I tell myself the whole walk over.
Fifteen thousand dollars. Marco’s face. The deadline. Three weeks and whatever comes after he runs out of patience. I need to win tonight. I have to win tonight. The alternative is working every shift the diner will give me for the next six months and still coming up short, or selling my hair — all of it, every curl — to some wig company for a fraction of what I need, or stealing from a man whose son I’m currently walking across the dark lawn to sleep with.
I have to win.
I push open the pool house door.
Cain is already there.
Hair still wet, dark strands falling across his forehead like he came straight from the shower. Sweatpants sitting low on his hips, grey, leaving absolutely nothing to imagination and he knows it, he has always known exactly wh
