"Riley Miller. And before you run your background check I'll save you time. I'm twenty. I aged out of extended foster care seventeen days ago. I have a cosmetology license and no family. No address. No safety net. No fucking options." She spits out the last word as if she wishes it were a slap instead. "This auction was my business plan. You want to judge me? Save it. I already know what I am."
“And what are you?”
“I’m a woman willing to do whatever I have to do to survive.”
She doesn't recognize the mirror. My own reflection stares back at me. Would my choices have been any different? Her gaze locks onto mine. Searching. We circle, predator and predator, each seeking the soft underbelly.
"How much," I ask, "did you expect to make?"
She crosses her arms over her chest, drawing herself up to her full height. "No less than seventy-two thousand."
“Very specific.”
"I did the math. I'm going to open a hair salon," she says, reading the question I did not ask. "That gives me two years if I budget right. Sleep in the shop. Build clientele. Hire good people in year two not year one. Scale fast. Become independent."
“You don’t care what you have to sell to make that money?”
“Did you?”
Oh so she does see me. I lock her dark brown gaze when most people look away. She stares with the determination of a person who thinks they have nothing to lose. Foolish girl. There is always more you can lose.
I open the safe. Inside, bundles of cash. I count out five thousand and hold it to her. She looks at it like I've offered her poison.
"Go," I say. "Open your shop. Stay out of my world."
She doesn't reach for it.
"Take it," I order.
She does. And then she crumples the bills in her fist. "This won't even cover a month's rent on a good space," she says. "Not in a neighborhood where clients with money would frequent. Not with deposits and utilities."
Stubborn fucking girl. I should admire her pragmatism. Instead I am furious. Furious that she is right. Furious that I gave her an escape route and she sees it for the dead end it is.
"How much did you expect?" The words grind between my teeth. Behind me, Dmitri sucks in air. Sharp. Shocked. I don't turn.
"Seventy-two. I told you."
I look at Dmitri and extend my hand. “Another five.”
He produces it from the emergency roll he carries. I add it to the first stack and press it into her unwilling palm.
"This is ten thousand," I say. "Get a smaller business. Scale faster. Don’t hire anyone the first year. Wait another five before you move to the fancy neighborhood. You’ll do fine."
She stares at the money. Her jaw works. She wants to throw it in my face. Pride wars with hunger behind those dark eyes. Hunger always wins. It is the only law I have ever trusted.
"I don't want your charity," she says, but her voice cracks.
Dmitri barks a half-laugh. No one sees me as benevolent. "It’s not charity. You lost your investment tonight through no fault of your own." I hold my hand up to halt her protest. "Stop." The word is sharp. Final. She snaps her mouth shut, eyes blazing. "Enough." I say. "I paid ten thousand dollars for a woman and didn’t receive so much as a kiss in return. Be grateful."
She takes the money. Her fingers scratch my hands as she restrains herself from snatching the bills. Her brows are lowered and the beautiful bow of her lips is pulled tighter than a violin string.
Her glare singes me. I wouldn’t hand her a gun right now. I step back. "You have audacity," I say. "Audacity is a weapon. Don’t dull it by pointing it at someone you can’t touch. Save that energy for your business ambitions. Go be someone. And remember what I said: stay out of this world."
For a moment she stares at me. An old killer with bloody hands and a dead soul trying to play saint. She isn't fooled. But she is not entirely unimpressed either.
She doesn’t thank me. Laughter bubbles up in my chest. I crush it. But I'm too busy admiring the square set of her shoulders and the high loft of her head as she marches out. Her long braids fall in a crimson veil to the dip of her ass. I was always an ass man. A sigh escapes. When this girl was still in diapers.
She walks out. The door doesn't slam—too much control—but the sharp click stabs just the same. I stand in the office breathing her air. Jasmine and defiance.
