Fuck me, she’s like a wet dream.

And what makes it even sexier: she doesn’t seem to realize how hot she is. All she did was glare at me, call me names, everything but shove me out the door, and I just stood there, panting like a dog, wanting so badly into her panties I thought I’d self-combust.

Mel is giving me the Look, which means he’s curious working on pissed. I know the signs. I’m very good at telling when someone’s about to get medieval on my ass, and I force my mind off Embers and push my feet to move faster, boner or not.

I need this job. Need this money. Fuck, I need Mel’s approval. I’ve been working here for the past year, and he’s been like a father to me, stern and also kind, like the time when he insisted I take a day off to rest when I was down with a nasty flu and paid me regardless. Kinda like a father.

Not like I can remember mine at all.

“You should get some new clothes, boyo,” Mel grumbles as I ferry tacos and enchiladas from his cooking station to the counter. “Those jeans of yours are falling apart, and your T-shirts aren’t faring much better. People will think I don’t pay you enough.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I’ve known I need new clothes for a while now, but I hesitate. My jeans still hold. My boots can be fixed and keep for another couple of months.

I don’t spend money easily. When you’ve had to choose between buying new shoes or food for the week, anything edible to calm the nagging ache of hunger in your stomach, day after day, month after month, you don’t throw money down the drain.

Then again… Mel is right. I work with people. My clothes have to look okay. Living in this world where a hole in your shoe is an issue, where spending four dollars on a coffee is considered normal, where people debate over brands and quality is still beyond me. I feel like an alien intruder, like a tourist from another universe.

Not that I don’t spend on what matters, I think, my mind finally, thankfully drifting away from a certain pretty, pissy girl. And I know what matters. Since I was a kid I had to make decisions that could well mean life or death. Buying a burger instead of a chocolate. Buying a shirt instead of a toy. Eating fast when there was food. Getting out while things were good before they went south.

Some habits are hard to break.

I chew on this as I serve a lovey-dovey couple their tacos with extra cheese, extra chili, extra zing. I never thought about it this way, but could it be why I like being around Embers so much? Because I do like being around her, despite her temper. She makes me feel calm, in control. Excited but also peaceful.

Being around her isn’t moonlight and roses. She doesn’t pretend to like me, doesn’t make it easy for me. Doesn’t invite me in, or offer me anything. Hell, at her apartment she didn’t even offer me a glass of water. Every little thing I drag from her—a pet name, a smile—is a victory I worked for.

Being around her isn’t easy. It hurts when she treats me like shit, when she seems disgusted with me. Things between us aren’t good, even though we seemed to reach some sort of truce.

And that means I don’t have to run away, forget her name. Not yet, at least, and it’s funny how relieved that makes me. Never felt this way before, and if that’s crazy, well then, frankly, crazy doesn’t scare me anymore.

***

“Earth to Jesse Lee.” Zane pokes at my chest, and I take a step back as he brushes by to grab the tattoo gun. “Trouble?”

“Nah.” I blink, afterimages of Amber in her see-through blouse flashing behind my eyes. “Just a bad night.”

“You seem to be getting a lot of bad nights lately,” Zane says and grabs the drawing from the bench. “Just saying, man.”

I rub a hand over my face, try hard to find my calm. “My roommates were having a sort of party when I came home.”

It didn’t help that I kept dreaming of Amber and waking up with my hand down my briefs, stroking myself. Can’t stop picturing her pouty mouth, imagining what it’d be like to touch her, fuck her. Kiss her, suck on her soft lips.

Hell.

“Fucker, are you even listening to me?”

“Yeah.” I run a hand over my closely-cropped hair and sigh. “What?”

Zane chuckles and shakes his head. “I’m saying your jeans have holes so big I can almost see your balls, and that’s not something I wanna experience.” His eyes narrow when I wince. “What’s going on, J? If it’s money you need…”

“No, I don’t need any goddamn fucking money.” I snap my mouth shut. What the hell’s wrong with me? I scrub a hand over my face. “Sorry, Z-man. I just can’t take—”

“—pity? Charity? Well, it’s neither.” His jaw is clenched tight, and a seed of apprehension shoots roots inside my chest. “Try worry, fucker. That’s what it is, and hell if I’m ever gonna apologize for worrying about you.”

I lean back on the bench and grip its edge until my knuckles turn white. “Yeah. I…” I lick my dry lips. “I know.”

“Good.” Dark eyes flashing, he motions at the drawing. “Ready to give this a try on real flesh today?”

My breath catches in my throat. “On a customer? Today? No way, man. I’m not ready.”

“I think you are.” He nods wisely, Yoda-like, and hands me the tattoo gun. Or tries to hand it to me.

“Wait, Z-man. What if I make a mistake and piss off your customer? It’s not something you can just wipe away, and I’ve never fucking tried—

“You have to start one day,” Zane says, slow and low, giving me a steady look. “And I judge that you’re ready. If you piss my customer off,” he lifts a hand to forestall whatever I’m about to say, even if I have no fucking clue what that might be, “then you’ll piss him off. It’s okay. Mistakes can happen to the best of us. You don’t stop because of a mistake, fucker. You keep going, keep learning.”

I clamp my mouth shut and take the gun. When the customer arrives, I hide my nervousness, follow the steps Zane taught me in my mind and ink part of the tattoo covering the man’s entire back.

Sweat drips into my eyes, and I let it, not daring to stop sinking the needle into the man’s flesh, drenching it in color. Again and again and again, until I feel Zane’s hand heavy on my shoulder and pass the tattoo gun back to him.

Faintly I hear him say I did a good job, and the elation from having done it and from my mentor’s praise is lost in the buzzing in my ears and the staccato of my pulse.

What he said earlier is perfectly logical. Nothing can happen to me if a customer is upset—unless Zane gets upset with me, too, and throws me back out on the street.

Then again, I’m pretty sure that’s only a matter of time.

***

The sky is only starting to pale outside my window when I roll out of bed and stumble to the bathroom, my heart pounding. Snatches from my dreams ricochet inside my head, bouncing back and forth. Rough hands grabbing me, pushing me against the wall. Fire radiating through my back and chest. Dim streets, cold and hunger.

Despair. Fear. Sorrow.

Pain.

I splash my face with cold water, shivering, and swallow the sourness in my throat. Fuck. I stare at my bloodshot eyes in the cracked mirror and rub the demon inked on my chest.

You’re safe, I tell myself, Helen’s voice echoing behind my words. You’re safe, warm and healthy. There’s food in the kitchen. You don’t have to do anything you hate to get that food. Hell, you can return to the warmth of your bed and nobody will kick you out.

For now, the voice whispers. And tomorrow?

Dammit.

Instead of going back to bed, I make my way to the kitchen. I open the fridge to make a sandwich, and hell if I don’t find half my sliced bread gone. What the fuck?

Typical. Unless I put my stuff under key and lock, my roommates seem to think I’m inviting them to partake.

Clenching and unclenching my hands, I breathe through my anger and the hit of panic. It’s just food, I tell myself. Just some bread. You have enough now. No need to fight over it.