Chapter 1
Chapter One
Flynn
“My wife doesn’t like sex, so keep it in your trousers. I’d hate for you to embarrass yourself.”
Dude …
What’s happening?
First: Nothing about my “it” is embarrassing.
Second: What does it say about him if his wife “doesn’t like sex?”
Third: Who calls jeans trousers?
I force a tight smile and nod because, this morning, I took Rupert Rawlings’ cypress green Chevelle convertible for a joyride after giving it the platinum mobile detail service.
He said he was golfing. I thought that meant four hours at a golf course, not thirty minutes with a simulator in the basement of his old mansion overlooking a lake just outside of downtown Minneapolis—a hub for outdoor enthusiasts, owners of designer dogs, and anyone who shops at Whole Foods.
I’ve been sitting in this same spot for forty minutes while he’s dicked around on his computer and stepped out of his office, twice, to make calls. At least he’s finally explaining the job he’s offering me in lieu of going to jail for grand theft auto—which it was not.
I inhale the scent of lemon furniture polish and musty old books.
“What exactly are you hiring me to do besides keeping it in my trousers?” I ask, sprawled out on the cool, tufted brown leather sofa in Rupert’s office.
The value of this single room exceeds that of any place I’ve ever lived.
The arched doorway and floor-to-ceiling windows open to a view of the lake beyond the trees.
Custom walnut cabinetry and shiny brass fixtures.
Must be nice having money to burn on stupid shit.
“Do you know who you remind me of?” he asks, reclining in his cushy desk chair, hands laced behind his full head of black and gray hair.
“Yup, because I read minds.” I tear my gaze away from the wood-paneled ceiling to observe his reaction.
Rupert smirks. “You remind me of myself at your age.”
“Are you implying you were awesome or I’m destined to be a gazillionaire?”
“You’re the mind reader, so you tell me.”
I roll my eyes and sit up, running my hands through my hair.
Maybe a ride in a police cruiser is the better option.
“If your wife has to get herself off,” I say, “then awesome is off the table. Guess that means I’m gonna be a rich fucker.
” I twist my lips. “They say money can’t buy happiness, but everyone I know thinks that’s bullshit.
Personally, I hate rich people. They’re so out of touch with reality. ”
This rich guy clears his throat, lifting an eyebrow at me.
I shrug. “Prove me wrong. I don’t think money buys happiness. I think it’s a burden. Money makes it too easy to become an entitled asshole.”
“Like me?”
“Dunno yet. I’ll let you know.” I scratch my chin. “But blackmailing me isn’t helping your case.”
He eyes me for a second before gripping the arms of his chair to stand.
“I don’t need a case, because I have nothing to prove to anyone.
I believe it’s called FU money. And no, it doesn’t buy happiness.
Happiness is a fleeting emotion—at best.” The top of his crystal decanter clinks on the marble counter before he pours half a glass.
Just one. This guy could work on his hospitality.
“Are you a shrink or something?” I ask. “Sounds like something a shrink would say.”
Rupert chuckles, facing me while leaning his backside against the edge of his desk. He sips the alcohol, dark eyes trained on me. I’m not afraid of much, but this guy could turn a simple joyride into a grand theft auto charge.
What must his life be like? I bet he has a dozen other suits just as fancy and expensive as the one he’s wearing.
A person to shine his shoes before they get a single scuff.
Maybe he’s a lawyer, and that’s how he knows he could put me in jail.
I’d guess he’s in his fifties, but his hands are devoid of calluses.
It’s unnatural. Not a speck of dirt under his trimmed nails. Does he get manicures with his wife?
I glance down at my grease-stained hands folded between my spread legs. Thick callouses. Two knuckles larger than the others from jamming them.
Pins and plates hold me together. I have so many scars from stitches that my friends call me Frankenstein’s monster.
“This is generational money,” Rupert says, sweeping his gaze around the office as if he’s not seen it a million times.
“My wife’s family. Her father and her grandfather were inventors.
They’ve held over three hundred patents for surgical instruments and other medical devices.
She’s an only child, and her father died before he could disown her for marrying me.
” Rupert squints out the window before grinning, taking another sip of his drink.
“My dad worked in the automotive industry, and he drank. A lot.” He holds out his glass and stares at the remaining ounce before swirling it.
“Then one day, he crossed three lanes of interstate, killing my mother, younger brother, and four others in a head-on collision with a passenger van. He lived only to die years later in prison from a heart attack. It was the best day of my life.”
I shake my head. “You know nothing about me, but thanks for that heartwarming story.”
“Flynn, do you think I’d bring you into my home and offer you a job without doing my homework?
Flynn Oren Morley. Twenty-five. No high school diploma.
In foster care from age three. Eighteen months in juvie.
One year in jail for felony grand theft.
Two years for assault. You have thirty-seven dollars in a bank account.
No credit cards. You’ve worked at the same detail shop for the past three years, and your boss (whom I’ve known and respected for years) thinks highly of you despite your taking a customer’s car for a joyride on more than one occasion.
In his words, ‘You’ve found Jesus.’ Did I miss anything? ”
“Blood type?” I ask.
“B positive.” He sets his empty glass aside and crosses his arms. After a beat he grins.
“O negative.” I give him the middle finger.
Rupert shrugs. “It was short notice. Give me another day or so and I’ll know how many times you’ve sold sperm and plasma to pay for food and tobacco.”
“I don’t use tobacco. It’s not, what Jesus would do,” I say, but I make a mental note to check into selling my sperm. If I can get paid to jerk off, what’s the point of ever looking for another job?
“Good to know, Flynn. But I reserve the right to drug test you whenever I see fit,” he says.
“Whatever, dude. What’s the deal with your wife?”
He scratches his clean-shaven jaw. “She needs a muse.”
After a beat, I nod slowly.
“Do you know what a muse is?” he asks.
“Of course, I do.”
Nope. Not a clue.
“Great. You’ll hang out with her.”
“You know I already have a job. Right? And I have an interview next week for a mechanic at Smith’s.”
“You did. But now you have me and only one job option.”
“What? No. Dude, I’ve been waiting forever. And I finally have a shot at this job with Smith’s. Sorry I made your weak heart skip a few beats by taking your car for a little joyride, but you don’t own me.”
“Very well. We’ll let the police handle it.” He grabs his phone from the desk, taps the screen several times, then brings it to his ear.
Goddammit!
“Stop,” I say, rubbing my forehead before blowing out a hard breath. “What does this muse thing pay?”
He pushes off the desk, then slides his phone into the inside pocket of his jacket.
“Flynn, as long as you do your job for me, I will take care of everything you need. If you don’t do your job for me, then you still won’t need money because you’ll be in jail.
Questions before I introduce you to my wife? ”
“How long do I have to work for you?”
“Until my wife finds inspiration.”
“Inspiration for what?”
He heads toward the door. “To live.”