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“That’s kind.”

I recoiled. “Ew, take that back.”

Omar laughed. “What?”

“Kind? Absolutely disgusting. I have a reputation to uphold for my baby criminals in training.”

“What reputation?”

“Bitch.”

“Really?” Omar quirked a curious brow.

“Yes. I’m the queen bitch. Ask anyone.”

“You just dressed in drag so a scared gay kid wouldn’t feel alone.” Somehow that brow quirked even higher now.

“That proves nothing,” I insisted.

“Mhmm.”

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” Omar asked.

I turned towards him. That was a mistake. His eyes were warm. Annoyingly warm and focused entirely on me. “Like…” I waved vaguely. He waited but I had nothing. “Never mind.”

Omar smiled again. “So,” he said, “is the confidence real or just reserved for the man who holds his halo with the horns?”

My shoulders stiffened. “Excuse me?”

“The clothes. The jokes. The attitude. Is it real?”

“Are you interviewing me?”

“No.”

“Then yes. Obviously.”

He studied me for another second, and I hated how gentle he looked. “The confidence is real,” he said. “I think the armor is too, though.”

I stared at him. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Omar Bell.” He paused before adding, “Also your dad’s administrative assistant.”

I made a face.

He laughed. “I know.”

“You work for him willingly?”

“Mostly.”

“Are you being held hostage?”

“No.”

“Blackmail? Brain damage?”