“Blood type?” I ask.
“B positive.” He sets his empty glass aside and crosses his arms. After a beat he grins.
“O negative.” I give him the middle finger.
Rupert shrugs. “It was short notice. Give me another day or so and I’ll know how many times you’ve sold sperm and plasma to pay for food and tobacco.”
“I don’t use tobacco. It’s not,what Jesus would do,” I say, but I make a mental note to check into selling my sperm. If I can get paid to jerk off, what’s the point of ever looking for another job?
“Good to know, Flynn. But I reserve the right to drug test you whenever I see fit,” he says.
“Whatever, dude. What’s the deal with your wife?”
He scratches his clean-shaven jaw. “She needs a muse.”
After a beat, I nod slowly.
“Do you know what a muse is?” he asks.
“Of course, I do.”
Nope.Not a clue.
“Great. You’ll hang out with her.”
“You know I already have a job. Right? And I have an interview next week for a mechanic at Smith’s.”
“You did. But now you have me and only one job option.”
“What? No. Dude, I’ve been waiting forever. And I finally have a shot at this job with Smith’s. Sorry I made your weak heart skip a few beats by taking your car for a little joyride, but you don’t own me.”
“Very well. We’ll let the police handle it.” He grabs his phone from the desk, taps the screen several times, then brings it to his ear.
Goddammit!
“Stop,” I say, rubbing my forehead before blowing out a hard breath. “What does this muse thing pay?”
He pushes off the desk, then slides his phone into the inside pocket of his jacket. “Flynn, as long as you do your job for me, I will take care of everything you need. If you don’t do your job for me, then you still won’t need money because you’ll be in jail. Questions before I introduce you to my wife?”
“How long do I have to work for you?”
“Until my wife finds inspiration.”
“Inspiration for what?”
He heads toward the door. “To live.”
Chapter Two
Flynn
“Ya ever thoughtabout renovating this place?” I ask as we climb the split staircase to the second floor. This house looks like it should have velvet ropes and plaques that explain its dull history. Everything is hand-carved wood, stone, and decorative moldings. No carpet, just huge Oriental rugs and marble steps that echo every time his polished shoes hit them.
I slow my pace, neck stretched toward the stained-glass dome skylight high above the stairs.
“This was one of the first houses built in—” Rupert begins the history lesson.
“Modern society?” I ask, cutting him off.
