Page 72 of The Order of Disorder

His grip fumbles. His gaze slips past me, trying to focus. He mutters something, but the syllables melt in his mouth.

His hand slips off his cock, limp now, and he sags backward onto the table until he’s lying down. Breath shallow. Face slack.

“Max,” he mumbles. “Mmmm…Max’ell…”

I wait. A beat. Another. My body frozen. Watching. Hoping.

He twitches once. Then groans, deeper this time. A line of drool slips from the corner of his mouth.

I don’t trust it at first. I stare, breath caught. Is he faking? Is he going to sit up laughing? Another trap? But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. The rise and fall of his chest is thin and erratic, like a failing metronome.

I sit frozen for a moment. I can’t tell if the hollow in my chest is relief or dread.

Then I rise and tentatively step around the belt, the pants, the empty glass. I move toward the door, quiet and fast, and the senator doesn’t move an inch.

Out in the hallway, a hotel staffer is pushing a cart with fresh linens. His eyes flick up when he sees me.

“Excuse me,” I say calmly. “I think that man needs help. He’s not well.”

The man’s brows pull together. He hurries toward the door just as the man in the suit from earlier comes around the corner.

“Everything all right?” the suit asks.

“I think he had too much to drink,” I say. “We’re done.”

The staffer steps into the doorway. The suit tries to stop him, speaking urgently, but the damage is already done—the hotel worker looks genuinely alarmed.

While they argue in hushed tones, I slip into the elevator and press the button for the lobby. The doors slide shut with a hiss.

Even the elevator is polished and gleaming. Brass buttons, ornate molding around the mirrors. My reflection is calm and composed. A woman in a black silk dress—I could fit right in here.

Inside, my pulse is a thunderstorm.

Cash is waiting in the lobby, sprawled out in a chair looking bored. I hurry toward him, eager to leave, as he clocks the details—my pace, the flush in my cheeks, the fact that I’m not crying.

“You done?” he asks.

I nod.

We don’t speak on the ride back. The silence stretches too long.

I stare out the window, watching the black fields flash by.

“Everything go smooth?” he asks finally, voice unreadable.

I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Yup,” I lie. “Fine.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

BLACK T-SHIRTS pile at our feet, each one stamped with the O.D.’s screaming skull patch in white ink, clear enough to spot from a hundred yards through dust and exhaust. We’ve been folding them for what feels like hours, Cricket stacking, Jade half-assing, and me just going through the motions.

It’s better than being alone. Better than replaying last night, again and again.

Jade’s already drifting. She’s got her phone in one hand, thumb twitchy, chipped nails tapping the screen like she’s trying to summon something better.

“This country’s so fucked,” she mutters.