Page 32 of Boardroom Mask

Mat opens his mouth to say something else, but then his phone lights up on the table between us. He glances down at it, and when he does his face changes. Not a lot—Mat’s too good at masks for that—but enough for me to catch. The easy looseness in his shoulders tightens by a fraction, and he picks up the phone and reads whatever’s on the screen.

“I gotta go,” he says, reaching for his jacket.

“Now? I just got here.”

“Yes, now.” He throws back the rest of his tequila and stands, shrugging into the jacket. He tosses two hundred-dollar bills on the table. “Drinks are on me tonight. Although, as your unwilling therapist, I should really be invoicing you instead.”

I don’t let him deflect with the joke. “What is it that’s got you running?”

He pretends to be very fascinated with the clasp of his watch. “Definitely not a girl, as we agreed.”

“Mat…”

His eyes dart to mine, and to my surprise, they’re swirling and serious. Very unusual for him. “Look, man, you keep your secrets and I’ll keep mine. Alright? I’ll call you tomorrow.” He claps me on the shoulder once, firm, and then he’s gone, weaving through the dim red light toward the staircase and disappearing up it without looking back.

I sit there for a while, sipping my drink, bathed in hellish red light. When I reach the bottom, the bartender brings over a fresh one and retreats without a word. That’s why I like this place: It’s not fuckingCheers.None asks if you’re okay or what’s ailing you. You sit in the dark and you drink and you think, and the world leaves you the fuck alone.

Mat’s right. Dawdling is dangerous. Every hour I don’t finish the job is another hour my father’s patience erodes and another hour Afon gets closer to being unleashed.

The math is simple. A child could do it.

Kill herplusWalk awayequalsProblem solved.

Except I can’t.

I can’t because every time I close my eyes, I see her, kneeling on her own floor with her fingers laced behind her head and her red hair spilling over her shoulders and her whole body trembling—but not breaking. She didn’t break. She fought me, mocked me, told me I didn’t have the balls, but she did not fucking break.

I’ve never met anyone like that.

It feels like something happened to me the moment I climbed through her window. Like I’ve been cursed, or possessed, or struck by fucking lightning. A single, annihilating bolt that rewired every circuit in my brain and pointed them all in one direction.

Towardher.

When the restlessness gets to be too much, I abandon what’s left of the tequila and head for the stairs. Outside, the night air is cold and cruel. East 4th Street is quiet. A couple stumbles past, drunk and laughing, while a cab idles at the corner with its off-duty light switched on.

I turn west. My apartment is north and east, a straight shot up the Bowery to the bridge and across. I should go home so I can shower again and sleep. When I wake up tomorrow, I’ll figure out what the hell I’m doing with my life and my father’s orders and all of it.

I’m about to do exactly that—when my hand finds the mask in my jacket pocket.

I stop walking. My fingers close around the fabric. It’s still warm from being pressed against my body all night.

Home.

The mask.

Home.

The mask.

One is right. One is very fucking wrong. Mat gave me good advice, and my own brain is practically begging me to listen to him.

But I know before I even start to move that I was never going to do that.

I pull the mask on and start to run.

Towardher.

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