Mischa knows his
brothers are up to something. He doesn't realize it will lead him to Donovan
Holloway and change his carefree lifestyle forever.
Having grown up in
a free-love hippie commune taking care of the parents who should have been
taking care of him, Donovan Holloway, advertising executive, newly made vice
president of the company where he’s worked for twenty years, has come a long
way. He’s worked hard to put himself through school and achieve the American
dream. All he’s ever wanted is a normal family life—house in the suburbs, two
cars, two kids, a shaggy dog. A family to come home to, to care for, to care
for him has been his dream since he was a small boy.
Green-eyed,
liberally pierced, black-haired, Mohawk-wearing spoiled youngest son of a
Hollywood producer and his actress wife, Mischa Blake has made a terrible
mistake. In a fit of childish pique, he’s accepted a dare from his older
brothers. The dare? Live on his own, supporting himself completely, for a year
without accessing his trust fund. No problem. Except Mischa has never worked a
day in his life, hasn’t finished college, and has absolutely no skills to bring
to the table.
When he sees
Donovan’s ad for a housekeeper/gardener, he has nothing to lose by applying,
because really…how hard can it be?
Prologue
The
door slamming behind Mischa Blake drew all his brothers' eyes to him. Satisfied
he'd gained everyone's attention, he sauntered slowly into the room, resisting
the urge to run his hand over the hair he knew damn well still stood in four-inch
spikes down the center of his head to the nape of his neck. The pins holding
his once designer jeans together were cold against his skin, the silk T-shirt
paired with them too tight. He looked like he'd just been out clubbing, which
he had. He should have gone home and changed, had even given the idea some
thought, but when one more dance led to another and then another, he'd run out
of time. Which was fine, because he rather liked forcing his brothers to
acknowledge the real Mischa, not the Michael they wanted to make him. He met
each pair of familiar green eyes defiantly, refusing to look away.
"Hey,"
he ventured, hoping his voice wouldn't squeak. That was all he needed, to sound
like a kid again. Then his brothers never would give up control of his trust
fund.
"Damn
it, Mischa!" Terry, Chief Financial Officer of the family-owned production
studio that employed every member of the Blake family—except Mischa—immediately
leaned away as Mischa took the seat at the green baize game table right next to
him. His nostrils flared and his mouth twisted into a disgusted scowl. "You
stink! Where the hell have you been?"
Dan,
the creative brother, studio scriptwriter, the brother most like Mischa in
personality—though even that was a stretch—leaned in and sniffed appraisingly. "Somewhere
that beer and pot are readily had in great quantities judging by the smell."
There was no judgment or accusation there, but rather a knowing sort of
superiority that made Mischa want to sucker-punch his brother. Dan smoked, he
was way too familiar with the scent of good weed for Mischa to believe he was
innocent on that front, but Dan apparently felt no compunction about throwing
Mischa under the bus.
The
bus being Brandon, eldest brother, CEO of the studio, and all around royal pain
in Mischa's ass. Brandon frowned in disapproval. "Are you hanging out in
those clubs again? Damn—the fucking paparazzi would love to catch you in some
club. I can see the headlines now. Blake's
Youngest Son—Underage Alcoholic and Drug Addict—Caught in Gay Sex Club Scandal."
Brandon had explained it all to a very confused fifteen-year-old Mischa. He
could be gay, and his brothers would still love him, his parents would accept
him. He just couldn't be gay in public because it was bad publicity for the
studio. Which made absolutely no sense to Mischa, then or now.
Either
it was okay to be gay or it wasn't. Regardless, he was, and if the sneaking
paps wanted to follow him around taking pics of him making out with guys, then
how was that any worse than them chasing down Dan's flavor of the week and touting
pregnancy rumors about the self-proclaimed playboy of the family?
Mischa
scowled in return, clicking the stud in his tongue against his front teeth,
just because it annoyed Terry. That annoyance made the pain of the piercing and
the six pounds he'd lost because he hadn't been able to eat for a week after
getting it done worthwhile. A few weeks of privation and pain for a lifetime of
guaranteed one-uppance on Terry? No comparison. "Fuck you all. Are we
playing poker or not?"
These
Wednesday night poker games between the Blake brothers were a long-standing
tradition. He'd waited with all the patience a young boy could muster until at
thirteen his much older brothers had finally deemed him old enough to join
them. They'd begun the tradition before he was born, and being excluded had
made him feel like an outsider for a long time. The first game he'd been
permitted to attend, they'd all passed up alcohol and drunk soda. His brothers
had patiently taught him the rules, and insisted on betting with chips instead
of cash. Thanks to his superior private school education, he was already
familiar enough with the game to take them unawares and win a few hands before
they caught on that he wasn't a novice. Sometime that year they'd quit going
easy on him, but he'd never let up on them.
Never
would either. Not unless their attitudes changed. Because around this table,
they had to treat him as an equal, not a baby or a nuisance.
With
all the other traditions Mischa rebelled against, he couldn't even fathom why
he'd rather die than miss this weekly game with his brothers. Unless it was
because, here, he was as in control as they were. The rules of the game were
the rules of the game, and birth order didn't play any part in them. Not that
he'd let them know that, though. He made it a habit of either showing up late
or insisting on leaving early—as though they were an added burden he could
scarcely make time for in his busy life.
Mischa
reached to his back pocket for his wallet and realized almost immediately that
he must have left it behind at the party. He wasn't worried about losing his
cards; probably Dex or Bella had picked up his wallet when he left it on the
bar after paying the tab. If they hadn't, then he'd just get Terry to have new
ones sent to him. Instead, he reached for Terry's wallet on the table to his
right and rifled through it for cash to buy in.
"What
the hell?" Terry demanded. "Are you broke already? I just deposited
money in your account yesterday!"
"No.
I'm good, for a while anyway. Just forgot my wallet at the party. And you
wouldn't have to deposit money in my account all the time if you'd just loosen
up the controls there and give me direct access to my accounts." Millions
of dollars in trust funds and he had to beg for cash from his brothers before
he could make a purchase, at least until he was thirty-five—fifteen long years
from now. Terry's Spanish leather wallet yielded a wad of hundred dollar bills
that Mischa extracted and tossed on the table in front of him.
Terry
grabbed the wallet back and tucked it away in his jacket pocket, muttering dire
insults under his breath. "You're paying that back."
Mischa
smirked and clicked his piercing loudly. Trust Terry to be dressed for the
office in a two thousand dollar suit at their poker game. At least he'd taken
off the French silk Charvet tie. "You'll end up owing it to me in a few
hours anyway!"
Brandon,
Dan, and Terry did the older brother thing. Their eyes met in a circle around
the table that excluded Mischa, and he flushed. That thing reminded him of the
fact that even though they let him sit at the table and play cards, and take
their money, he wasn't a part of them. He was a Blake, but not a blond-haired, green-eyed
Blake. Oh, he had their father's green eyes, but they all took after their
beautiful mother whose photos still graced the newspapers decades after her
death; he resembled his own mother, dark hair, slim build and pale skin that
just wouldn't tan, no matter how long he baked in the California sun. That
thing they did made him an outsider, an inferior.
"Want
to put your money where your mouth is, kid?" That was Brandon, pushing his
buttons as only an older sibling could. Mischa hated being called kid, being reminded
he was so much younger than his brothers.
"I'm
not a kid. I'm an adult, a licensed driver, and a registered voter." He
forced the words out, trying not to scream them. He'd made the same protest so
many times before but it always fell on deaf ears. It really wasn't fair that
his parents had left him in Brandon's care when they'd dashed off to pursue an
active retirement in the South of France.
"When
you support yourself and don't live off a trust fund, you're an adult. Until
then, you're another rich kid with too much money and time on your hands."
Brandon dismissed him, as though his entire existence were worthless if he
didn't have a job at the family studio.
"Hey!
You guys all have trust funds, too! If having one makes me a kid, then you're
kids." He fucking knew he wasn't going to win this one, he never did.
"We
also have careers with futures. You have nothing but a trust fund." That
was Terry, putting in his two cents worth. Fuck that. Terry knew the value of a
dollar—probably figured his two cents worth was actually worth two dollars.
"I'm
an artist." That was the answer he gave his mother every time she asked,
and it always resulted in an indulgent smile. She and his father had taken it
into their heads to retire in the French Riviera last year, but they had
traveled and been on set so much during his childhood that Brandon had really
stood in more of a parental role than his parents had.
"Bullshit."
Brandon spoke again. "Artists produce. We haven't seen any paintings,
statues, photographs. You just use that as an excuse to get your mom to give
you cash when your allowance runs out. She might buy it, but we don't."
There
was no arguing with that. He did have a sketchbook, but as it was full of
pencil drawings of the guys he'd fucked, or wanted to fuck, it was pretty
useless at proving art was his career. Hell, it wasn't even much of a hobby.
More of a scrapbook of awesome Friday nights…and Saturday nights…and— Disliking
the way this train of thought made him feel more like a leech and less like a
misunderstood genius, Mischa glared at Dan who was busily shuffling cards and
had been for the past five minutes. "Fucking deal already so these
assholes have something to think about besides my life and how they can ruin
it."
Dan
cleared his throat and swiftly dealt the cards around the table. "You guys
up for a little side bet?"
Mischa
peeked at his cards, not a bad hand to be dealt, then turned to Dan. His face
was impassive, but there was no denying the fact that he was up to something.
Terry
chimed in, equally impassive. "Money means nothing to us all, as the kid has
pointed out, so how about we play for Truth or Dare?" Brandon was nodding
before Terry had even finished speaking. "Yeah, last hand of the night. The
winner chooses truth or dare, and the loser has to comply. And if he chickens
out of the dare, then he owes everyone a penalty." Brandon was practically
drooling over the idea, which made the hair on the back of Mischa's neck
prickle.
Huh.
He couldn't believe Terry actually came up with that himself. Creativity wasn't
his strong suit. Numbers punching, multiplying dollars into hundreds, that was
Terry. Devious, almost fun sounding games? Not really. It was a plot. Somehow,
they were all in it together, and he was going to come out on the bottom of
this someway. He picked absently at the loose threads in the rips of the five
hundred dollar black jeans he'd bought, cut, and pinned back together while he
considered his options. He had to make some move to salvage the situation,
because protesting the game would mean he really was just a kid. The rules had
to be established in the beginning, and he had to find a way to slant them in
his favor.
"And
if the loser follows through, he gets to claim a boon from each of the other
players." It was the best he could do, and he knew exactly what boon he'd
ask for too, because he was damn sure his brothers were going to manipulate him
into losing. No way could his brothers come up with a dare he wouldn't fulfill.
He'd do anything. There was no truth he wasn't willing to tell. This could
definitely be worked to his advantage either way the chips fell. And if the
cards fell in his favor tonight, they'd better look out because he had some
pretty good dares he could lay on his superior older brothers. He wasted a few
precious seconds imagining Brandon in drag, or forcing Dan to admit he smoked
pot in his office with the writing team before getting serious. It was time to
play some cards.
Two
hours later his chances of being the big winner of the night looked good. Despite
losing the last hand, he'd turned Terry's thousand dollars into twelve thousand,
and was easily way ahead of his brothers for the night.
Terry
shoved his chair back from the table and folded his hands in his lap. "Okay,
guys, I'm done. That was the last hand."
Brandon
and Dan made agreeing noises and Mischa stiffened in shock. Fuck. He was
screwed.
"Wait
a minute… You guys usually play a lot later than this. I mean, it's only eleven
o'clock!"
"Nope."
Brandon shook his head. "You usually leave around this time, and we always
quit when you leave."
If
that was the last hand, which he'd lost, that meant he'd really lost according to the game they'd proposed earlier.
Dan
nodded in agreement. "And I make Brandon out as the winner of that hand,
and you as the loser, squirt. So what'll it be, Brandon, Truth or Dare?"
It
was so fake. So fucking staged; in hindsight, it was obvious. He'd been set up.
The first hand he lost was destined to be the last hand they played no matter
how many it took or how few. Mischa struggled to remain impassive, but anger at
the injustice of being manipulated was simmering.
Brandon
was a terrible actor. He smiled as he spoke lines that had probably been
written by Dan expressly for the occasion. "Well, brother, I'm going to
have to say Dare. But we should name the penalties before I tell him the dare,
don't you think?"
"Oh,
yeah," Terry was outwardly smirking now. "You owe one penalty per
player, kid. If you welsh on the dare, I get to give you a complete makeover,
new clothes, new hair, whole new style."
Surveying
his brother's "style"—navy blue Brooks Brothers' suit, crisp white
cotton shirt, Italian silk tie, and neatly trimmed blond hair—Mischa shuddered.
He turned to Brandon, next brother in the row seated at the round table, and
quirked his pierced left brow in what he hoped was a sardonic Spock-like
inquiry and not a laughable dumb younger brother affectation.
Brandon
smoothly responded with an elevated right brow and cough into his fist. "If
you welsh, you take the assistant producer's job I've been holding open for you
since you graduated high school. Join the family business and make yourself
useful."
Damn.
That was even worse. Terry might buy him new clothes, but he couldn't force him
to wear them. He held his breath momentarily before turning to Dan. Dan could
swing either way. He was the brother who understood Mischa best, but he was
also the cleverest, most devious, and creative of the brothers. Sometimes he
seemed almost conscience-less. No doubt he was the mastermind behind this whole
plot.
Dan
smiled broadly, tapping the playing cards against his chin gently as he
considered his youngest brother. "If you welsh, brother, you attend the
college of my choice for a full four years—or until you attain a degree,
whichever comes first."
"That's
a bit harsh!" Mischa protested. "In exchange for a single hand of
cards, you guys expect to be able to run my life to suit yourselves for an infinite
amount of time?"
"Oh,
no," Brandon interjected smoothly. "We expect you to honor your debts,
brother. Are you saying that you can't meet the dare? You don't even know what
it is yet."
Good
point. Given the penalties though, Mischa was pretty sure the dare was going to
be something he would really hate. Didn't matter though. He'd do it. Even if it
meant shaving off his beloved 'hawk, or…he couldn't really think of anything
worse than the penalties they'd asked for. "Okay. What's the dare?"
They
did it again, the older brother silent communication thing. This time Dan broke
the silence.
"We
dare you to get a job and support yourself without resorting to your trust fund
for a whole year."
Mischa's
mouth fell open. "That's all I have to do? Get a job?" He relaxed
into his seat. He could do that, didn't everyone?
Terry
shook his head. "No. You have to support yourself. No more sending your
bills to me to pay. No more monthly deposits into your account. Take care of
yourself."
If
Terry had deposited his usual allowance into his account yesterday, that meant
he had fifty thousand, plus the twelve on the table in front of him to get
through the next year. People managed on less than that, right? So could he. "What
if I can't find a job? I mean, I'll make every effort to find one, but if I don't
get one?"
"Nope.
Have to get a job." Brandon was insistent.
"But
I have plenty of money to get through a year…even if I don't find a job."
Terry
shook his head again. "No. You don't. You don't even have any idea how
much your lifestyle costs, do you? The money I put in your account this morning
won't last you a month at the rate you normally spend it. If you don't find a
job, you'll be living a very different lifestyle next month, with a new
hairstyle and a new wardrobe to match."
No freaking way. He'd find a way to beat
his brothers at their own game.
Chapter One
The
eviction notice fluttered to the floor, and he threw the checkbook after it.
He'd known the rent was late. But he'd put it off because if he'd paid that
outrageous sum, his account would have been completely empty. At first, he'd
thought for sure he'd find a job and get caught up, but this past week he'd had
to face the fact that getting a job was harder than he'd assumed it would be.
Maybe he'd harbored a secret hope that Terry would break solidarity with his
brothers and "accidentally" pay the rent.
Mischa
threw himself onto his sofa, and leaned his head back to stare up at the
ceiling of his loft. It was a soft, dove gray that he'd always found soothing,
like when it rained ferociously fifty miles up the coast and the clouds hadn't quite
lost the color of the storm, but you weren't in for any rain yourself.
He
leaned forward and reached for his ebony box. He needed the smoke, needed to
relax. It had been months, months of fruitless job searching, of watching the
money in his accounts dwindle until he couldn't pay the rent, the payment on
his Porsche, the credit cards and still put gas in his car and eat.
Jesus,
the fucking credit cards had eaten up his allowance. How easy it had been to
just swipe and sign and ignore the fact that one day that money had to be paid.
He had thought that by the time the bill came due he'd be employed, earning the
money he needed.
He'd
been wrong. Everywhere he went he'd been laughed at, or treated with
condescending disdain. Most of them hadn't known or cared that he was a Blake
of Blake Studios. He had no degree, no experience, and no skills. In the job
world, he was dirt.
Opening
the black box, he extracted his pipe and a bag of fragrant prime bud. His
cleaning lady had brought it to him, but since he'd had to tell her he couldn't
pay her any more after this, it was probably the last time he'd be getting any
of the stuff her son brought in on his monthly trips south of the border.
He'd
miss Violetta more than the weed. In the week since her bi-weekly visits had
stopped, his loft had gone from haven to chaos. Dust hadn’t covered the
gleaming wood yet, but it would, eventually. For now, his mail was piling up
and clutter was slowly gathering.
With
a sigh, Mischa put the smoke back and picked up his laptop. The only way to get
Violetta back was to get a job so he could pay her. He opened his browser and
clicked on a link to a jobs website and began scanning for new leads. It was
discouraging how many he'd already approached and been turned down for. From Coca-Cola
distributor—who knew there was more than
one kind of driver's license?—to file clerk—it was all alphabetical, wasn't it?—he was underqualified.
His
phone chirped and he dropped the laptop on the glass-topped table to pick it
up. That chirp promised distraction, and he desperately needed it. "Grady,
what's up?"
"Hey,
man. Where've you been?"
Hiding.
Because he couldn’t afford the things he'd used to enjoy. "Oh, around.
Just, busy. You know."
"We
haven't seen you lately. Come on down to the club; the band is sick."
He
could hear them, a deep throbbing beat and some howling guitar licks in the
background. And, knowing the club they frequented, he'd likely find something
besides dancing to take his mind off his troubles for a bit. "Okay, I'm
in. I'll be there in twenty."
A
little R and R and he'd be refreshed and ready to "job seek" in the
morning.
***
Parking
outside his favorite club was a bitch. Snagging one of the safety pins in his
jeans on the smooth cream leather of his Porsche's upholstery was even worse.
So he had a snarl on his face when he handed over the last twenty in his wallet
to the bored-looking burly bouncer who guarded the door.
Inside,
he was bathed in a cacophony of light and sound and smoke. It was pointless to
try to find his friends in the crowd, so Mischa just pushed his way to the
dance floor and threw himself into the music, letting himself get lost in sound
and heat.
Faces
blurred and hands came and went, on his hips, his shoulders, his ass. He danced
with men and women alike until, suddenly, a familiar face popped up in front of
him, laughing. The newcomer was pale-skinned, with bright blue eyes and
artificially dark hair. His features were delicate, high cheek-boned and narrow
chinned. If he were interested in acting, he'd have been cast easily as a
vampire. "Trick." He smiled in greeting, pleased to see his friend.
"Didn't know you guys were here too."
The
dark-haired man leaned forward, pressing his lips to Mischa's ear.
"Everyone's here."
The
words were snatched away into the dull roar of music and people, and Mischa
nodded, catching hold of Trick with one hand and wiping a stream of sweat off
his brow with the other. "Yeah. Too many of them. Want to sit?"
Someone
bumped into him from behind, a pointed chin dug into his shoulder as a warm
body nestled close to him, rubbing against him. "We have a table in the
back."
Mischa
tipped his head back and received a friendly kiss in greeting. "Dex, I
should have known where Trick was you weren't far away." The twins did
everything together, and their obvious closeness made some people uncomfortable.
Mischa didn't mind. They were both fascinatingly beautiful, mysterious and full
of secrets. He enjoyed their company, the way they accepted him without
question, listened to his dreams and plans without judgment.
They
danced for a few minutes, Mischa sandwiched between the two brothers, savoring
the closeness and the slow arousal that built between them. When his cock
stiffened, and Trick's eyes flickered over his shoulder, he pushed gently,
creating distance between them.
"Let's
find that table. I could use a drink."
Dex's
fingers tightened on his waist, and his lips were warm on Mischa's neck,
nibbling their way up to his ear again. "You sure? We could go." He
bumped his groin against Mischa's ass, long enough to show his own arousal.
"The three of us."
Shaking
his head, Mischa looped his arm through Trick's and stepped away. "I'm
good. Don't think I haven't noticed how you two operate. I value our friendship
more than any one-night stand, even if we are the three hottest things
here."
"Let's
go. I know Grady called you, but you know he's planning to stick you with the
bill, same as always."
Mischa
stiffened. Damn. That hadn't even occurred to him. "I haven't seen
him."
"Don't
look for him. Let's just…" Trick towed him toward the exit, Dex crowding from
the rear again.
"Okay."
And he obviously hadn't been as subtle about his monetary woes as he'd thought
if Dex and Trick had noticed his reluctance to pick up the tabs when they were
all out. Pride made him want to argue the point, to insist that this was where
he wanted to be, what he wanted to be doing, but pride had learned to keep its
mouth shut after his credit card popped the morning after the fateful poker
game.
It
wasn't his imagination that Dex and Trick seemed more relieved than
disappointed either. They fell into a comfortable silence and maneuvered
through the crowd to the entrance.
They'd
nearly reached the exit when a hand caught his arm and Mischa jerked to a halt.
Dex and Trick stopped seconds later, and the three of them stood face-to-face
with a sneering Grady Otham, the more striking than handsome, occasional bed
partner who'd invited Mischa to the bar.
"Where
are you going? You haven't even had a drink with me yet. And we haven't
danced!" They might not have had a drink together, but it was clear to
anyone with eyes and a functioning nose that Grady had been drinking.
"I'm
not feeling up to this after all. Dex and Trick"—Mischa waved at his
friends—"and I are going somewhere quieter."
Grady's
gaze barely flickered to Dex and Trick. They weirded him out, he always
claimed, so he didn't even acknowledge them. "I thought…"
Dex
stepped between them, cutting off Mischa's line of sight, and forcing Grady to
release his grip. "Some other time. We have plans."
Grady
jumped back as though touching Dex would contaminate him, and they were
removing forward again, out the door and into the fresh open air. Mischa
dragged in cooling lungfuls, but Dex and Trick kept him moving, dragging him
past the crowd of hopefuls waiting to be let into the exclusive club, coming to
a stop halfway down the block in front of an ice cream parlor that was closed
for the night. During the day, Davyd and Saul, the proprietors, sold such
delightful concoctions as peanut paradise, s'mores sundaes, and the straight up
best, most decadent dark chocolate fudge sauce in the country while flirting
with their customers, male, female, gay, straight, and undecided.
Too
bad they were closed.
"Mischa?
Where'd you park?"
He
turned his gaze from the ice cream shop and glanced at Trick, who seemed
apprehensive. "Down there, why?"
Instead
of answering, Trick pointed, and Mischa followed the elegant gesture. What he
saw made his blood run cold. His baby, his beautiful black Porsche, was being
desecrated. "Hey!" he shouted, darting down the street as fast as
dance weakened legs could carry him. "What the fuck are you doing? That's
my car!"
The
man straightened, and Mischa saw that he'd hooked a tow chain under the
chassis. "This is your car?"
Mischa
skidded to a halt, inches in front of the man, who towered over him. "I
just said it was, didn't I?"
"I've
been commissioned to repossess this car on behalf of the creditor. You're
behind on the payments."
"Oh
no, no. I’m not! I paid six months in advance because I knew…" He clamped
his mouth shut and glanced over his shoulder at Trick and Dex who had followed
him. "I paid ahead."
"You'll
have to take that up with the bank. I don't do anything but take back the
cars."
"But…
You can't! I’m going to…" He grabbed for his phone, hitting Terry's number
before he could think about it.
"Sorry,
kid, I don't make the rules. You can contact your lender and make arrangements."
Then the man loped off, swinging up into the cab of his truck and driving off
while Mischa's phone bleated in his ear.
"'Lo?"
Terry's voice was husky, as though he'd been asleep, or…
"Terry!
What the fuck? They just took my Porsche. They can't do that."
"Seriously?
Mischa, it's too fucking late for this. Come by the office tomorrow morning and
I'll give you the phone number to call the bank."
An
ugly, ugly suspicion crossed his mind. "You did this, didn't you? I paid
up front for six months, just to make sure the payments were made."
A
long-suffering sigh came down the line. Fabric rustled. "It's not my
doing, dickhead. But it sounds like it's legitimate to me."
"Legitimate?
They stole my car! I made my payments!"
"When
you made that payment, Mischa, did you specify it was for six months? Or did
you just send it in?"
Mischa
started to protest that he didn't see what difference it made when Terry overrode
him.
"Because
unless you said it was for certain time periods, then they most likely just
took it off the principal. Haven't you been getting monthly statements?"
He
had. He just hadn't been opening them because he figured they were paid for.
"Yeah."
"But?"
"But
I didn't open them. I thought it was paid."
"I'll
give you the number tomorrow. You can call and straighten it out. Just pay what
they ask for and you'll be good."
"I
can't," he mumbled, staring at the toes of his boots.
"I'm
not going to do it for you, kid."
"I
didn't ask you to!" He shut down the phone and kicked at a green leafy
thing growing out of a crack in the sidewalk. "Fuck."
"Need
a ride back to your loft?"
He
almost ran. If he'd sensed any amount of judgment at all in Dex's tone, any
sympathy even, he'd have dashed off into the night. Instead, he ducked his head
and nodded, then walked between the two of them, off in the opposite direction
to a parking garage where a valet brought the keys to Dex's SUV.
He
had to find a job. Whether he got his car back or not, he couldn't take the
slings and arrows, the tension of wondering when he'd spend that last dollar.
When the ordeal began, he was thinking in terms of thousands, as time
progressed it was hundreds, and now…
