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“I—”
“Yes?”
“That’s a book.”
“Aware, Penelope.” He crumples the page in his fist and drops it in the food bag. When my jaw doesn’t bounce back from the floor, he offers a nonchalant shrug and slides a French fry into his mouth, whole.
“Not like you’re going to return it, anyway.”
My eyes slant. “How’d you know that?”
“It says Property of Atlantic City Public Library on the spine.”
Oh, right.
“Why are you reading that shit, anyway? Want a job in IT?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Don’t think so?”
I don’t know why I choose the truth over a sarcastic retort, because Neanderthals who treat books like thatdon’t deserve honesty. “I play this…game.”
His laugh is gruff. “Of course you do.”
“I go into the library, close my eyes, and pick a random For Dummies book,” I continue, ignoring him. “Whatever I choose, I tell myself I haveto read.”
“Why?”
“Because, like I told you, I’m trying to go straight,” I say, exasperation shading my tone. Under the heat of his curious stare, I smooth down my top and take a deep breath. “I’m trying to find something I’m interested in. Something I can make a career out of.” I glance sideways at him. “Don’t want to work for you for the rest of my life, do I?”
Amusement brews under his tongue; he presses his lips together in an attempt to squash it. When he takes another bite of his burger. I get another hot flush.
“What makes you think you’ll find your career in a For Dummies book?”
“It’s wishful thinking, mostly,” I admit. “I’ve tried other jobs, but nothing seems to stick.”
“Like?”
“Well, I worked at a drive-thru, as a store clerk at the mall, a stripper, a receptionist…”
My words trail off when Raphael’s forearm tenses against mine.
“Stripper.”
His tone is calm. Too calm for comfort. Just one word, two syllables, but it soaks through my skin and crystallizes my blood. It’s near-impossible to feign indifference as I drag my gaze up to meet his, but it doesn’t stop me from trying.
“Yes.”
The darkness that licks the walls of his irises is unnerving. “You were a stripper.”
This time, I can only manage a nod.
A tiny flicker of something nerve-racking passes through his gaze. He scrapes his teeth across his bottom lip as he flicks a glance up to the roof of his car.
When his eyes fall down to mine, they’re blacker than an oil spill and just as dangerous.
“Were you any good at it?” he asks tensely.
I jut my jaw in defiance. “Yes.”
He lets out a dark huff of breath. Leaning back in his oversized seat, he strokes his chin and runs a slow, all-seeing eye up my thighs and over my chest. By the time it rests on my face, all of my nerve-endings are on fire, my lungs unable to keep up with tense breaths.
“So show me.”
