Chapter One
Bandit
Emerson
My life used to revolve around money, but I stepped off that carousel a long time ago.
I cradle my cell between my cheek and shoulder while handing the coffee shop guy a five-dollar bill. “I don’t care if he’s loaded. Quit trying to set me up.”
Jenny’s been playing matchmaker ever since I started babysitting for her. “He’s a banker,” she says, her voice sing-songy.
“I don’t care if he’s got the freaking keys to the US Treasury.”
“He’s got a killer body. You should see him without a shirt on.”
“I haven’t met a guy I’m interested in seeing naked.” I lean over to grab the cup with EMERSON written in bold black marker.
“I can help you out with that.” The guy handing me change glances at my cleavage, tempting me to tug the V-neck of the Camberton College T-shirt higher to conceal my girls.
I ignore him and grab my cappuccino in one hand and my ten-pound textbook in the other. “No means no,” I say into the phone, putting steel in my voice like I’m threatening to end our friendship. “Find some other lucky friend to go with Mr. Gold Card.”
She snorts. “Picky people are lonely people.”
Her tone indicates I’m stupid and stubborn. I’m really only stubborn. “Bye.”
I place my phone on the table and open my Economic Statistics book. For one second, I try to remember the reason for declaring an econ major. Oh yeah. Because smart people don’t major in booty shaking, which was how I earned money last summer at Earl’s Temptations.
My phone vibrates. I flip it over to see who’s calling. The unfamiliar number causes a surge of what-can-it-be-now panic through my veins. Only a few people call me, and it’s never good to answer a strange number at seven o’ass-crack-of-dawn.
Most likely it’s linked to Gabby, my little sister, who is determined to be the death of me. Seriously. The last unknown call I took was from the emergency room when she sliced open her ankle while bungee jumping with some idiot boy who was pretending to be a grown man. The distressed call from her put a gray hair on my head. I found it under the florescent bulbs in the bathroom. Concrete gray and right in the part line of my dark hair.
“Hello.” I breathe in and fill my lungs with crisis courage.
“Emerson?” The male voice is uncertain.
“Yeah? Who is this?”
“It’s me,” he says, like he knows me.
Come again? A static shock of familiarity and pleasure hits my senses, waking me up faster than a double shot of espresso.
“Dylan.” His deep voice rumbles in my ear with a touch of irritation. Dylan, who acts like I don’t exist 99 percent of the time?
“Hi.” I wait for his response. When he doesn’t say anything, I freak. “I didn’t touch that thing on your dresser.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “Okay. That’s a lie. I threw away that skank’s panties because cleaning your house doesn’t include—”
“Emerson.”
“Yeah?” My skin tingles. I’ve waited months for him to call, but something is definitely not right.
“I need you to do something important for me. A favor.”
I should record this moment. If I did that journaling type of thing I would. For now, I savor whatever is coming. This is the guy who protested when his roommate Jordy hired me to clean their house.
“What kind of favor?” I ask.
“I’m in jail.”
“Excuse me? You wanna repeat that?”
He waits a beat. “You heard me.” His tone is one shade shy of embarrassed.
There’s a faint buzzing sound inside my head. One million and one questions zoom around my brain—maybe they’re the source of the buzzing. “Let me get this straight. You want me to bail you out?”
“Yes.”
“Not one of your roommates or something?” This doesn’t make sense. There’s a good chance the freaking apocalypse is happening at this very moment.
“No. I need you to post bond. Jordy’s speaking about his company at some brainiac software conference today. Collin isn’t picking up his cell.”
Silence.
“Are you coming or not?” He exhales, a tired sigh.
Background noise bleeds over the line and I imagine him in jail with the hardened criminals eyeballing his suit and tie and ass.
I glance down at my econ book. I am so going to fail this exam. “Yeah. I’ll have to get a bondsman and then I’m on my way.”
He doesn’t even question how I know the process for bailing someone out.
I lose $150 and half an hour to the bail bondsman.
I glare at the county jail’s parking meter. The metal thief requires an ungodly amount of change that I scrounge together from my coffee fund. My one luxury. Inside the building, I wait my turn behind a middle-aged couple signing in to visit someone.
Paperwork completed, I sit in the waiting room and read the public service announcements taped to the walls. This will be the first time I’ve really talked to Dylan since our disastrous night of making out—that one night constitutes the 1 percent of the time he hasn’t ignored me.
He walks out looking like a battle survivor—one swollen eye, messed up hair, and a busted lip. Color me surprised and turned on. I look around for signs of the apocalypse. “You. Look. Terrible.”
His eyes narrow. “Ready,” he says like I’m his personal chauffeur.
What a tool. “You’re welcome.” I shake my head and walk to the exit. I struggle for a second with the heavy station door. He reaches out a hand and opens it.
“Go ahead,” he says, his sharp tone jabbing me.
A cop escorts a prisoner in handcuffs past us. The guy in the orange jumpsuit examines me, then Dylan, with equal opportunity leering.
I pick up my pace across the parking lot and glance at him. “Who decorated your face?”
“Some mouthy guy at a bar.”
“Oh?”
Dylan makes a grunting noise that tells me he will not be elaborating.
I slide into the driver’s seat and wait for Dylan to get in and buckle up. It’s a chance for me to study his face without it looking like I’m actually...well, studying him. The damage can’t hide the handsome factor. Thick, dark hair always trimmed to the perfect length. Stubble at a perfect five o’clock shadow. Perfect white teeth that gleam when his lips part in that perfect, wicked smile.
It’s his eyes and that knowing smile that probably get him a name and number wherever he goes.
Beware naive women everywhere. This guy is a perfect player.
The drive to his house is silent as a courtroom waiting on a verdict.
It’s a forty-minute drive from the station. Forty minutes and no thank you from Dylan. Forty minutes of stale beer and silent anger. Forty minutes of not talking about his charge for drunk and disorderly conduct.
Forty minutes of me thinking about the night three months ago, the night that ended in the hot-hot-melting-hot make-out session. A twelve on the ten-point sizzle scale.
Unspoken regret for forty minutes.
I pull into his driveway and park on the side like I do every week when I come to clean. I get out and swing my purse strap over my shoulder.