“Jordan, what?” My assistant. I haven’t slept with him yet, but I’ve been thinking about it. I like his fingers. I want them to tighten around my throat until the floor falls away.
He’s calling from his desk, outside my office, where I’m not. “Byron’s looking for you.” He sets down the phone, still connected.
James Byron’s voice sets me on edge, even through two phones and however many tonnes of concrete. “Have you seen Archer?”
The reply comes quietly. “I don’t know.” The new guy. I haven’t slept with him either. Yet.
“You don’t know if you’ve seen him?”
“I mean, I don’t know where he is. I saw him a while ago. Sorry.” His voice is shaking. I like the way he says sorry.
“Where was he when you saw him?”
“The lifts. He’s maybe on the roof. Or something.”
“He’s maybe what?” I can see Byron’s