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She willed him to fight so she could give in.
“Do whatever you want with the furniture, the car. Give the lot to charity. I don’t care.”
She gasped. She’d succeeded. He was going because she’d sent him away, and he wasn’t coming back because she’d scorched the earth behind him. He opened the door. He didn’t look at her. He stepped outside and it swung closed behind him.
And she wanted to take it all back, every word, every avoided glance, every confused gesture. Run screaming into the stairwell and tell him she’d lied, that she loved him, would risk her career, her heart and her sanity for him.
She staggered to the table and sat, too numb to know how to feel, her head dropping onto her folded arms, but she heard the door, his key in the lock, she sat upright. The door opened and he stepped inside, striding towards her.
She stood, he’d come back for her. She said it without thinking he’d give any other answer, hope putting light in her voice. “What did you forget?”
His eyes flicked to her then away. “Nothing.” He tossed the keys he wouldn’t need again on the table’s warm, worn surface and he went out again.
Everything lost colour, lost shape, lost meaning.
It was three days before she got out of bed, showered, ate, dressed. Another two before Jay came to see her, and she felt strong enough to leave the loft, go outside in the sunshine and start her life over.
40: Ambushed
Mace leaned across the table and knocked Dillon’s shoulder roughly with his fist, after trying to get his attention by less subtle means. The music was loud and the punky blonde with the pierced tongue sitting in Dillon’s lap was pretty much all Dillon could see.
Dillon looked around her. “What?”
“I’m out.”
“Ah, you can’t go yet, it’s early.”
It was 1am. Mace was knackered, unsure how he’d managed to stay awake this long, and this was the first weekend he’d had off for—who knew how many days, weeks straight they’d worked, it was pages and pages of a project Gantt chart. There’d been a season change, so it was a long time. But they were done with the set-up phase. Monday they were officially fully operational. He had a weekend to sleep and that’s what he planned to do with it. Hit the sack, make like a coma.
“One more drink, dude.”
He’d had one drink to Dillon’s three. Dillon was wasted. He was a cheap drunk on adrenaline and long-term sleep deprivation. And Punky would work out any minute h
e was going to be a dead lay as well. Except they were in some trendy private San Jose club called Flip, where you had to be a 3.0 billionaire or beautiful like Punky to get in, so she might overlook the fact Dillon was a slurring drunk if she thought he was loaded in another way.
“We’re going to get our own membership here,” Dillon told Punky. They’d coasted in on Jay’s nod to celebrate another milestone, but he’d gone hours ago. Mace watched Punky’s face to see if Dillon had just shot his own dick off.
“Babe, you can come in on mine any time you like,” she said.
Jesus. Mace signalled a waitress, because that deserved another drink.
“What do you do?” Dillon asked.
She made pistols of her hands and pointed them at him. ”I write game software.”
Dillon patted her spiky hair. “I’m keeping you.”
“Until you get your payday you might have to, ‘cause baby, no one gets in here if they’re not, you know.” She shrugged.
They weren’t, but they would be soon. Mace had to get used to that. Odd how the knowledge still ambushed him.
“I knew who you guys were the minute you walked in.”
No way she could. They were banned from talking to the media or analysts until Monday. They’d kept a low profile. No time for any other kind.
Dillon didn’t buy that either. “Oh yeah.”
She rolled her eyes. “Not because you’re that cool. You’re the guys behind Ipseity. You’re hot. Everyone in this place knows who you are.”
