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Trev laughed politely and then rolled his eyes. “When do?—”

“Tonight.”

Well, shit.

Apparently Trev had to get himself ready to meet a gangster.

“Bring me the paperwork as soon as you have it,” Trev said firmly. “I’m not budging until I see it.”

“I won’t even wait for the ink to dry,” Camille cooed.

“Good.” Trev unlocked the door to his apartment. “See ya’ later, Mrs. B.”

“Later, T. Be right over in just a bit.”

Trev quickly stepped inside, scowling as he shut the door behind him. He locked it back and checked each deadbolt twice before he let himself relax.

Well, as much as he could anyway.

Trev’s mind was racing at top speed trying to make sense of Camille’s strangely generous offer. He finished his coffee and trashed the cup, pausing to greet his mother’s photograph on the counter. She had always loved to cook, so keeping her picture in the kitchen made sense.

“Hey, Mama,” Trev said. “You won’t fucking believe this. Mrs. B. wants me to work at the Cannery tonight to help out some friends of hers and is promising me six months of rent. Six fucking months.” He tapped his nails along the counter. “Something isn’t right. Right? If something’s too good to be true, it usually is.”

He sighed, glancing over his tiny studio apartment. It was barely bigger than a matchbox, but it was clean and warm. He had decorated loudly with bright pastels, beaded pillows, thick rugs, and an army of potted plants. There was a big framed poster of the jazz singer his mother had said was his aunt hanging above the couch, a male mannequin he’d painted pink and converted into a lamp after chopping off its head, a flat-top casket stained mint green that served as his coffee table, and other eccentric bits of decor that made the space uniquely his.

While he did consider this place home, he still wanted to get the hell out as soon as he could. He wanted a fresh start where no one would know his name and he could reinvent himself. He wouldn’t have to be Trev the pretty boy—he could be Trevanion the accountant.

The manager.

The chef.

The waiter.

Trevanion the anything because the possibilities were endless if he could only get out of this damn city.

Allan Electronics, the place Trev worked for, had multiple locations across the state. If his manager let him take on a full-time position, he could eventually transfer to another city and buy his dream house far away from the Cannery and anyone who might recognize him without his clothes on. He could work, go to school, and finally have the bright future he so longed for.

But for that, he knew he still didn’t have enough money.

And getting more money meant taking the job at the Cannery.

This had to be the last time.

“The last time,” he said out loud. “It’s going to be the last damn time. I don’t care who Mrs. B’s stupid friend is. I’m just gonna have one last little private party, do my damn thing, and get the fuck out of there.”

His mother’s smiling photograph gave no reply, and Trev couldn’t shake the knot forming in his stomach.

While he was waiting for Camille to return, he kicked off his boots, put away his new makeup, and then kept himself busy trying to find something to wear tonight. He had a vast wardrobe of all things slinky and seductive, and he was debating between a tiny lace thong or a sequined jockstrap when his phone buzzed.

It was his neighbor, Juicy Cusack.

do u know what time it is?

Trev snorted and typed back.

You literally just texted me. Check your phone, sweetie.

Trev waited calmly for a reply.