my heel and head back in the direction of the gas station.
I gritted my teeth at my weakness and refused to turn around and see if he was talking to Cohen.
I didn’t let the pain of traipsing across the near desert in the increasing heat with my feet burning inside my heels slow me down. I didn’t let the matching pain in my chest show on my face, either.
When I stumbled at little over a rock, a strong hand gripped my elbow and righted me, and I realized he’d caught up to me. I shook off his grip and waited for him to comment, but he said nothing. I picked up my pace. The crunch of rock under his feet and the scent of him—sweat and dust and raw masculinity—made me acutely aware that Painter was right behind me, keeping pace but not overtaking me and not walking beside me. Which made me feel even worse.
I brushed off the misplaced guilt and used my anger at myself to feed my renewed resentment of Cohen Blue.
I hated him with a fury like no other. I hated the way he pervaded every bit of my life, the way he made me question my self-worth and the way after even six years away from him, he still managed to destroy any good thing I might have a chance at.
A chance.
Was that what I wanted Painter to be?
Without meaning to, I glanced in his direction.
His eyes were fixed on me, too, and they were full of hurt. I turned away quickly. Because for once, it was easier to dwell on the past than it was to think about the future.
I could remember the moment I realized my true loathing of Cohen Blue as clearly as if had happened last week instead of eight years earlier.
I woke up knowing that it was the fourth anniversary of having no parents. A lot of kids my age—sixteen going on seventeen—would’ve been thrilled with the luxury of not having to answer to someone at every step. But I wished my mom was alive, and I wished I knew if my father was. My life lacked closure and structure and any semblance of normalcy.
I had registered myself for school, not because anyone made me, but because it was one of the only things that kept me in touch with reality. I signed all my own permission slips and forged every note. Anything to keep Cohen Blue from acting as a father figure in my life.
But my independence was an illusion.
Four years of faking it.
And I craved something more.
My feet slapped down on Cohen’s hardwood floor as I slipped out of bed to get dressed. I kept my room deliberately impersonal, and not a trace of myself marked the walls or lined the shelves. No rock star posters. No mementos or trinkets. I even kept my books hidden under the desk instead of on top of it, and my clothes were tucked away in a nondescript chest at the foot of the bed.
I took a glance around, finding solace in the blankness of the room, and took a breath before making my way to Cohen’s office, just a few doors down the hall. I didn’t bother to check the time. The man never slept.
I knocked politely, and his cool voice called out from behind the door.
“Come.”
I swung the door open, then closed it quietly behind me, and fought off a shiver. He kept this room unbearably cold.
“I want a job,” I stated without preamble.
“McWhatever is hiring,” he replied with typical indifference.
“You’d let me work outside of the business?” I asked, unable to hide my surprise.
“I let you go to school, don’t I?”
“You give me an armed escort there and back.”
“For your own protection.”
Right, I thought, but I kept my sarcasm in check.
“You wouldn’t be able to have your guards sit out in the parking lot while I worked. Someone would call the cops,” I pointed out. “I’d get fired on the first day.”
Cohen sighed. “So what are you suggesting?”
“I’ll work for you.”
It pained me to say it. But I’d thought it through carefully.
“You want to work for me ?” Surprise was evident in his voice.
I forced a nod. “I hadn’t considered that I might have another option.”
“You don’t
I gritted my teeth at my weakness and refused to turn around and see if he was talking to Cohen.
I didn’t let the pain of traipsing across the near desert in the increasing heat with my feet burning inside my heels slow me down. I didn’t let the matching pain in my chest show on my face, either.
When I stumbled at little over a rock, a strong hand gripped my elbow and righted me, and I realized he’d caught up to me. I shook off his grip and waited for him to comment, but he said nothing. I picked up my pace. The crunch of rock under his feet and the scent of him—sweat and dust and raw masculinity—made me acutely aware that Painter was right behind me, keeping pace but not overtaking me and not walking beside me. Which made me feel even worse.
I brushed off the misplaced guilt and used my anger at myself to feed my renewed resentment of Cohen Blue.
I hated him with a fury like no other. I hated the way he pervaded every bit of my life, the way he made me question my self-worth and the way after even six years away from him, he still managed to destroy any good thing I might have a chance at.
A chance.
Was that what I wanted Painter to be?
Without meaning to, I glanced in his direction.
His eyes were fixed on me, too, and they were full of hurt. I turned away quickly. Because for once, it was easier to dwell on the past than it was to think about the future.
I could remember the moment I realized my true loathing of Cohen Blue as clearly as if had happened last week instead of eight years earlier.
I woke up knowing that it was the fourth anniversary of having no parents. A lot of kids my age—sixteen going on seventeen—would’ve been thrilled with the luxury of not having to answer to someone at every step. But I wished my mom was alive, and I wished I knew if my father was. My life lacked closure and structure and any semblance of normalcy.
I had registered myself for school, not because anyone made me, but because it was one of the only things that kept me in touch with reality. I signed all my own permission slips and forged every note. Anything to keep Cohen Blue from acting as a father figure in my life.
But my independence was an illusion.
Four years of faking it.
And I craved something more.
My feet slapped down on Cohen’s hardwood floor as I slipped out of bed to get dressed. I kept my room deliberately impersonal, and not a trace of myself marked the walls or lined the shelves. No rock star posters. No mementos or trinkets. I even kept my books hidden under the desk instead of on top of it, and my clothes were tucked away in a nondescript chest at the foot of the bed.
I took a glance around, finding solace in the blankness of the room, and took a breath before making my way to Cohen’s office, just a few doors down the hall. I didn’t bother to check the time. The man never slept.
I knocked politely, and his cool voice called out from behind the door.
“Come.”
I swung the door open, then closed it quietly behind me, and fought off a shiver. He kept this room unbearably cold.
“I want a job,” I stated without preamble.
“McWhatever is hiring,” he replied with typical indifference.
“You’d let me work outside of the business?” I asked, unable to hide my surprise.
“I let you go to school, don’t I?”
“You give me an armed escort there and back.”
“For your own protection.”
Right, I thought, but I kept my sarcasm in check.
“You wouldn’t be able to have your guards sit out in the parking lot while I worked. Someone would call the cops,” I pointed out. “I’d get fired on the first day.”
Cohen sighed. “So what are you suggesting?”
“I’ll work for you.”
It pained me to say it. But I’d thought it through carefully.
“You want to work for me ?” Surprise was evident in his voice.
I forced a nod. “I hadn’t considered that I might have another option.”
“You don’t
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