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anorexic, her beady eyes bored into Blake as if she held some personal grudge against him.
    She gave a light toss of her head, her too-blond hair barely acknowledging the movement. Blake had met her once before and hadn’t cared for her then either.
    “Could you let Jim know I need to see him?” Blake asked as he continued past.
    “Actually, Mr. Crochet”—she leaned over her massive glass desk to call after him—“Mr. Crochet?”
    Blake stopped. Joje stood behind him, looking completely out of place. This wasn’t going to work.
    “Who is this?” Cyndi asked.
    “ He , not this . And in the future, take care how you refer to a potential partner,” Blake said.
    Joje smiled, once again not helping the situation.
    “Mr. Tanner actually suggested, should I see you come in today,” she paused, denoting the apparent question that had been, “that I have you wait in the lobby for him.”
    Blake stared down at Cyndi. This twenty-something secretary who thought being a bitch was part of the job requirement, stringy bleached hair cut to look like a mannequin, stunning dress revealing all leg but covering everything up top—not that there was much to showcase. He was certain she had to show her tiny tits three times a day to some minor executive just to stay employed.
    “Cyndi. Let Jim know my guest and I are on our way to his office.”
    “Well, your guest will need to sign in.” She brought out a thin tablet they used as a digital clipboard. All about presentation.
    Blake’s eyes never left hers. He supposed some men got off on reigning in that kind of attitude. “Don’t ever talk down to me again.”
    He ushered Joje past the hall to the glass staircase leading up to JT’s office. As they began their ascent, he noticed Cyndi on the phone, watching them go.
    “Do you always lie at your job,” Joje asked.
    “You haven’t left me much of a choice. Unless you want me to tell them the truth?”
    Joje’s left eyed twitched, blinking rapidly. His face drew down in an awkward yawn. “I want this to be as close to real life as possible.”
    Blake suddenly shoved Joje up against the side of the staircase. They were in that perfect position where no one could see them, from above or below. Blake held him close, the back of his arm pressed against Joje’s throat, faces almost touching. He could feel the tremble in Joje’s frame.
    “What the hell do you think this is? Real life . . . ? I’m doing what you asked, playing by your rules, but here, you play by mine. I’ve got one chance here. One!”
    Joje’s lips curled up in a tight smile as if he were enjoying this display. Blake pressed harder against his throat. It took every ounce of constraint to allow Joje to keep breathing; he wanted to close his hands around that neck and never let go.
    His phone suddenly buzzed. In Joje’s pocket.
    “You want me to respond,” Joje said.
    Blake released his grip, disgusted with his companion, more disgusted with himself for playing along in this mad charade.
    He continued up the stairs. Joje followed, typing a response one finger at a time into the phone. The smile that crept over his face was more frightening than the realization that Blake could have ended Joje’s life—had, in fact, wanted to. And strangely, he didn’t think Joje would have stopped him.
    It made Blake shudder. What outcome was Joje hoping for in all this?
    One chance. That’s all he needed. It just had to be the right one.

2
    A light breeze carried the smell of the ocean mixed with the gargled taint of car exhaust. Still, Jenna sensed drifting on that breeze a freedom she could almost reach out and grab.
    Across from the small sloped parking lot, past the Pacific Coast Highway with its occasional passing car, she stared out at the end of the world. At least that’s how she pictured it.
    The ocean shook, roared, consumed.
    She breathed deep, inspired—feeling braver, stronger.
    The Escalade chirped, alarm setting. Turning back to the