Made

Of course, he looked at the pictures.

There wasn't a straight man in the world that wouldn't. After a few days, he simply gave into his morbid curiosity and didn't scroll past the news about it. He never sought them out, that would be "wrong" (as though he was some official judge of morality), but had enough grace to close out the window when Laila meandered down the steps, and pretended to browse something else.

"Shouldn't you be at work?" he asked, deflecting whatever question she could have asked him.

Laila shrugged, and the movement caused her shoulders to carefully slip out of the oversized sweater she was wearing. His eyes lingered on the bare skin, and for a minute, he couldn't tell which was her shoulder, and which was Jen's (the colour, duh), and he guiltily kissed it as she sat down beside him.

"They're still getting the new boss," she said. "She's in L.A."

"Do you know her?"

Laila shrugged again, but this time he focused on her eyes, instead of noticing the way the grey fabric slunk down in a never ending journey.

"Do we really know anyone?" she asked, reaching for his laptop.

He stopped her, taking her hand as though he mistook her action for affection.

"What's she like?" he asked.

"She used to be the Kid's right hand man. Then she just up and fucked off to L.A."

"What, no one knows what happened?"

"I'm not that high up," she said. "I know that her name is Nebraska." Laila paused. "I've been told she's a lot like me," she said quietly.

"How?" he asked, reaching up to touch the warm space between her shoulder and her neck.

She smiled. "Fucked up with shit taste in men," Laila murmured, leaning in to kiss him.

They fucked languidly on the couch, and he put the images of Jen out of his mind.