“It’s noon.”
“Dude, I work at a bar,” I remind him. “I didn’t get home until after three.” With another yawn, I arch my back and stretch like a cat on the lumpy mattress beneath me.
Man, it feels good.
Not the mattress. The stretch.
I’m gonna miss this room. Sure, I get to take my bed with me, but these four walls have been a constant in my life since freshman year. The reminder I’m leaving it and will be homeless in the next few weeks is depressing at best. I applied to two more doctor’s offices this week. Neither even bothered to interview me. I’m seriously screwed.
Shaking off the morose thought, I ask, “How did you get my number anyway?”
“I have my ways.”
“Of course you do. You’re Henry Buchanan,” I chirp, letting out another yawn. “Suave businessman with a side of sugar daddy. You always get what you want, don’t you?”
Silence fills the speaker, and I pull the phone away from my ear.
“Professor?” I pause, curious if I crossed a line or something. “You still there?”
“How many boys did you give my number to?” he asks.
“I dunno? At one point, I was basically handing it out like candy. Now, is there a reason you’re calling me this early?”
“I would hardly call noon early,” he counters. “But yes. I have a proposition for you.”
“What kind of proposition?”
“You will be coming to work for me.”
With a huff of amusement, I shift onto my stomach, kicking my feet into the air and crossing my ankles as I register his words. “Well, for starters, that didn’t exactly sound like a proposition. It sounded more like an order. And second, did your short attention span already shift from the hockey industry to the medical field, or are you smoking something?”
“Despite my IT department wiping your naked photos from the internet, I’m afraid you already fucked over that particular career path if you plan to stay in Lockwood Heights,” he informs me.
My head pulls back. “Ouch.”
“But,” he continues, “I found an alternate opportunity you show promise with.”
“Wait. Back up. You wiped the photos from the internet?” I ask, convinced I need to clean out my ears or pinch myself because I’m either going deaf or must still be sleeping.
“Someone had to,” he mutters.
My jaw drops, and I sit up fully in bed, letting the hot pink sheets fall around my waist. Because there’s something about this conversation. About him. The way I can feel him judging me through the freaking speakers. Like he did me a favor despite the fact I never asked for his help, and it pisses me off.
“Did you see them?” I demand. “The photos?”
His silence is the only proof I need to know I’m right. He’s seen them. He knows what I look like naked or at least almost naked. I wonder if he’s seen the videos too. Probably. I wonder if he liked them. If they turned him on the same way they’ve turned on countless other men.
Gross.
Not Henry. The other men.
The ones who don’t leave me alone. Who think they have a right to my body simply because they’ve purchased a few photos of me from a website.
The reminder makes me feel dirty, and I pray Buchanan can’t tell. Because I’m not an idiot. I know it was a dumb idea. I know I should’ve caved and asked my uncle for money instead of uploading inappropriate videos online. But I’m stubborn. And impulsive. And I hate handouts more than almost anything. I hate them even more than the judgment Buchanan manages to hand out in spades, especially whenever I’m around.
“Look, it doesn’t matter if you saw the photos,” I mutter. “I already told you I don’t like handouts.”
“I’m not handing you anything.”
“Last night, you handed me your business card with your personal number on it along with five hundred dollars,” I remind him. “If that isn’t a handout, I don’t know what is.”
“Are you saying you don’t need the money?” he challenges, and dammit, I can almost see the smug look on his face. He already knows the answer. He probably even snooped into my finances and knows exactly how much money I owe on my credit card and student loans, despite what I earned from selling pictures of myself before giving it all to charity. My dad literally died because he borrowed money from a loan shark for my schooling, but the cash barely covered my first semester at LAU. And it’s not like I could drop out. Not when my dad sacrificed his life so I could attend my dream school.
Fuck.
My head falls, and I close my eyes, melting into the hot pink sheets. “I can figure this out on my own,” I tell him, feeling like a broken record. But it doesn’t erase my unease. My problems. My impending eviction.
I’m so screwed.
“You have been figuring this out on your own for years,” he counters. “How far has it gotten you, Mia?”
Wow.
His words hit like water splashing into a hot pan. They sear me, but I don’t acknowledge the burn as I push myself up again and bring my knees to my chest. “It’s gotten me far enough.”
“Put in your two weeks’ notice at SeaBird.”
“I’m not quitting SeaBird.”
“Why not?”
“Because I like my job.”
“They don’t give you enough hours. They don’t offer health insurance. They don’t––”
“Have a good day, Professor.”
“I’m not your––”
The call cuts off as I hang up on him, but the phone rings a second later.
I ignore the first call, but when it rings again, I give in.
“What do you want?” I ask, cradling my phone between my ear and shoulder as I pick at my cuticles. I should probably paint my nails again. The black polish is chipped and dull.
“Fine, you can keep your job at SeaBird as long as they will allow you to travel,” Buchanan concedes.
“Travel?” My eyes nearly bug out of my head, and I drop my hand to my lap. “Where am I going to travel? I can’t afford––”
“Your job will require you to travel, which means your employer will cover your expenses.”
“What job?” I demand, my exhaustion swallowing me whole.
As if he’s talking to a toddler, Buchanan lets out a slow, controlled breath and explains. “The job I’m trying to offer you if you would listen for one minute—”
“What job are you offering a girl with a nursing degree and no background in sports medicine?” I interrupt.
“I never mentioned sports medicine. You did.”
My brows knit. “So you don’t want to hire me as a nurse?”
“The Lions don’t need a nurse.”
“Exactly what I’ve been telling you!”
“Will you close those pouty lips for two seconds, Mia?” he snips.
My mouth snaps shut.
When he’s satisfied with my silence, he announces, “I want you to be the social media manager for the Lions.”
I blink slowly, attempting to keep up, though my brain feels like it’s been smeared with peanut butter and handed to a bunch of ants.