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“At least that asshole Gomez lets you crash at his Club sometimes.” Mayleen strokes my now much shorter hair to one side, and I reach up to muss it up again. I’m not a side parting kinda guy. “Good thing with the temps falling so low.” She strokes my hair to the side again. “You promise he isn’t doing anything to hurt you, Jason?”
I was about to shove my fingers through my hair again, and I stop. “Why you say that?”
She shrugs, leans close to my ear. “The concealing cream. It’s for the bruises, right? Has he put any on you? Is all I’m asking.”
I shiver. Raine had asked, too, and damn if the memory doesn’t send a rush of heat between my legs. “Nah, he hasn’t touched me.”
Technically not a lie. He has his men do the beating for him.
“Hm-mm.” She doesn’t challenge me on that, though, even though I can sense her doubts. “Well then, what about the other guy?”
“What other guy?”
She steps away to clean her scissors and I quickly wipe a hand under my nose, not surprised when it comes away streaked with red. I wipe it furtively on my dark pants.
Damn nosebleeds are getting worse.
Her room is tiny, and it only contains her bed, a table and chairs. The building has communal bathrooms—relatively clean ones that I’ve just used to wash two days’ grime off me, but it also has central heating, and it’s pretty safe.
Which is a hell of lot more than I have going for me. I think of my ratty sleeping bag and my meager belongings stuffed behind a dumpster near my usual haunt and hope, like always, that nobody will touch them.
“The guy you like,” she says. “The one you had Josie keep tabs on?”
Dammit, I should have known Josie would talk. “I only did that so I won’t cross paths with him.” I wave a hand, hoping she’ll drop the subject. “He’s bad news.”
“Really. Raine Storm, Ocean Storm’s brother? He’s a hottie. You said that.”
Shit. I must have talked about him during those days when I was still feverish, after I left Ocean’s apartment.
“And an asshole,” I say absently, checking the concealing cream and glitter tubes Mayleen got me. I hope the shade of the concealer blends with my pale skin, otherwise I’ll look like a lab experiment gone wrong, plus it will only work where I’m not inked. Let’s hope the ink will hide the rest. “I’m sure I said that, too.”
“Doesn’t ring any bells.”
“First time we met, he basically said I look like a hooker, and asked if I’m proud of it.”
She laughs. “I hope you said yes.”
“You bet I did.” I grin at her as I get up, a grunt escaping me at the sharp ache in my back and ribs. That motherfucker Simon.
“Jason—”
“I’m all right.” I wave her away, restore my grin and wink at her. “Are we done? Can I go now, or would you like to grill me some more?”
“Just looking out for you, kiddo.”
It’s so funny her saying that. She barely reaches my shoulder. I’ve just… never felt young. Always old. Always responsible for my gang. It’s been that way ever since I can remember, and I dunno who, if anyone, put me in charge, but here I am.
In charge of their safety, and their future. Sometimes I think the weight of the responsibility will fucking crush me, especially these days. These past few months have been brutal. I wish I could take a vacation from my damn life, from being me.
Of course, I’ll probably take a permanent one, soon, when Simon realizes what I’m doing—and why am I still here?
“Gonna have a smoke before I go back to my corner, selling my hot body for pennies to sweaty men,” I mutter, “so if you’ll excuse me…”
“Go,” she says, and presses a small package into my hand before pushing me out the door. “And I’ll look out for your hot asshole crush, too.”
“He’s not my crush!” I yell at the door as it slams shut, her peal of laughter echoing.
Fuck. He’s not.
