Page 17 of Breakup Games

Eleven

MASON

The sun is just starting to set, glaring golden light through the floor to ceiling windows of the Willis Tower. I look down at the city I’m sworn to protect, watching cars drive and boats sail out on Lake Michigan. We grew up north of here, and came to Chicago a few times. My mom and Rory liked the museums and my dad took my brothers and me to a Cubs game way back when I was in middle school.

I was drawn to the energy even back then and felt like Silver Ridge was the most boring place ever to grow up. Now that I’m an adult, I appreciate the quiet safety of a small town, though I still prefer the nightlife of Chicago.

And the crime.

Not that I like it, I don’t, but it keeps me busy. There's never a dull moment around here, that’s for sure. I’ve bounced around all over the country, not staying in one place much more than a year. This is the longest I’ve been in one place and I don’t know if I’m ready to admit how much I like it.

I’m not all too far from my parents—which they like—and I’m only about an hour and a half drive from my nieces and nephews. One of Chloe’s publishers has an office right in theLoop and she’s been like a sister to me since our childhood, so it’s nice to be able to see her a few times a year as well.

Stepping closer to the glass, I turn my head, looking out as far as I can, wondering what kind of awful things are happening right now that we’re not aware of. My life view might be more than a little jaded. I’ve seen the worst of the worst of humanity and have seen those same scumbags justify the things they’ve done. And speaking of scumbags, I did a little digging into Mira’s ex husband, pulling up police reports and court records.

She was telling the truth about the divorce taking a long time and it was obvious by all the filings through the court system that they delayed it on purpose, not able to let go of control. He filed contempt of court charges over and over—all for petty, stupid things—and Mira was never found guilty. He even tried holding her in contempt three months after the divorce finalized for “damaging his reputation” because she spoke about how he was physically abusive on her podcast.

If you don’t want people to know you’re an abusive asshole, then don’t be an abusive asshole.

There were three police reports filed: the first time the cops were called was about a month before Mira filed for divorce. Her friend was on the phone and heard Cory—her ex—screaming at her and throwing things. She called the cops to go do a wellness check. The second time, Mira texted 911 herself after her ex dragged her by the ankle out of bed so he could scream at her and tell her that everything that went wrong in their marriage was her fault and she needed to “forget about all the bad stuff” he’d ever done. Two weeks after that, she filed for a protective order that was later worked into their divorce decree, though it doesn’t seem like Cory is the type of man—or boy, really—who respects the law.

The third time the cops were called was when Cory came to get his stuff out of their house. He got angry because he forgotto put something on the list of items he was allowed to take and shoved Mira backwards into a wall. He denied it, not realizing Mira had security cameras in every room. He was charged and released less than twenty-four hours later, ordered to take domestic violence classes. Knowing abuse cases like this, I know a lot more went on that didn’t get reported. Or it got reported and not taken seriously.

Checking the time, I move to another side of the building and look out at the horizon. It’s busy up here as it always is around sunset. Taking a few steps to the side to avoid being in the background of someone’s selfie, I turn right as she comes my way.

Fuck, she’s gorgeous. I inhale but get no air. Golden sunlight bathes Mira’s body as she walks forward, shoulders back and chin up. She’s looking around, taking everything and everyone in, as I should be, but right now I can’t peel my eyes away from the slight bounce of her breasts with each step.

She’s wearing a short black dress with a low-cut neckline to show off those perfect tits. Her hair falls in loose curls around her pretty face and her eyes—emerald green—shine in the light. A smile comes to her face as soon as her eyes lock with mine, but she shakes her head ever so slightly and looks away.

Getting her phone out to take selfies, she stops just a foot from me but doesn’t turn around.

“Did anybody follow you?” she whispers and smiles for her camera, taking a photo.

“Are you seriously asking me that?”

Laughing, she lowers her phone and turns around. “Just making sure. I mean, you are a professional and all.” Cocking an eyebrow, she smirks and goddamn, that look does something to me and all I can think about is pushing her up against the window, grinding my hips against hers as my cock hardens and inching that short dress up until my fingers cup her ass.

“Wereyoufollowed?” I force myself to speak and to look down at the city again, not into her hypnotic eyes. I need to get laid, that’s all. It’s been a while, for me, and anyone with eyes would be attracted to Mira.

“I might have been. My Uber driver, who was a very nice older gentleman from Uganda, was very concerned that I was walking around without a husband.” She laughs. “I told him I was meeting him now.”

“Good. Drop your phone in two minutes.”

“What?”

“Drop it and make it look like an accident. Two minutes.”

“Uh, okay.” She tips her head and I turn, looking back down at the city as I count, moving a few paces down right two minutes goes by. She drops her phone and I bend over to pick it up.

“Thank you,” she says, taking the phone and the earpiece at the same time. “I’m so clumsy.”

“Luckily, it didn’t break.”

“Yeah.” She puts her phone in her purse and then reaches up, pretending to mess with her hair. She does a good job acting nonchalant. It’s impressive for someone without training, really. People think they can watch a few spy movies and know how to move without drawing attention to themselves, but it’s not that easy.

A group of young twenty-something year old girls pushes forward, giving me a good excuse to move back next to Mira.

“Black Honda Civic,” I say. “Michigan plates. Starts with E and ends with number eight.”

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