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One fake relationship.
“Three months, kid. I want three months.”
“Of being your slave?—”
“Don’t,” I leer through clenched teeth. “Just don’t fuckin’ talk, okay?”
She reaches for my hand and wraps her fingers around it, giving it one curt shake in agreement. “Deal.”
four
. . .
LIV
Hudson wasted no time using our deal, giving me the most disgusting jobs to do on top of my actual responsibilities at Rapture Ink.
Currently, in the storage closet that’s acted as a placeholder for all kinds of things—bike parts, paint cans, broken tattoo guns, and random boxes—Hudson has instructed me to organize and clean the space.
Wishing he had warned me prior, I wouldn’t have worn my cute jeans and a top that I have to keep adjusting so my tits don’t pop out.
There’s red spray paint graffiti on the floor under a bunch of boxes, and I know damn well Hudson is going to want me to paint over it.
So, the first order of business is to get everything out and into the hallway. The tall storage racks are heavy and made of steel, but I’ve managed to get one outside this room before it almost fell on me.
I should’ve just done what he suggested and told my mother to fuck off. However, she’s persistent, and I’d just rather not because she’s the never-ending Energizer Bunny. She keeps going and going and going.
Kicking a box out of my way to get deeper into the small room, a bunch of golf balls roll out and scatter all over the floor. I utter a curse. Why the hell there are golf balls in here is beyond me because Hudson doesn’t appear like that’s his thing, but who am I to judge?
I don’t know him very well. He’s a closed book that’s kept under lock and key, and I’m not about to go delving into it because I get have my fingers pinched in the process.
Getting onto my knees, I reach underneath one of the storage racks to retrieve some of the missing balls, cringing at the fact that I might be greeted with spiders or a dead rat, when a male voice scares the absolute shit out of me.
“What are you doing?”
It doesn’t take long for my mind to interpret that it’s the man in question as my hand hauls back from under the rack.
Straightening my spine, I glimpse over my shoulder to find Hudson leaning against the doorframe with his inked forearms crossed along his wide chest.
“Cleaning,” I deadpan, because duh. I’m not kissing the floors or taking a nap on it.
“You’re blocking the fire exit.”
Seriously.
I shrug at his observation because, where else am I supposed to put everything? “There are more ways out of here than the back door.”
“It’s a fire hazard.” He sounds so completely serious with that fact, that I can’t help the clip to my tone when I answer.
“It’s called going another way.”
His brows descend. “Do you understand the concept of not being able to choose where a fire starts? This could be the only way out.”
I clench my jaw, getting to my feet so I can face this pain-in-the-ass boss that I actually found extremely attractive up until five seconds ago.
Yes, it doesn’t take away from his looks, but his attitude blows the more I associate with it.
“Well, thank God you’re built like a house because we’ll just have you line-back through boxes and be saved.”
