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Rage makes my vision go black at the edges. “What do you mean,no? You’re gonna hold me captive here?”
His mouth barely moves, but there’s a glimmer of life in his eyes, as if he’s thinking about it.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I had to take care of something.”
I blink. That’s not what I was expecting.
There’s more there—I see shadows shifting in those eyes of his. Beck’s so full of secrets I’m not sure he even knows all of them himself, but he isn’t going to tell me a thing.
I hold out my hand. “Great. Give me my keys.”
“I’ve got an idea if you would like to come in and discuss it.” His tone is formal, but he raises a single mocking brow. “Calmly.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. Can I at least have my phone back?”
He walks to my trunk and grabs my bags. He knew every step I’d take. “It’s in my nightstand.”
“I’d better not find it on top of used condoms or something.”
He looks at me over his shoulder as he heads for the stairs. “Why would I putusedcondoms in my nightstand?”
“I don’t know. Because men are disgusting?”
“Well, yeah. But that’s not even logical.”
I follow him inside. He puts my bags back in my room. He apparently has a lot more faith in this little idea of his than I do, which probably involves more rehab.
I flop on the couch with an exhale as he reemerges. “So, what’s your big plan?”
He sits at the other end. His tongue sweeps over his teeth. “You could work for me. Just until you find something.”
Not where I thought he was headed.
And while I’d be fine working in a bar, I can’t believehethinks so. “Work for you?” I repeat. “Like...waiting tables?”
He laughs to himself. “God, no.”
Irritation is a tiny pebble in my chest, grating. He’s trying to help me, but that immediate, arrogantGod, nomakes me want to punch him hard in the face. “I think I’mcapableof waiting tables, asshole.”
“I don’t see customer service being your strong suit. But I’ve got some paperwork that’s, uh, kinda fucked up. I need help.”
I wish I could hold onto my irritation, but it vanishes despite my best efforts, replaced with concern. If Beck is admitting this to me, his paperwork is notkindafucked up. It’s exceedingly, ridiculously fucked up. “I assume we’re talking about the kind of shit that could get you put in prison?”
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his broad thighs, looking at the floor rather than me as he answers. “I’ve pretty much just been making up numbers when I file taxes. I’ve kept receipts, but that’s it.”
“For last year, you mean?”
He winces as he exhales. “For the last four years.”
“Beck,” I groan. “It’s a sad day when I’m chastising someone else about responsibility, but Jesus.Four years?”
Both hands tug at his hair. “The accountant my mother used died, and everyone I talked with after wanted me to use fucking software and input stuff, and I just didn’t have time. I should have hired someone to deal with it, but I was worried about entrusting my finances to a stranger.” He leans his head back and closes his eyes. “I realize you’re capable of doing much better things, but it’s definitely something youcoulddo if you were willing and if working near the bar isn’t a problem.”
I loathe the way that makes me sound, as if I’m some kind of loose cannon who can’t control herself anywhere. Maybe I loathe it, though, because it could be true. Back in the day, Iwasa bit of a loose cannon.
“I’m not an alcoholic,” I reply. “I can work near a bar without drinking as easily as you. Though I’m going to need a can of Lysol before I set foot in that office. I know what you do in there.”
He frowns. “I’m not that bad.”
