Page 34

December, eight years ago

“So, what doyou do when you’re not making bargains?” I ask Des, who is sprawled out on my floor, flipping through one of my textbooks.

He has a pen in hand, and I’ve seen him scribbling stuff in the margins. I’m seriously afraid he’s drawn dicks inside my textbook, but when I take a peek, I see myself instead. He’s drawn a sliver of my face, and damn, he’s a really good artist on top of everything else.

“Besides ruining the mind of a little siren?” he says.

“Besides that,” I say, smiling softly.

In the hall outside my room, I hear some of my floormates laughing as they run off to dinner. They knock on the door next to mine, inviting Shelly and Trisha to dinner with them. I hear their footsteps coming towards my room, and a small part of me hopes they’ll knock on my door, even though Desmond is here.

Their footsteps pass my door without pause.

“They can’t hear us, you know,” Des says, not looking up from his work.

Ididn’tknow, but I had wondered why no one on my floor had asked about the male voice coming from my room. The walls here are paper thin.

“That was kind of you, Des,” I say.

“I like my privacy. It had nothing to do with you.”

“Right.” God forbid the Bargainer actually gets a reputation for kindness.

“And my name is Desmond—not …Des.” His voice drips with disdain.

So the name bugs him? Goody.

“I’ll stop calling you Des as soon as you stop call me cherub.”

He grumbles at that.

I take a seat at my computer chair and watch him work for several seconds. And as I sit there, staring at him, I feel my stomach flutter.

If I close my eyes, I can pretend that we’re not in my shady dorm room, that I’m not paying the Bargainer off to keep me company, that Des likes me every bit as much as I like him.

But then I remember that I get to hang out with him for no more than four hours of his day. I live for those four hours, but what about him? I’m probably just his equivalent of paid vacation.

Whatdoeshe do when he’s not stealing secrets or collecting debt? What is this man’s idea of fun?

Probably stealing candy from babies or something awful like that.

“What do you do in your free time?” I ask again.

He flips another page of my textbook. “This will cost you,” he says.

I shrug. I already have two rows of beads. What was one more? “Add a bead.”

I catch sight of my wrist just as another dull, black bead forms.

“I rule.” He doesn’t even look up when says it.

I wait for more, but it never comes.

“Oh, c’mon, that’s it?” I say. “That answer was two words.” I deserve a better answer than that, considering the price I will eventually have to pay for the favor. In all likelihood, someday this bracelet of beads will turn into a very real version of Fuck-Marry-Kill.

“So was my name. You didn’t complain then.” He begins drawing in my mouth.

“You didn’t add a bead for that answer,” I say.