The girl behind the register looked us up and down as we approached, clearly confused by our presence. Tiny stood straighter when we got to the glass counter and tapped his knuckles twice on it. “We need underwear,” he announced, like he was the king of fucking Scotland.

The girl raised her perfectly manicured eyebrows and flicked her fake blonde hair away from her eyes. “For your mom?” she asked him.

I cleared my throat before Tiny could respond.

Her eyes darted to mine, a slight smile forming on her bright pink lips. She said, “Maybe you should try Target?”

“You’re a bitch,” Tiny mumbled.

She gasped.

I pulled out my money clip and dropped it on the counter. “Just give us whatever that will buy.”

The girl’s eyes widened when she saw the wad of cash. She hesitated to pick it up like she somehow knew it was drug money. Her scowl turned to a smirk as she started to count it. “There’s almost three grand here,” she whispered. Her gaze lifted, her smile had become huge. “Size?”

“I don’t know. Small?”

She rolled her eyes.

Tiny spoke up. “Size four in underwear—” He looked over at me. “What bra size?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

He released a chuckle. “32C.”

It was my turn to scowl. “How the fuck do you know?”

He shrugged. “I asked her.”

“Oh.”

“What?” he said, shooing the clerk away with his hand. “You think I’d just somehow guessed? I’m not you, Nate. I don’t stare at her tits all day.”

“Fuck off.”

Bailey

Nate and Tiny returned a couple of hours later with cartons of tampons and pads and bags upon bags of socks and underwear. I started to ask why they’d bought so much when Tiny cut me off. “Boss has some news he needs to share. That’ll explain the quantity.”

I looked at Nate quickly, but he was busy on his phone. Avoiding eye contact with either of them, I excused myself to the bathroom and took care of business. When I opened the door, Nate was standing in the doorway, his arms crossed. Instinctively, my gaze dropped. I sensed him move closer, and when I looked up, his hands were above his head, gripping the top of the doorframe. His biceps flexed against the sleeves of his T-shirt, making him more intimidating. I waited for him to break the stare, but he didn’t, and the longer he stood there looking at me, the smaller I felt.

“What—” My voice cracked. I cleared it and tried again. “What are you doing?”

He quirked an eyebrow, his head tilting to the side. Then he did the worst thing possible; he stepped closer, forcing me to take a step back.

I held my breath, not wanting to show how he made me feel. “Where’s Tiny?” I squeaked out, looking over his shoulder.

“Gone.”

“Gone?”

He nodded.

I nodded back.

He sighed.

I released the breath.

“We need to talk, Bailey.”

“Here?”

“You can’t ignore me this way.”

I averted my gaze. “It’s kind of impossible to ignore you when I’m staying at your house.”

“Yet somehow you still manage to do it.”

He had me there. Though I wasn’t ignoring him, I was avoiding him. There was a difference.

I kept my mouth shut.

“Bailey.” He sighed again while he leaned back against the door, shoving his hands in his pocket as he dipped his head. Then he peered up at me through his lashes. “Have I done something to make you afraid of me because—”

“You mean besides holding a gun to my head?”

His eyes met mine.

I rested on the edge of the counter, balling my fists at my sides.

“So you are afraid of me?” he asked.

“Yes. No. Maybe.”

The corners of his mouth lifted and he bit down on his bottom lip, trying to cover his smile. But he was too late, I’d already succumbed to the full effect of it. “So…” he said, pulling a hand out of his pocket and running it through his hair. “You’re kind of, yet not, but maybe afraid of me?”

I’m glad he found it amusing because I sure as hell didn’t. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I knew what I wanted to say. I wanted to tell him the truth, but I didn’t know how. “I’m just waiting.”

“Waiting?”

I eyed him quickly, before looking away again. “I’m just waiting for you to tell me that it’s time to leave. And also…” I trailed off.

“Also what?”

I shrugged. “I’m waiting for you to make me pay.”

“Pay?”

“For my debt to you… for not killing me. And for giving me a roof over my head and feeding me and…”

“You don’t owe me shit,” he said, tone clipped. He stepped closer to me, so close I could smell him.

I stood straighter, my fingers gripping the counter behind me. Raising my chin, I said, “Nothing in this world comes for nothing. I’m just waiting for you to tell me what you want.”

“I don’t want anything from you.”

“Maybe I do,” I said. “Maybe I need to have a reason for you being so kind to me. For giving me all of this… so just tell me what it is you want.”

His eyes narrowed. “What is it you think I want from you, Bailey?”

“Sex. Isn’t that what all guys want?”

He stayed silent, shaking his head at me. He looked pissed, and I had no idea why. Without responding, he turned on his heels and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

The tension left me as soon as he was gone.

But I knew it wasn’t over.

He was angry.

I was avoiding.

There was no way it could end well.

11

Bailey

I tossed and turned in bed for what felt like hours, although I had no real clue. There were no clocks in the house. This I realized after looking through every room in the entire house. Including the one bedroom that looked like it hadn’t been touched in years. The house was big, bigger than the one I’d grown up in, with open kitchen and living areas. There were three bedrooms, all connected via a hallway that came off from the living room. The décor seemed old, at least from what I could tell, and definitely nothing like what I’d expect a guy like Nate to live in. But it was comfortable, homey even.

With a sigh, I kicked off the sheets and finally succumbed to the guilt I felt from our earlier conversation. I got up and knocked on his bedroom door, and waited for a response. When it didn’t come, I knocked again.

I heard shuffling on the other side, and then footsteps approaching, and when he opened the door, I took a step back, my eyes locked on his bare chest.

“What’s up?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“Were you sleeping?” My gaze trailed down his chest to each individual dip of his abs. His sweats hung low on his hips; the band of his boxers visible. Then I did what I always did when I got nervous or scared; I started counting. My eyes moving from one outlined muscle to the other.

I got to four before he said, “Bailey?”