In the distance, I heard the slam of the front door, the chimes hitting glass sharp enough to crack. She wouldn’t be back. But then, Jackal didn’t need her to be. Expendable, I thought, all of us, even the ones who were his type. I perched on the farthest corner of the desk. What was it in me that wanted to wipe up all the traces of that girl from his desk with my own back? If my mother could only see me now, I thought.

“I show them what real power tastes like,” I went on. “I’m not sure who you were trying to humiliate just now, but you’re the one who looked like an ass.”

Jackal stepped forward, his pants brushing against my knees on the desk. He dropped those arms on either side of me, caging me in, and leaned forward. “Whatever bullshit you need to tell yourself to sleep at night, babe,” Jackal said into my ear, sending traitorous shivers down my spine. “We’re the same, you and me.”

“You’ll end up in some lonely place someday,” I whispered. “Without me. And I’ll be laughing.”

“Liar,” Jackal whispered, and leaned forward, kissing me hard.

Even in a city that worshipped beauty, no one was as handsome as Robert Jackal. More than handsome, he was beautiful, though not feminine. And he could be charming when he wanted—he must’ve sweet-talked that girl straight from the bar to flinging her panties on his desk in under an hour—but charm was cheap in this city. I never had to pretend to be any better than I was with him. The first man I’d ever loved, I kept waiting for him to find out the slimy, ratty parts of me. With Jackal, there was no waiting. He already knew.

I’d never mistaken it for love between us. Maybe it was something much worse. But it had been enough to solder us together all these years.

Or at least until he hadn’t showed at the St. Leo.

I pushed him away, wiped my mouth, my head spinning. “You feel better now we’re back to square? Ready to tell me why you fucked me at the St. Leo?” I distracted myself from his arms by looking around his office. My eyes were drawn down to his desk, stacks of file folders in neat piles, the edges so meticulously aligned that it looked like one thick brick of peach. Old notes from Lou, the word albatross peeking out from behind a folder—funny, I hadn’t been so sure Jackal could read.

“I forgot,” Jackal said. The handsome liar. I hadn’t been able to talk about anything else for weeks—even, occasionally, in bed—and he’d forgotten? Not possible. “Sorry. What are you gonna do.”