Page 57 of Mine

He nodded, offering me his hand. “Rush Howard.”

I took his hand in mine. “Trevan Bean.”

He was taking me all in, his eyes everywhere. “Thank you so much,” he told me again, not letting my hand go, lifting the wad of bills toward me. “I want you to—”

“Oh fuck, no.” I scowled at him, dropping his hand. “You never, ever, use your collection for anything. All of it gets back to the house, and then and only then do they take your money out of it. How long have you been doing this?”

“Three months.”

“Okay,” I said with an exasperated sigh. “You need a separate clutch or something with a zipper to keep your money in. Do you keep your totals on your phone or—”

“No, just on a piece of paper.”

I growled at him, and he laughed.

“Baby, you need an electronic spreadsheet so you can just punch in a number and it adds and subtracts for you. Gimme your e-mail address and I’ll send it to you now,” I said as I pulled my iPhone from my pocket.

He took a shuddering breath. “You called me baby.”

My eyes flicked back to him from the screen of my phone. “Sorry,” I said, withdrawing, moving around him.

“No no.” He stopped me, both hands around my bicep. “I didn’t mean….” He swallowed hard, licking his lips. “I liked it—you don’t wanna be my collector, fine, but you wanna come back to my place with me and fuck my brains out? You’ll like it: I bottom good.”

If I were single, I would have been all over that offer. He was so pretty with his full lips and dimples and shiny black eyes. His head would notch right under mine, and he was lean and sinewy, with a rakish grin and chiseled features. “Appealing” didn’t do the man justice.

“I have no doubt.” I smiled at him, pleased that he was not a homophobic asshole. “And I am sorry about the ‘baby’, but what’re you? Sixteen?”

“Oh no.” He smiled at me, moving closer, one hand tightening on my bicep, the other flat on my chest. “I’m twenty-one, just turned.”

I nodded. “And school?”

He squinted at me. “School?”

“What’s your big picture plan?” The confused look I got was funny. “You need to have a goal in mind or the money, and maybe the drugs, the sex, it’s gonna go to your head. Don’t just flush your cash down the toilet.”

He nodded. “What’s your plan?”

I moved his hand gently from my chest and smiled at him. “I’m gonna open a restaurant. I’ve always wanted to. I have a cousin who can cook like a dream, and she and I will do well.”

“No bullshit.”

I shook my head. “You have to have a goal. Promise me.”

“I promise,” he agreed, nodding, and he wasn’t smiling, which was good, because maybe his brain was actually working.

“So you want the Excel sheet or not?”

“I don’t know what Excel is.”

“It’s a spreadsheet program. Gimme your e-mail.”

He gave it to me, had me put his name and number into my phone, and I gave him mine.

“So gimme a call before you leave.”

“Sure.”

“And gimme a call if you change your mind about anything, anything at all.”