance.
Jesus.I touched it.Not by accident. Not a brush. Agrip.Firm. Intentional.Lingering.
And he let me.
Why did he let me?
Scratch that.Why did I do it?
And now I have to live with the fact that Idefinitelytouched a stranger’s penis like it was my constitutional right. No hesitation. Full contact. Like I’d done it a hundred times.Like I meant it.
What’s worse? Ididmean it.
Who evenam I?
I’m not this person. I’m the responsible one. The spreadsheet queen. The meal prepper. The type who brings Tupperware to family barbecues and knows her credit score down to the decimal.
But last night? Apparently, I’m the kind of woman who gets wine-wasted, mistakes a six-foot murdery stranger for her best friend’s boyfriend, and gets handsy like it’s a Black Friday sale on bad decisions.
Thank God, I’llneversee him again.
Seriously. That’s the only thread holding my sanity together. He’ll disappear. I’ll never know his name. And no one will ever speak of this again. Not even me, to myself, in the dark, at 2 AM.
The fluorescent lights above buzz like they’re mocking me, and I glance up at the clock. Almost out. Just ten more minutes and I can catch the 5:15 bus, sit in the back with my earbuds in, and stare out the window for thirty-five stops until I get to Grandma’s place.
Dinner tonight was supposed to be meatloaf. Our tradition. Mine’s not as good as hers, but she’ll still close her eyes and say it is, and then I’ll tuck her in and rub her knees with that weird lavender oil she swears works better than Tylenol.
She just turned seventy-three. And even though she still insists on sweeping the porch and folding her own laundry, I know she’s slowing down. The dizziness, the off-balance mornings… It’s getting worse. She’s been working her whole life. Raised me from three years old when my mom died. Took care of me while my dad threw himself into work and remarried a woman who thought I was just a speed bump on her way to a beach house and a new last name.
