Section 12
Hide and Seek
Gia
The couch in my office still remembers things I do not intend to repeat. The desk is immaculate because I clean it when I’m thinking too hard. Diablo is asleep beneath the window, one paw twitching like he’s dreaming of felony charges.
I should be reviewing payroll, instead I’m staring at the wall.
This is ridiculous.
Three days. That’s how long it’s been since the rain, since the wall, since I proved to myself—very efficiently—that I am still capable of impulse. I handled it.
I absolutely did not spend an embarrassing amount of time thinking about the way Lucky’s voice drops when he’s focused, or how he doesn’t posture when things get ugly, or the quiet competence that settles over him when chaos starts sniffing around.
That would be unprofessional.
I am excellent at being professional.
I check my watch.
Ten minutes until closing rotation shifts.
I sigh.
This is the problem with order: once everything is handled, there’s nothing left to distract you from yourself.
I stand, pace once, then twice. Adjust my jacket. Sit again. Stand again.
For fuck’s sake. I run an empire held together by NDAs and fear.
I have survived men far more dangerous than the one currently standing on my dance floor pretending not to look in my direction.
Which is the other problem.
He’s pretending.
Because I told him to.
Because I walked away and made it clean and efficient and final in the way I always do.
Because he listened.
I glance toward the office door, then toward the ceiling as if God might be monitoring my judgment and taking notes.
Fine.
Fine.
This is not emotional.
This is curiosity with teeth.
I straighten my jacket, step over Diablo, and leave my office before I can talk myself back into being sensible.
The crowd is thinning. The energy shifting from frenzy to afterglow. Lights dimmed a fraction. Bass slower, heavier.
I spot him immediately.
He’s watching the room the way people with experience watch things—a living contingency plan.
I hate how attractive that is.
I cross the floor without hesitation, and stop directly in front of him.
His posture changes—subtle, but I see it. Attention snapping into place like a magnet finding its mate.
“Boss,” he says.
Neutral. Respectful.
God help me.
“I’m bored,” I say.
That’s it. No preamble. No justification.
His helmet tilts.
Just slightly.
“…Okay,” he says, clearly unsure what this is leading to.
I consider him. The way he’s pretending not to vibrate with energy the moment he’s given something to focus on.
“Want to play a game?” I ask.
He answers instantly.
“Yes.”
Then—because he realizes that was far too fast—he adds, “What kind of game?”
I smile before I can stop myself.
That was a mistake.
“Hide and seek,” I say.
I check my watch. The way one does when pretending this is normal.
“I’ll give you five minutes,” I continue. “I’ll stay in the building. You stay on your post until the time’s up.”
“Rules,” he says automatically.
“Yes.”
That word lands between us with more weight than it should.
“If you find me before closing,” I say lightly, “you can do whatever you think I’m offering.”
He doesn’t move.
“And if I don’t?” he asks.
I lift one shoulder.
“Then we pretend this conversation never happened.”
He exhales.
“Is this a trap?” he asks.
“Obviously.”
A pause.
Then: “Okay. Will there be snacks?”
I step back.
“Don’t cheat,” I add.
“I wouldn’t,” he says, then winces. “…Much.”
One brow goes up.
“If you break the rules,” I tell him calmly, “the game ends.”
“Understood,” he says, posture all business again. “Rules are sacred.”
I turn before my nerve fails.
“Five minutes,” I say over my shoulder.
I do not look back.
If I do, this becomes something else.
I take the back stairs.
Not running—I am not seventeen—but moving fast enough that my pulse starts to argue with me.
This is absurd.
This is reckless.
This is exactly the kind of behavior I lecture other people about.
I pass storage. DJ booth. Service corridor.
Too obvious.
I keep going, slipping past velvet ropes and locked doors that open for me without question.
I duck into the old mezzanine office that hasn’t been used since Red was still pretending to be respectable.
The lights are off. The room smells faintly of dust.
I close the door softly.
Lean back against it.
And wait.
My heart is pounding now, and not from exertion.
This is stupid.
I could leave at any time.
I could end this with a single text.
I don’t.
I imagine him counting down in his head, the way he’ll search—thorough, earnest, probably taking it far too seriously.
The thought makes my mouth curve despite myself.
I am not hoping he finds me.
I am merely… curious.
Seconds stretch.
Footsteps echo somewhere below.
I close my eyes.
This doesn’t mean anything.
It’s just a game.
Just a distraction.
Just two adults pretending desire is sport instead of gravity.
Still—
I listen harder.
And against my better judgment, against every rule I live by, I find myself thinking:
Find me.