Ilena assessed this skyscraper of a girl who was to be her freshman roommate. She was all boobs and knew she was all boobs, but she must have been more than just boobs because boobs didn’t get you into Harvard. “If it isn’t, I’ll spring for the rest of your shirt.”
Mallory fingered the hem of her black, cropped tee that barely covered the hot pink of her underwire as she took in Ilena’s conservative white button-down, khaki skirt, and tennis sneakers. “Well, well, well, who knew a country mouse could have so much spunk?”
“The roommate assignment sheet clearly says I’m from Lexington.”
“Right, sorry. You’re a rich country mouse.”
“And where are you from again?”
“East Cambridge,” Mallory said.
“And that explains the chip on your shoulder.”
They stared at one another, each knowing that this was the moment that would define them as archenemies or lifelong friends.
Mallory began to use her gold manicured fingernail to pry the end of the duct tape loose. She paused, released the tape, and held her finger out to Ilena. “I’ve got your back.”
Ilena hooked her own beige-painted fingernail around Mallory’s. “And I’ve got yours.”
In unison they said, “Pinky swear.”
“Now...” Mallory returned to the tape. “Let’s do this thing.”
4
Mallory
Friday Morning
One DayAfterthe Outing
Mallory swore she’d never sleep with Grayson Fields again, no matter how tight training for all those marathons makes his ass. She’s not into angry sex and not in a forgiving enough mood that would allow for any other kind.
But then how to explain waking up, curled in the corner of his bedroom with his apricot-colored Smurf of a dog huddled beside her? Still bizarre. Grayson always seemed more the German shepherd type. Nearly a year ago, when he’d escorted her into this apartment whose HVAC pumps filtered air and testosterone and scooped up the cockapoo, Mallory was convinced it was part of some practical joke. But the monogrammed Harley water bowl and the ridiculous Wi-Fi–enabled collar let her know it wasn’t. She reads people, she’s staked her career on doing it well. Surprises like that are rare.
And yet everything about Grayson has been a surprise—and not in a good way.
Grayson’s the devil. She now realizes she willingly sold her soul to him the day she accepted his investment in AIM.Unethical behavior is one thing (she should know), but his actions are potentially illegal. She wanted to ask Noreen to google if they could go to jail, but that would mean telling Noreen about the fake accounts.
This is Mallory’s company. Not his. She’s the first to smile through mansplaining to get a discount on server storage or tweak a department’s performance quota to cut loose entitled Gen Z–ers without a hassle from HR. But this is outside her control, outside Grayson’s. Why can’t he see that? Probably because he’s made sure it won’t be his waxed balls on the line if the fake valuation comes to light.
She rises to her feet, a wooziness making her seek out the corner of the dresser, but it’s one of those trendy mid-century deals and it’s too low. She wobbles, and her bare foot lands right on the cockapoo’s tail.Fuck.She braces for a bark or howl that will give away that she’s awake. She intends to sneak out before Grayson comes back from the toilet or kitchen or wherever the hell he is, off collecting souls in this three-thousand-square-foot penthouse. But instead of a bark or a howl, the squiggly furball releases the barest of whimpers and tries to curl itself around her foot. Dammit. She’s not a dog person. Or a cat person. Or, when it comes right down to it, a people person. Ilena and Aubrey, yes. But otherwise, people are like Wet-Naps, essential when you need them, but otherwise entirely forgettable.
Mallory scans the bedroom for her shoes and sailcloth clutch, finding neither. The gray comforter is pulled taut. Square pillows in a yellow-and-gray fleur-de-lis pattern that are new since she was last here sit perfectly propped.
Grayson shopping for throw pillows is as hard to imagine as Grayson sitting with this stuffed animal of a dog in his lap.
She slides past the ten-thousand-dollar Eames chair, still searching for her shoes and bag. She doesn’t exactly feel likeshe had sex—that usual postcoital soreness that seems to linger longer and longer the closer she gets to forty nonexistent. She bends to look under the bed, and Harley leaps into her arms. Instinctually, she catches him.
That’s when she sees the marks on her forearm. Long, red, deep. Like fingers. A handprint.
Well, no matter what her vulva’s telling her, looks like they sure as shit did something last night. How could this have happened? Mallory perfected the ratio of food to alcohol when she was nineteen after waking inside the Fox Club’s yellow Colonial on JFK Street not knowing how she got there.
Screw sneaking out. She sets Harley on the floor and marches out of the bedroom. She swings left to head for the living room and nearly collides with a four-foot-tall fountain, water flowing up and over into a bed of polished rocks that Grayson’s more likely to use as a urinal than decor.
She storms down the hall, not past images of Muhammad Ali and Serena Williams and Tom Brady but canvas prints of ocean waves and a lighthouse. And, Christ, a pink sunset? A fucking gnome would fit in better with Grayson’s minimalist design aesthetic than this woo-woo crap.
Her chest clenches. He’s dating someone. Someone else. Her breathing grows rapid, but she pushes against it. She doesn’t care. (Even though she does.)
