Carrigan cleared his throat and I slid a hand down my skirt and pinched my outer thigh through the fabric, on the side where Carrigan couldn’t see, working up tears. I waited until I had a really good burn going, my eyes wide to fill better, and then I let the tears spill.

“Please don’t leave,” I choked out. “You’re the first man I’ve . . . the first man since . . .” I turned my head to the side, letting the little tendrils of hair that had pulled out during our tumble spill across my face. I caught my hands in the tendrils, twisting little snakes out of the locks and watched, through my curtain of hair, as he shifted from foot to foot and debated what to do. But it was a start. He wasn’t leaving. Carrigan took one step forward, and I jumped like I was surprised when I felt his hand on my shoulder.

“Your ex? The one you’re scared of.” His voice was full of a self-righteous anger. A man determined to feel like a hero while cheating on his wife.

I nodded jerkily, still not meeting his eyes. I bit at the corners of my lips to plump them, and before long, Carrigan’s arms were around me, whispering soft nothings into the hair at my temples, his lips brushing my skin. I shivered, not because I wanted him.

Above us, I could see Jackal poke his head up from behind the box, moving slowly, frowning down at us. I didn’t have to be close to read his expression which was, You bullshitter. But one signal from me and he’d hurtle down the stairs. I thought of the first time Jackal and I had slept together—I had been so grateful, in an odd way, that I’d never had to try with him, never had to do anything other than want him. That the very fact of my wanting him was a turn-on, that I didn’t have to play the game of waiting for him to come to me. It was so easy. It all used to be so easy.

To my unpleasant surprise, my nose started to burn and real tears began to run. I’d loved this job, once. But I was so goddamn tired of pretending all the time—pretending to want someone I couldn’t stand, pretending to want less than I really did. And anytime I shut my eyes, tried to get a break from all that pretending, I was greeted by a ticker tape of images: a rigoring body abandoned to yipping canyon coyotes, fuchsia feathers tickling the night air, scratchy hotel duvets covered in beheaded birds-of-paradise. There was no outrunning it, not ever. I turned my face into Carrigan’s shoulder and let myself sob in earnest for a moment.