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“I disagree. You made a mistake. A lot of people do. Up until now, your records have been clean and you've already got a job. That counts for something.”

Fucking hell.

I blow out a shaky breath, still unable to meet his gaze. This almost sounds too good to be true. People don't go around helping others out of the goodness of their hearts without expecting something in return. At least, not in my experience. Favors always come with a price. “So what do I have to do?”

“I need you to come down to the office tomorrow to meet your probation officer, and you have to promise you’ll show up to court looking your best. No skipping, and no getting cold feet.”

“I won’t skip,” I say automatically. “I’m fucked if I do.”

“You’re fucked if you don’t take this seriously,” he counters, handing me his business card. “But I think you will.”

Dragging my hands through my hair, I tongue my lip piercing anxiously. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. I’ll try.”

Kingston’s smile is small but genuine as he gets to his feet. “That’s all I need from you, Mr. Peterson. We'll be in touch.”

“Call me Dev,” I mumble, shaking his hand this time when he offers it. That makes him flash his perfect white teeth.

“Dev it is. And you can call me Blake.”

With that, he grabs his briefcase and makes his way out, turning heads as he goes. My gaze swings to the bar, where Juanita is fanning her face behind his back, and I chuckle despite myself. She makes me laugh.

I think I might actually… like working here. Sometimes. Probably would like it a lot better if the money I made actually went into my pockets, but maybe it's better if it doesn't. For now, at least. I'd only spend it on shit I shouldn't, anyway.

That thought has my spine snapping straight. A sinking realization slams into me.

Holy shit. Did Christian do this to help me? The job, keeping track of my money, letting me sleep on his couch? Was this an act of kindness on his part or something more?

Part of me wants to believe that it is, but that darker side of my heart refuses to. I wasn't lying when I said favors always come with a price. Those who get used, use in return—rinse and repeat. Nobody's purely selfless.

And if Christian truly did this for me just because he wanted to, it's only a matter of time before that price comes knocking.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Devon

Christian’s quiet when he picks me up at the end of my shift. Not in the angry way he was this morning, but more… contemplative, like he's lost in thought.

Pale Moonlight by Dayseeker plays low on the radio during the drive toward his apartment. I lean my head against the seat, utterly exhausted. With any luck, I'll have worn myself out enough to sleep tonight. Not counting on it, though.

“I need you to do something for me,” he says suddenly, interrupting the long silence between us.

And there it is.

I roll my head over to scowl at him. “Work was great, honey, thanks for asking.”

His lips twitch when he pulls a pack of smokes out of the center console, tossing it onto my lap. “Light one up and chill, grump ass.”

Opening the pack, my brows jump high when I find a fat blunt and a lighter inside. “Seriously? You know I'm an addict, right?”

“It's just weed,” he grumbles. “Not like I handed you a fucking crack rock, fool.”

“Taylor doesn't smoke weed.”

“He never did coke. Still smokes cigarettes, though. Sobriety can look different for everyone, you know.”

I pause with the lighter lit, considering his words. That’s true, I suppose. Anything could be a drug if you let it—food, porn, sex. People. We don't get to choose what our brains latch onto.

Kingston Blake's voice echoes through my head again.