But somewhere in the back of his mind, a festering little question gnawed like a maggot in a corpse: Why the fuck had he bothered explain to Maya at all?
Why had it felt so goddamn urgent to soothe her fretting little voice, like she was some fragile pet he'd accidentally kicked? He didn't owe her shit. She wasn't his keeper, his confessor, or his bloody conscience. Yet there he was, wasting breath on promises lunches, as if her disappointment might somehow bruise his ego—or worse, his thickening harem roster.
No answer came. He wasn't sure he wanted one. Some truths were better left rotting in the dark, where they couldn't stink up the present.
By evening, Sierra had made up her mind, sharp as a switchblade.
"I'm staying here."
Phei glanced up from his phone, surveillance feeds flickering—no fresh infernos, no suicides worth interrupting his wankfest for. "For dinner?"
"For the weekend."
"The weekend?"
