“I’m a businessman. I run quite the affluent art gallery in town as well as a few other enterprises.” He grins in clear amusement, just daring me to call him out.
“Like loan sharking.”
That grin manages to get even wider. “I would be bereft not to share my wealth with those less fortunate. Though admittedly, All That Glitters is my most… lucrative investment.”
I smother any physical tells of annoyance or how little I’m buying into his song and dance. A name like that is far too pretty and innocent sounding for someone like Julian King. If he hadn’t already disclosed it was an art gallery, I’d have assumed it was a strip joint or a jewelry store. Deceptive, just like the man before me that’s grinning as broadly as a storybook’s cat.
The longer the conversation drags on, the less panicked I may feel, but the more uneasy. Obviously Julian has illegal dealings, but not knowing how deeply they run and still agreeing to tie myself to him makes me second guess if I’d be better off running after all. Though, I’m getting a far better offer than I thought I was when I arrived. That he’s willing to wipe out so much of the debt, to put an actual timetable of a few years on the table so the end is in sight rather than a lifetime of servitude…
“That’s very generous of you.”
His chest puffs out, reveling in the ego pandering. One hand stretches out to me, waiting. “So what do you say, Ms. Miller?”
Eyeing the devil’s hand, I reluctantly shake it, half expecting him to burst into flames and grow horns, branding my palm. “It’s a deal.”
“Motherfucker!”
Snatching the lid from my left, I brave the flames to put it over the skillet, trying to smother the fire before it sets off the smoke detector.
Again.
“You alright in here?” Everett asks and my cheeks heat in embarrassment.
“Yep, just dandy.” He looks pointedly at the stove and I nervously scratch the side of my neck. “Dinner might be a little late tonight, though.”
Chuckling, he crosses the kitchen to lean a hip against the counter, crossing his arms over his broad chest and assessing the scene. “You wiped your spatula on the side of the pan and it dripped down the outside, didn’t you?”
Reaching over to put the lid back on the small container, I grimace. “What do you guys put in your margarine anyway, lighter fluid?”
There’s no point denying it, but I hate looking so incompetent, especially in front of him. He doesn’t bother to conceal his smile as I toss the scorched mess in the trash and start scrubbing the charred pan.
Cleaning, sure, I’ve got that down. When a girl only has a couple changes of clothes and an abusive piece of shit for a parent, she learns how to get blood out of damn near anything. But cooking? I was busy helping in the fields as a kid, and mom was killed before she got a chance to teach me. Since she died, I’ve lived off of whatever I can grab or microwave, but with as frequently as our power was cut off, peanut butter sandwiches became a constant staple.
Watching me with amusement, he offers, “Want some help?”
There’s really no point pretending I have things under control, especially when it’s become clear to everyone that I have no clue what the fuck I’m doing. Someone’s ended up picking up takeout all but two days this past week.
“Help would be appreciated,” I reluctantly admit, setting the clean pan back on the burner.
Washing his hands, he heads over to the fridge and starts pulling things out. Rinsing the vegetables first, he pulls a knife from the block as I pass a cutting board his way. After peeling a few large carrots, he makes such quick work slicing of the first that I have no clue how he didn’t lose a finger.
“Here.” Gesturing me closer, he passes me the knife, adjusting my grip on it. Stepping in close behind me, he pins me between himself and the counter, fixing my finger placement. “You need to keep them curled back so that even if you slip, the worst you’ll do is knick your knuckle.”
Covering my hands with his, he guides me through the motions and I have to force myself to concentrate on what he’s saying instead of caving into the impulse to lean back. Mentally slapping myself when he lets go, I keep up the rhythm, albeit at a much slower pace.
“There you go,” he praises, stepping away to start heating up the pan.
Tossing in what we already have, he flips the board over before cutting the chicken breast, explaining about cross contamination and the like. Every step of the way he explains thewhyinstead of simply taking over, making sure the lessons have a better chance of sticking. We end up in a similar position as before, the heat of his body surrounding me as he guides my motions, making it increasingly difficult to keep my attention where it should be.
“Oh, fuck yeah!” Caleb exclaims, striding into the room and catching the door before it can close behind him so he can holler down the hall. “Ev’s cooking, Seth, cancel the pizza!” Grinning, he flops down at the kitchen table, pulling his phone out.
“You can at least grab plates, you bum,” Everett declares, rolling his eyes as he immediately puts space between us.
“That’s alright, I’ve got ‘em. You did the hard part.”
Rising on my toes to reach inside of the cabinet, I work on setting the table while he finishes up, it hitting me not for the first time how weirdly domestic and easy going this place is. I’ve yet to step foot outside of the building since arriving, but the last week has made it clear that Grave wasn’t lying. Nobody’s been anything but kind, and I haven’t even seen Julian since that first night. He decided that I can’t very well blend in when all eyes would be on me looking like this, wanting to help or call the cops thinking my boyfriend was beating me.
I would just draw unwanted attention, which means a few more weeks at least before I have to start working off the debt by being some sort of lookout. At least he isn’t expecting me to murder people, so that’s a plus. And if something happens and I end up arrested, I’ll be charged as an accomplice and get a lighter sentence.
