I didn’t sleep at all last night.
Not one wink.
And I wish I could say it was because of my money troubles, or work, or even the assignment I somehow managed to submit with three minutes left in the deadline.
But no, it was none of that causing my insomnia. It was Rayne Saint fucking James that had me tossing and turning throughout the night. The way my body reacted to his. The heat that pooled between my legs when he smiled at me. And the thought that I would have to see him most days for at least the next month plagued me into the early hours of the morning where I finally admitted defeat and got out of bed.
After speaking to Dad after Rayne left yesterday, it seemed there was no end date to his community service, and that thought excited him. He thought that if we had a good relationship with Rayne, somehow his family would become a permanent sponsor of the Center. And so far so good on Dad’s theory seeing as the gala is now sold out, and somehow the press had already got hold of the story.
I’ve been in the office for twenty minutes and I’ve already answered two calls from the press wanting exclusives about Rayne volunteering for us.
The phone rings beside me and I think about ignoring it, but I can’t do that. What if it was one of the kids and they needed something?
“Good morning, Chicago Center for Youth. How can I help you?” I put on the best customer service voice I can manage, but I sound as tired as I feel.
God, what I wouldn’t do for a full night of sleep, to just forget the world for eight hours and allow my body and mind time to rest. That doesn’t look likely though.
As it is, I’m trying to work out how I’m going to work three jobs, go to classes, do assignments, and somehow throw the finishing touches on this gala in the next two weeks. I was barely able to get the night off, and I still have to figure out what the hell I’m going to wear. It’s a black-tie event, and my wardrobe is the exact opposite of black tie.
“Emmy?” The voice on the other end of the line makes my stomach lurch and I’m tempted to end the call without hearing another word. Honestly, I’m not sure what makes me continue the call past the first word, because I don’t have anything to say to the asshole on the other end of the line.
“What do you want, Brad? And why the fuck are you calling me here?” I growl. I can’t deal with him on a good day, let alone when I haven’t slept. My thumb itches to hang up on him, to end the call before I can even hear the bullshit he’s about to spew, because that is exactly what it’s going to be. It will be some shit about how he owes someone money and he just needs a loan, just for a few days.
“I’ve been calling your cell for weeks, but I haven’t been able to catch you. Plus, I knew you couldn’t screen my calls with that relic your dad calls a phone.”
I briefly glance at the time, wondering if it’s possible he’s still drunk. I mean, it’s the only way he could possibly think calling me is a good idea. Apparently he didn’t get the hint the day I found out he had opened six credit cards and a student loan in my name and then proceeded to max them all out, leaving me drowning in debt. Also known as the day I kicked him so hard in the balls, I’m almost certain I had taken away his ability to procreate. Honestly, I hope I did. No kid needs that idiot for a father.
Eight in the morning. Definitely still drunk or high on something I would prefer not to know existed. I eye my empty cup of coffee and sigh. He’ll just keep calling if I hang up, and I’ll have to continue answering the calls just in case it’s a kid in need.
“Brad. Did you ever think that maybe, just maybe, there was a reason I didn’t call you back? Like that I don’t ever want to see or hear from you again?”
“Come on, Emmy, don’t be like that. I miss you.”
I scrub my hand down my face and barely contain the scream clawing its way up my throat. Remind me again why I fell for this asshole. “Did you miss the memo when my knee met your balls? Because I’m more than happy to remind you. I despise your very existence. The fact that you are still breathing makes me angry, and I certainly do not fucking miss you. Stop calling me.”
“Wait!” The word is rushed and frantic, and although everything inside me screams at me to hang up, I stay on the line. What can I say, my self-preservation isn’t that great.
“What?” I snap. While I want to hear what he has to say, I’m certainly not patient.
“I’m in trouble.”
I scoff. “What’s new?”
“No, Emmy, please. I’m in real trouble. I owe money to this guy and I think he’s going to kill me. I’ve had a guy following me the last few days, and I’m… I’m scared.”
I nod slowly as I take in the information he feeds me. “Did you ever think, and really, this could just be my really stupid rational brain talking here but did you ever think that maybe, just maybe, you shouldn’t borrow money you know you can’t pay back?”
“You’re not helping,” he growls.
“Good, I wasn’t trying to. I don’t know what the fuck you want me to do about it, Brad. You have me up to my fucking eyeballs with debt. I’m working three jobs and I still can’t even begin to make ends meet. What the hell do you think I can do to help you?”
“Isn’t that hot shot billionaire doing community service? Maybe you could get some money from him.”
The pieces start to fall into place, and the anger that radiates from me is palpable. Just when I think he can’t stoop any lower, when I’m sure Brad can’t get any fucking worse, he continues to surprise me. Looking back on it, I honestly don’t know what I saw in him. Maybe it was the bad boy attitude, or his good looks, but regardless, I must have been fucking blind to overlook his very obvious flaws.
He is a self-obsessed drug addict, and an alcoholic with an ego so big I’m surprised he can fit through doors, and he’s just a total fucking asshole.
“Brad, I want you to listen to me very carefully, because the next time I have to say this, it will not be so nice. I don’t give a fuck who you owe money to. I don’t care if it’s the fucking queen herself, you will never get another cent from me. You have already destroyed my fucking life, and I will not allow you to drag me down anymore. Lose my numbers.”
I end the call before he can say another word. I don’t want to listen to it. He has taken up enough of my time and energy over the year since he walked through the Center’s front doors, newly released from prison. I should have run in the other direction the moment I laid eyes on him, but like I said, I’m a fucking idiot.
I slam the phone down on the desk and drop my head into my hands. How did I allow myself to fall for him, for someone so obviously bad for me and ignored the alarm bells that rang throughout our entire relationship? How had I been so jaded I allowed him to take me for a ride and land me in a mountain of debt before I even had time to graduate from college?
“Did that phone do something to offend you?”
I look up and find Rayne standing in the doorway, a smirk etched on his lips. He’s not dressed in a suit today, instead opting for jeans and a tight Henley. I stare for a moment longer than I should, because honestly, I think you’d have to be blind if you didn’t. “You’re here early.” I tear my eyes away from him and start moving paperwork around my desk. I assumed he would roll in at around midday and then leave before the kids got off school.
“Your dad said there’s a breakfast program, I thought he might need a hand,” he tells me.
Some of my hostility toward the god-like man who occupies the doorway melts. That was actually really thoughtful of him, and totally not something our usual community service volunteers would do. They normally show up the minute the court orders them to be here, and they’re halfway out the door when the clock strikes the end of their shift.
Dad struggles on his own in the mornings, but I’ve been too busy to help him. The funding we got for the program barely covers the food, so it definitely does not cover a whole extra staff member. We rely heavily on volunteers, but even they have been dwindling over the last few years. Don’t get me wrong. I get it. People are busy, they have their own lives, families, money troubles, and they don’t have the energy to think about the people who are less fortunate than themselves. If I hadn’t grown up with this place as my second home, I’m sure I would feel the same, especially at the moment, but I care, probably too much. It just means Dad and I have to work that much harder to make sure these kids have a safe haven, a place they can go when their family life is too much for them, or as is more often the case, too little.
“I have that check here.” Rayne holds an envelope up but makes no attempt to hand it to me.
I paste a smile on my face, but it’s fake, just like all the other smiles I’ve slapped onto my face over the last six months. I don’t have the energy for happiness right now. And if I’m really honest with myself, I don’t have anything to be happy about.
My life is a fucking mess.
And it doesn’t look like it’s going to get better anytime soon. Graduation is just around the corner, but even then I won’t be able to dig my way out of the hole I’m in without working the same three jobs. Being a youth counselor is all very well and good, but I’m not going to stop working at the Center, and the other jobs I have are the only ones that will work around the hours I need to be here. Short of selling my own body, which I have considered more than once, I’m going to be between a rock and a hard place for the foreseeable future, and probably even then.
I’ve been desperately trying to rescue my credit score from the dumpster fire Brad started. It took me three months to find out what he had done. Three months that he lied to me, shared my bed and made me believe he loved me, fed me lies and false promises, all while he silently destroyed my fucking life.
I’ve thought about declaring bankruptcy more than once. It’s the easiest way out, and I don’t own anything of value, only my beat-up old car that was dying long before I traded down for it at the beginning of this nightmare. But it would lose me my scholarships, and if I decided I wanted to, I wouldn’t be able to go to med school. It isn’t something I’m planning on doing, but I also don’t want to rule the possibility out. I don’t need to be a doctor to do what I want to do, but it’s something I have always thought about, and an option I would like to have.
I snap myself from my own private pity party, guest list one. “Oh thanks. I haven’t had a chance to get the paperwork together. I expected you to be in later,” I admit as I glance down at the to-do list I wrote the moment I walked in the door this morning. With my recent sleep deprivation, it’s the only way I can keep track of the mountain of work I need to do. I probably would have done it the moment my computer turned on if I wasn’t fielding calls from reporters and then if Brad wasn’t doing his best to derail my entire day with his bullshit.
“You’re busy.” It’s not a question, more of an observation as he surveys my desk.
I’ve been meaning to tidy it for the last week, but it’s an organized chaos. There are papers covering every single inch of the desk, under my keyboard, even spreading onto the filing cabinet next to me. Once upon a time, I had a system, now I just have a nightmare only I can wade through.
I nod. “A little.” I don’t mean for it to sound quite as snarky as it comes out, but my filter is past the point of broken, and the only people I can truly put on a false persona for are the kids. Even Dad has been copping it over the last few months.
“Is there anything I can help with?” Rayne offers, finally stepping toward the desk. He wears a mask, not wearing any emotion as he crosses the short space and drops into the chair Dad usually occupies when he comes into the office.
I stare at him blankly for a moment, because surely he isn’t serious. But when he doesn’t so much as crack a smile, I realize he must actually be offering to help me. “If you helped my dad out this morning, you’ve probably already met your requirement for today.” I look at my screen and start printing the new starters package I put together last year.
Silence descends on us and for a moment I think he’s left, but when I finally look up from the computer, Rayne is surveying me. His eyes roam over my face, as if he’s trying to commit every detail to memory. It’s intense. Really fucking intense. But I’m a little ashamed to say I don’t hate it. In fact, the longer he looks at me like this, the more I crave it.
I’ve known Rayne Saint James for less than a day, but I can already see him for exactly what he is, a drug I can’t afford to get addicted to.
