Page 12 of The Refusal

He shrugs. “Oh, you know, same old, same old.”

I can feel a sly grin creeping over my face. “And how is the manwhoring these days?”

It’s my standard joke to rib him about this. I lived vicariously through him when I was at Triton: I helped him with the technical side of the job and he took me out to clubs and stopped me being such a nerd, giving me a detailed account of his manwhoring escapades. Some of the things that women do … honestly, he’s had blowjobs in more outrageous places than I’ve had hot dinners. We used to have a scoring system for the quality of the oral sex and the riskiness of the place where it happened.

“Well, since you left Triton, I have no one to discuss blowjob points with the following day.” He lifts a sexy shoulder with a half smile.

As the line shuffles forward the man in front of us half-turns, clearly catching something in the conversation, probably the wordblowjob. My inner devil starts to rise, and I grin at Andy and raise my voice a little; might as well make the guy’s morning even more interesting.

“Well, you could always text me to discuss it,” I say, pretending to mull it over, “preferably with a photo—a picture of your dick and her mouth?”

Andy begins to laugh, and the guy in front of me makes a choking noise but doesn’t turn around. I wink at Andy, and he’s smiling so wide as he stretches out and pulls me into a massive hug.

“Fuck, I’ve missed you, Jo Williams. Life has been insufferably dull since you left.”

Leaning back, he places both hands on my shoulders and my frame is so small they cover me from my neck to the tops of my arms. He’s looking at me quizzically.

“You’re a gorgeous lady, how come you never went out with me?”

I think my skepticism must show all over my face. “Andy, you don’t go out with women. You have one-night shagfests.”

He wags a finger at me. “Two nights if she gets ten on the scale.”

I giggle. “Any tens recently?”

“Oh God, I got one better than that.”

“An eleven?” That usually means a very risky location. “Wow, where?”

“She gave me a blowjob under the table at an awards event.” Mischief is written all over his face.

“How the hell …? I need to hear more about this, I’ve missed living vicariously through you,” I say, peering at my watch. “Can you spare fifteen minutes for a quick coffee before I head into work?”

He nods enthusiastically. “How’s it going anyway?”

For once, I’ve got good news. “Great.” I lean over to give the girl behind the counter my order. “I’ve got the contract for Janus Industries security. It could really put me on the map.”

8

Janus

I’ve almost forgotten about Jo Williams. Well, okay, that’s a lie. But the meeting and lunch that followed feel like a distant dream. I’m drowning in Excel spreadsheets, staff who are leaving, employees who are sick or hate their jobs, contracts for new premises, legal documentation for ten different countries. The chasm between what I know and what gets put in front of me widens with every passing day, and I have to step back and trust everyone, ask the right questions. I have no way to pull back, to stop the runaway train.

Two weeks out of the US and what have I got to show for it? A balloon that is slowly deflating in my hands, that’s all. Rubbing my eyes, I hunt for the details of my flight from Singapore to New York on the board:delayed. Am I even going to make this conference I’m heading home for? The business lounge is quiet, the wide white counters loaded with pasta, crackers, and cheese, more booze than any one person could reasonably drink. People are huddled in groups of soft chairs, engrossed in their technology,one last problem sorted. Tiredness seeps into my limbs as I study the 1,562 emails sitting in my inbox, and these are just the important ones: my assistant, Maddie, has culled, sorted, and responded to the rest. Well, with the two-hour delay, I could hack through some of these right now. I’ll have to go straight to the conference when I land in New York, and sleep will be an elusive beast unless I can relax on the plane. Not something I manage to do that often, something about the hum of jet engines doesn’t quite work for me.

An insistent vibration in my pocket makes me pull out my phone and peer at the screen: Matt. A frisson of nerves runs through me: Head of Security is one person you don’t want to hear from too frequently. I hold the phone to my head.

“I think I’m in love,” he says.

“What the fuck, Matt?”

His laugh is a mad bark in my ear. “Had any sleep yet?”

How well he knows this gig.

“Heck no, I’ve been up for …” I glance at my wrist. “Twenty-three hours and counting.”

“I knew you’d be out of contact for a while, so I thought I’d call now.”

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