Page 18 of Married in Michigan

“I can’t afford a day off, Paxton. I have bills to pay.”

“How much will you make today?”

“I…I don’t know, I don’t have it broken down by day. I just know I can’t afford a day off.”

“What’s your monthly take home?”

“Four thousand, usually,” I answer, not knowing why answers just come out for this man when I’m normally disinclined to answer personal questions for anyone.

He’s wearing a blazer over a white T-shirt, and digs into an inner pocket of the blazer, pulls out the fattest wad of cash I’ve ever seen in my life. Peels off hundred-dollar bills with blinding speed, until there’s a stack of hundreds that makes my head spin. He hands it to me. “There. Two grand. Covers half the month, should cover an hour of your time today.”

I feel my fingers twitching—two grand would mean I could breathe this month. Pay Mom’s hospice bill, rent, utilities,andgo grocery shopping all in the same month.

Pride, however, is stronger. “I’m not taking your money.”

“Mom’s already covered your shift.”

He has me over a barrelhead. I can’t not work, but now my shift is covered. Which means I have to call Camilla and beg for an extra shift, which means explaining whatever the hell is happening right now. Granted, I did get paid handsomely for cleaning the penthouse, but that’s not enough extra to makeallthe ends meet, and if Camilla is planning to give me a bonus, I haven’t seen it yet and can’t afford to assume it’s coming.

I glance at the interior of the car, which is a kind I’ve never seen before, and which looks like it costs more than all the cars parked on this street combined. The seat alone probably costs more than my entire life. “I’m covered in sweat. I’ll ruin the seat.”

“Don’t care. I can get it fixed.”

I sigh. “You really do know how to get your way, don’t you?”

He doesn’t even respond to that, just waits until I’m in the seat, which is more comfortable than any car seat has a right to be. There’s open air over my head, and the suede under my thighs is so supple and soft it seems almost fake, a charcoal color that shifts when I subtly stroke it with one careful fingertip. Every surface of the interior of the car is carbon fiber, luxurious and soft to the touch. There’s a fire extinguisher in front of my seat, wrapped in suede to match the seat. The steering wheel is squared, more of asquirclethan a wheel. There are dials and gauges, and the display is more of a heads-up display from a high-tech fighter jet than an automobile.

“What kind of car is this?” I ask, because curiosity is a diabolical weakness of mine.

“Ferrari LaFerrari.”

“What an original name,” I quip, my voice droll.

He shoots me an annoyed look. “For most hypercars, you have to put your name on a list and pay a hefty deposit to even be eligible to buy one. For a LaFerrari, you have to beinvitedby Ferrari to buy one.”

“Do I want to know how much it cost?” I ask.

“Tricky question. There’s how much I paid, and how much it’s worth. Which are not the same.”

I shake my head. “Forget I asked. Either one is a number I’ll have no way of comprehending.”

He nods. “Probably true.” There’s no sense that he’s even aware of the insult in that. “I’m not even really supposed to be driving this on public streets, but fuck it, right?”

I shouldn’t ask. But I do anyway. “What’s the point of a car you can’t drive?”

He taps the accelerator and the car launches forward, pressing me back in my seat; a jerk of the wheel, and we’re around a corner, and then seconds later we’re on US-31 heading for the McMansionville that is Bay Harbor.

“This is a track car,” Paxton says, his eyes and head in constant motion, as are his hands and right foot, as he guides the rocket ship that is this ridiculous vehicle at insane and illegal and unsafe speeds around traffic, sometimes crossing the centerline into oncoming traffic.

“Holy shit slowthefuckdown!” I manage, biting the words out past a barely restrained scream. “And what’s a track car?”

He snorts. “A car you only drive at a racetrack.”

“So you’re a race car driver?”

“No, Makayla,” he says, with exaggerated patience. “I own a race car. And it’s not a race car, per se. It’s a car designed to be driven very, very fast, which you can only legally and safely do at a designated track.”

“And yet you’re driving this on the streets.”