Mal pulled the top of her pj’s up to show her naval pierced with a curved barbell.
“Did it hurt?” Lenny asked.
“Pinched. Got it the day Dad was sentenced. I don’t know, I needed to do something, and a tatt was too permanent. I still want to get one, though.”
“Take your time with the tattoo idea, okay?” Lenny flicked the metal. “It’s cool.”
And so was Lenny’s unicorn. It galloped, green bodied, thick purple tail streaming, eyelashes proud, toward an orange-and-pink horizon with the words “fuck my life” bursting from its butthole.
She went after Mal with tickles for that, and they rumbled on the bed till Mal threatened to wet herself, and then Lenny submitted to watching The Fault in Our Stars again just for that line about okays and always, and she felt hopeful for the future for the first time without it being 70 percent fake.
On Monday morning, her news feed showed her a story about the prime minister of Ossovia receiving a donation from the American Baltic Alliance. It was to fund a university.
Or buy a fleet of vintage cars.
The hope she’d felt burned into rage.
It wasn’t in her best interests to kiss Halsey, to take him to bed, to let another fraud into Mal’s life, but it was in everyone’s interest that Cookie Jar was exposed and stopped.
She opened her email, clipped the link to the story, and sent it to Halsey with the words. We should talk.
He called before she had a chance to make coffee.
Their words tumbled over each other. His, “I’m sorry for—” and her, “We can’t let him—”
“We?” Halsey asked. “Him?”
“Us. Cookie Jar. Who else is going to do anything about him?”
“You’re sure?” His tone shifted from cautious to incredulous.
“No, but I think we should try.”
There was a great swoosh of air on the line and then he said, “I won’t let you down. I know my behavior has been less than professional.”
“You haven’t let me down. I’m quite capable of throwing something at you when you annoy me.”
“You certainly are.” She heard the smile in his voice, a little blossoming of warmth.
“Easton decamped for greener pastures. He’d have kept on at me for money. He didn’t bank on me having reinforcements.”
“I’m glad, but I can’t pretend that had anything to do with me.”
“Because Excel Boy lost his cool and hulked out.”
“It wasn’t appropriate. It won’t happen again.” He paused, and then as if he’d shaken himself, he was all business. “Our first event is Friday nigh
t. Education for Ossovia. It’s a cocktail party. Cookie Jar will be there as a special guest. A chance for you to introduce yourself as a Heroes League donor.”
“What will you be doing while I’m being charming?”
“I’ll be following your lead, PowerPoint Girl.”
Would that mean if she kissed him, she could lead him to kissing her back? The thought made her skin fuzz over with heat. She slipped off her jacket and glanced at her unicorn. At least it wasn’t farting “fuck me, Halsey,” but that’s where her brain was at. All the way past lips locking to body rocking. It’d scrub off by Friday night. She had to hope the thought scrubbed out, too. It was furiously unhelpful. She tuned back in to Halsey explaining about a shared calendar and telling her he’d call to collect her.
Before Friday, she had time to familiarize herself with all the events they’d go to, pretend to not be secretly thrilled about her short-term cosplay femme fatale hobby, and to think about what to wear and how to work the event for her own advantage.
On Friday, the unicorn wasn’t entirely gone—the ghost of it still pranced over her arm despite vigorous scrubbing, which meant she’d need a sleeve. The black silk satin vintage Dior with the standup cowl neck, short sleeves, and ballerina skirt would do nicely. It was fitted in all the right places to flatter and flared in all the others she’d prefer to de-emphasize, and importantly, it zipped up and covered her fading artwork.