Chapter Five
Iwake up staring at an unfamiliar ceiling, tangled in luxurious linen sheets that smell like Ash.
My brain replays last night’s events in vivid detail.
Getting on my knees. Ryker’s hands in my hair.
Gagging. Sputtering. The embarrassing, undeniable fact that I pitched a tent in my boxers while a guy shoved his dick down my throat.
I groan and drag a pillow over my face. I’m losing my mind. This arrangement is wild, and I’m probably making a huge mistake, but I can’t back out now. I made a deal. I’m staying. Still, I need something normal to anchor me today or I’ll go crazy thinking about what I signed up for. I need a job.
I pull on the sweatpants Ash gave me and wander out to the kitchen. Ash is already awake, standing by the espresso machine looking sharp in a fitted navy suit. He smiles when he sees me.
“Morning,” he says, pouring a second cup of coffee. “You sleep okay?”
“Yeah, fine,” I lie, taking the mug he offers. “Thanks.”
He leans against the counter, sipping his coffee. “I’ve got a full day of meetings, but I can leave you a keycard so you can come and go.”
“I’m actually planning to go out,” I tell him. “I need to look for work. Hit the pavement, hand out resumes. Well, I don’t have a resume, but I can ask for applications.”
Ash frowns slightly. “Jax, you don’t need to do that yet. We’ve got you covered.”
“I know,” I say, shifting on my feet. “But I need to do something. I can’t just sit around this penthouse all day waiting for you guys to get home. I’ll go insane.”
Before Ash can argue, footsteps echo down the hall. Ryker rounds the corner, wearing black jeans and a dark button-down shirt unfastened at the collar, showing off the dark ink creeping up his neck. My stomach flips at the sight of him. I grip my coffee mug tighter, trying to act casual.
“I’ll take him,” Ryker says. His raspy voice sounds even rougher in the morning.
Ash raises an eyebrow. “You’re heading to the office?”
“Got a meeting downtown at ten,” Ryker says, grabbing an apple from a bowl on the island. He tosses it in the air, catching it easily. His piercing blue eyes slide over to me. “I can drop the kid off.”
I swallow hard. “You don’t have to.”
“I’m offering,” Ryker says flatly. He points the apple at me. “Get dressed. We leave in ten.”
Ten minutes later, I climb into the passenger seat of Ryker’s blacked-out Range Rover.
The doors thud shut with a vault-like sound, trapping me in the cabin with him.
The air inside smells like smoky spices and leather.
My nerves are buzzing. I don’t know where to look, so I stare out the window at the gloomy Seattle sky while Ryker merges into downtown traffic.
The silence is suffocating. I keep replaying last night, hyper-aware of his hands loosely gripping the steering wheel. The same hands that forced my head down. My face burns.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Ryker remarks.
I glance over. He has one elbow propped on the window ledge, steering with a couple of fingers. A smug little smirk on his lips. He’s enjoying this. He knows how uncomfortable I’m feeling and he finds it hilarious.
“Don’t have much to say,” I mumble, turning my attention back to the windshield.
Ryker chuckles. “Still recovering from your initiation?”
My jaw clenches. “I’m fine.”
“Good,” he says smoothly. “Because tonight, Ash is going to prep you. I expect you to follow his instructions.”
I flush hotly. We’re casually discussing my impending sexual education while stopped at a red light on Fourth Avenue. I nod once, jerky and awkward, wishing the seat would swallow me.
Ryker pulls the Rover over to the curb near a row of retail shops and cafes. I reach for the door handle, eager to escape the suffocating tension in the car.
“Hold on,” Ryker says.
I stop, looking back at him. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a metal credit card. He holds it out to me.
“Take this,” he says.
I stare at it. “What’s this for?”
“Whatever you need,” Ryker replies. “Food, clothes, coffee. Don’t go starving on the street again.”
I take the card from his fingers and look down at the raised lettering. Ryker Evanston.
“Thanks,” I say quietly, slipping it into my pocket.
“Give me your phone,” he demands, holding his hand out, palm up.
I pull my cracked phone out of my pocket and place it in his palm.
As he takes it, he doesn’t just grab the phone.
His fingers drag over my knuckles, deliberately and slowly.
The touch sends a jolt through my arm. My breath catches.
I look up, finding sharp blue eyes locked onto mine.
He watches my reaction. He knows what he’s doing to me.
He holds my gaze for another second before looking down, typing a number into my contacts. He tosses the phone back into my lap.
“Text me when you’re done playing job hunter,” Ryker says. “I’ll come get you.”
I grab my phone, my skin still tingling where he touched me. “Okay.”
I push the door open and step out onto the wet sidewalk, slamming it shut behind me. I watch the black SUV pull away and merge back into traffic, leaving me standing there with his credit card in my pocket and his number in my phone.
I drag a hand through my hair, letting out a shaky breath.
I spend the morning and afternoon dragging myself up and down the steep hills of downtown Seattle, ducking into any storefront that looks like it might pay minimum wage.
It’s a humbling experience. It’s not like I have a glowing resume to hand out.
Back home, my jobs were lined up by my dad’s church buddies—summer landscaping, stocking shelves at the local grocery store, things that kept me busy and under a watchful eye.
Now, I’m standing at the counters of hipster coffee shops and upscale bistros, asking busy managers if they need a dishwasher or a busboy.
A few actually hand me paper applications.
Sitting in a cramped booth at a diner with a borrowed pen, I stare down at the address line.
Writing down Ash’s penthouse unit feels like a bad joke.
Any hiring manager who looks at this is going to wonder why a guy living in a multimillion-dollar high-rise is desperate for a twelve-dollar-an-hour dishwashing gig.
But I fill it out anyway, scratching the numbers into the little boxes.
I have to do this. I need some kind of independence, even if it’s just a sliver.
By two o’clock, my stomach is turning inside out.
I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and the smell of roasting coffee and fried food pouring out of the restaurants is making me dizzy.
I pull Ryker’s heavy metal credit card out of my pocket and flip it over in my palm.
He told me to use it. Don’t go starving on the street again.
But swiping a black card for a meal feels wrong, like I’m cementing the transaction we agreed to last night.
I’m already sleeping in their apartment.
Tonight, I’ll be sleeping in Ash’s bed for a completely different reason.
Spending their money on top of it just makes the reality of my situation heavier.
I end up finding a tiny, hole-in-the-wall deli and buying the cheapest turkey sandwich on the menu, paying with Ryker’s card.
The cashier doesn’t even blink at the name on the front.
I eat the sandwich sitting on a damp bench near Westlake Center, watching the crowds hurry past under their umbrellas.
When my feet are aching and I’ve handed out the last of the applications, I pull out my cracked phone. I stare at Ryker’s number for a long minute before typing out a quick message.
I’m done. At the corner of 4th and Pine.
He doesn’t reply. Ten minutes later, the menacing black Range Rover glides up to the curb, idling smoothly in the bus zone.
I pull the heavy door open and slide into the passenger seat, the smell of spicy cologne and leather hitting me instantly. Ryker doesn’t say a word. He just puts the SUV in drive and merges back into the sluggish downtown traffic.
The ride back is agonizing. I sit stiffly against the door, keeping my knees pulled in tight, terrified of taking up too much space.
The silence stretches out. I keep waiting for him to ask how it went, or to make some sarcastic comment about my job hunt, but he only drives, one hand draped over the steering wheel, his jaw set in a hard line.
His presence is massive, crowding the air out of the cabin.
Every time he shifts gears or checks his mirrors, I hold my breath.
By the time he pulls into the private underground parking garage of their building, my shoulders are tied in knots.
“Thanks for the ride,” I mumble, scrambling out of the car the second he cuts the engine.
Ryker gives me a short nod, grabbing his briefcase from the back seat.
I ride the elevator up in silence, keeping my eyes fixed on the digital floor numbers ticking upward. When the doors finally open into the penthouse, the atmosphere shifts immediately. It’s warm inside, and there’s music playing softly from the ceiling speakers.
Ash is standing by the kitchen island, loosening the tie of his navy suit. He looks up when I walk in, a warm, easy smile spreading across his face.
“Hey, you’re back,” Ash says, walking over. His eyes scan my face, dropping to my rigid shoulders. The smile softens with concern. “How was it? You look exhausted.”
“It was fine,” I say quickly, shifting my weight. “Handed out a few applications. Guess I’ll just see if anyone calls.”
Aiden is sprawled out on the massive living room couch in a pair of basketball shorts and a t-shirt, a container of takeout balanced on his chest. He tips his head back against the cushions to look at me, chewing on a bite of noodles.
“Hey man,” Aiden says easily, waving his fork at me. “Hope you survived the rain. I saved you some pad thai if you’re hungry.”
“Thanks,” I say, forcing a small smile for him. “Maybe later.”
Ash steps a little closer, his voice dropping so it’s just between the two of us. “You okay, Jax?”