I tilt my head, perfectly pleasant. A lie. “Depends on the guy,” I say demurely.Let him think I’m flirting back, let him believe he has a shot. He could be useful someday.
He laughs, quite happy with himself. I tell him I can’t tonight but would love a raincheck. Jason-Jake leaves with a promise to “circle back,” telling me he knows a great new bar down the road that I justhaveto check out. I keep the smile on my face until he’s gone.
It’s always the same here; they’re all entitled pricks who expect you to be flattered by their attention.
Bvvvt. Bvvvt. Bvvvt.
My burner phone vibrates in my bag. I confirm no one is looking my way before opening the flip phone in my bag.
Luna sent a message to our group thread.
Log into the chat room, asap.
She wouldn’t send a message during a workday unless it was urgent.
Luna set up a secure chat room the three of us can log into safely from any device, to use when texts won’t do. I type the URL I have memorized into the web browser, enter my login and password, and find Luna is already there.
Just the mention of Enzo has my skin warming—a reaction I don’t give myself permission to feel. I try to push the memory of our encounter out of my mind, but it presses back anyway. The way his attention found me, the way something tight and unfamiliar stirred in response. I’ve never experienced that kind of immediate physical awareness before, never felt my body react so sharply to a man I didn’t know. It was…disorienting. Dangerous. I tuck the sensation away.
Ilaugh out loud at my desk, then glance around to ensure no one noticed. There are only two other staffers at their desks right now, and neither turned my way. What Jules said is true, though. This DC persona of mine truly is the worst. Playing her all day is rote at this point. I’ve been doing it for so long, it doesn’t really bother me.
But the real me would never be friends with Pippa Saint James. Nor would my sisters.
I guess I did such a great job putting the McCarter hit out of my mind, I didn’t think of that myself. The closer we get to our end goal, the more I find myself disassociating again. I need to stay focused.
We must take Magnus Troy out. That’s been the goal since we started this a decade ago. Longer, really. Probably since I was fifteen. Before we even knew any of this was possible.
And certainly before the predator who abused me as a child, and so many others, became President of the fucking United States. We’ve finally identified the best shot at taking him down, and we are only a month away. McCarter was the first step. Now, we have to stick with theplan.
Well, that is an interesting turn of events. The stupid, handsome mobster got me on the FBI’s radar. Another reason to forget all about his stupid, perfect face. Leave it to a friggin’ man to cause a blip in our perfectly-laid plans. But Jules is right. There’s nothing to see here. My sisters and I have crafted pristine public personas. Close enough to the major players but not involved in anything that could get us on the radar of the men we are taking down. Our extracurricular vigilante justice activities are untraceable.
We certainly won’t be uncovered by some FBI agent.
This is exactly why we have Luna there. Everything is fine.
The closer we get to the gala, the harder it is for me to compartmentalize all my personas. I feel the edges blurring—I’m running out of places to put the things I don’t want to feel. I spend so many hours as prim and perfect Pippa, that my nights are getting increasingly wild and reckless.
Last night was healthy; it was exactly what I needed. A release. Jules and Luna know I go to the underground casinos. They know I have a very active sex life. They know it’s how I forget, but I haven’t told them about the motorcycle club houses I started frequenting again. Or the illegal street races I’ve attended recently. Or the less-than-reputable sex clubs I have checked out a few times.
I had a similar reaction when Magnus Troy was elected president two and a half years ago.
He wasn’t supposed to win.
We workedso hardto spill all his dirty secrets.
We had footage and images, victims who came forward. The news cycles were constant on both sides. It was obvious this man was a liar, a con artist, and a predator.
We really thought it was enough.
We couldn’t imagine a world where millions of people would still want him in the White House.
I went on a bender that week. I couldn’t help it. I didn’t show up to work—I drank myself to oblivion, slept with several faceless men that I don’t quite remember. I stopped returning calls or texts to my sisters.
They only found me because of my tracker. We all had rice-sized GPS trackers implanted in our hairlines when Jules joined the CIA. She was working in Russia and Ukraine and we needed to always be able to find each other, especially when we couldn’t call or text.
They found me face down in my own vomit, naked, at some motorcycle club house on H Street, surrounded by a group of equally naked men. They took me back to our warehouse, which I barely remember. And when I woke up…seeing the fear and sadness in their faces, I promised I would never do it again.
I’ve kept that promise for over two years now. And I really want to keep it now.
