“But why? Did something happen?”
She glares. Then shakes her head, her mouth a hard line.
“What’s the plan here, Miss Mayday?” my voice is edged with sarcasm.
“I don’t know.” She paces the length of the small island. “I don’t know. I need to get in that house and I need to search his office. There has to be something.”
“Yeah, great. I’m sure he has a letter laying on his desk that says ‘I’m guilty of the bulleted list of crimes below.’ And where does this leave me? Again, I’m risking my entire reputation and career to get you into his house. But where are we with my factory? People’s jobs depend on this.” I don’t want to share this much but she has to know how massive this is. “An entire town depends on me. If this factory closes, it’d mean a whole town can’t afford to eat.” My throat catches. I’m showing too much, sharing too much. Her face softens until I add, “It’s not some petty vendetta for me.”
The color drains from her face.
“I’m sorry—” I say quickly.
“You think that little of me? You think that I’m some angry bra burner that’s sick of Hollywood’s misogyny?”
“I assumed… it was more personal than that.” I run a hand over my neck.
“You’re goddamn right it is.” She’s in my face, her eyes sharp with rage, chest heaving. “You think he’s just another asshole that grabbed my ass and I want to get him fired?”
“No, I—” but I can’t finish again.
“This isn’t about me any more than your wanting to find out about the money is about you. Okay?” Her neck and ears are red. “This is about justice. This is about a man who uses his power to crush and eat everything in his path. This is about a man who can’t be bothered to think about anything but his own power. About how people can be used as an end to his means.”
“You really think he’s pure evil?”
“I think he’s the worst sort of evil because he thinks he’s helping the world. I see how he is with you and those guys.” She holds my stare. “He thinks he’s giving you everything. Women and money, they’re all objects that give him what he wants. Loyalty. That’s what he wants.” Her arms flail out in exasperation. She squeezes her eyes closed. Takes a breath. “This isn’t about me at all. It’s about stopping him.”
She’s panting by the time she’s done talking. I can’t argue with that. I don’t want to argue with that. She’s right, of course. I didn’t ever think about her being self-centered. Tunnel-visioned, but never selfish.
Being near her is too much. When I’m away from her I tell myself I’ve made up the attraction, that I exaggerate it because she’s unattainable and damaged and angry. I tell myself when I replay the memories of touching her and smelling her at night that it’s never actually like that. And then when I’m around her I realize it’s true. It’s not like that at all.
It’s worse.
More intense. More magnetic. My gaze drifts to all parts of her without my control and I find myself trying to memorize them for later: The way her smile hides. The way she moves her hair over one shoulder and then back to the other, ending it with a twirl around her fingers. She’s too much. And I’m constantly battling myself. Knowing and remembering her reaction to my touch. Knowing that she’s been used by men. Repeatedly, if I had to guess. I take a cooling breath.
“And how are we going to do that?” I can’t help that my gaze drifts to her lips. They glisten from having just been licked.
I wouldn’t in a million years make the first move with Maggie. She’s clearly working through some shit. But I can’t help how fucking bad my body wants her. How I think of her a million times a day, dressed or naked. It’s flashes of the brief smiles she grants me. It’s the glimpses of her that I see where she isn’t working some angle, where she’s entirely in her own body and in the moment with me. When we share a laugh or the same thought. Those are the moments I can’t shake out of my head.
Okay, I also think about her thighs a lot too. And her breasts. And her lips. Okay, so I think about her body a fucking lot.
I realize that we’ve both been glaring at each other’s lips, not speaking. “Well?” I prompt.
“What?” She looks up, her pert little nostrils flared. Her lips part slowly as she swallows.
“What are we going to do?”
“You’re going to get me into Zebulund’s house this weekend.” Her eyes move over my face.
I sigh. This whole conversation has been a waste.
“And tonight, I’m going to follow the guy who’s following you,” she says, her gaze focused behind me.
“Wait, what?”
* * *
Maggie
