Page 20 of Painkiller (Sin Records #3)

S treet lamps illuminate as the sun sets slowly over the city.

People pass by me on their way to the subway or to catch whatever mode of transportation they seek.

Across the street, I watch my brother check his watch like a neurotic, paranoid asshole for the fifteenth time in five minutes as he sits in his stupidly expensive car, waiting for the doors to open, and for people to start filing out of the building.

He doesn’t even notice my stupidly expensive car parked a few lengths ahead or me standing against the building, waiting for the same.

Habit lifts my hand toward my hair, forgetting about the ball cap I put on before I got out of my car, wondering if I should leave before he spots me, knowing my presence will invite questions I have no desire to answer.

Questions I have no answers to. All I know is that one minute I’m in my car, trying hard to escape the office because it was a shit show today.

Idiot managers and agents making demands they knew would get shot down were endless.

A diva the label signed a few weeks ago was dumped in my lap to handle.

Knox, the rhythm guitarist for Jacob’s Ladder, told me he can’t do their upcoming tour in two weeks but wouldn’t tell me why.

And Maverick harassing me again about the songs.

I can’t wrap my head around why he thinks they’re so great when I’m telling him they’re not.

It’s my job to know if songs are marketable or even worth a spot on an album.

Mine aren’t, and will never be. I accepted a long time ago that my music would never be for anyone but me.

He just wouldn’t drop it until I finally told him to use whatever he wanted, but to keep my name out of it.

Rubber squealing echoed throughout the concrete parking garage as I peeled out of there as fast as I could after doing a massive line.

I drove blindly, my head in a state of anxious frustration and anger with no plan or destination.

At least I didn’t think so, but suddenly I was parked across from my stepsister’s rehearsal location.

Poppy’s rehearsal location.

It made no sense. My usual go-to on days like this was the club for a fight or upstairs, where I could lose myself to oblivion. I should’ve left once I realized where I was.

No idea why I didn’t. Thinking about it—analyzing the compulsion that brought me here would be unproductive since I was trying to shut my brain off.

So, I’ve been standing against the side of the building, blending in with the crowd for half an hour, physically incapable of pulling myself away.

We’ll blame my growing curiosity since Will refused to tell me shit this morning.

I just want to ensure my stepsister’s friend isn’t in serious trouble.

She won’t tell me, but there has to be a reason she’s working so much beyond the ballet when she needs rest to perform at peak levels.

Or why she’s ordering a grilled cheese after a two-hour performance, knowing she needs more than that to refuel her body.

It has nothing to do with the fiery hair, kaleidoscopic eyes, and sassy personality. It can’t because that would also be counterproductive since she says I can’t have her and I’m not in the business of suffering through rejection or blue balls.

The doors open, and the dancers spill from the building.

Unsurprisingly, Graham exits his car and crosses the road to escort Casey back as if she’s incapable of crossing the street alone.

Most days, I’m shocked he lets her do anything without hovering over her.

Part of me doesn’t blame him, considering what happened a few months ago when her mother grabbed her from under our noses, intending to fucking sell her.

The other part of me thinks he’s just an obsessive psychopath.

I press myself further against the brick, lifting the collar of my jacket and tugging the Yankees cap I keep in my car for times like these further down to hide my face.

I’m not a celebrity, but I am recognizable, and the paparazzi like to sneak up on me at the most inopportune times.

Explaining why I’m lurking around their rehearsal space sounds as fun as a colonoscopy, so I grabbed my hat and glasses before I climbed out of my car.

The public would assume it’s for Casey. Or that I’m scouting dancers for a video or tour.

My brother and my friends would annoy the fuck out of me to get the real reason, and I don’t have an answer that would satisfy them.

Luck seems to be on my side when Casey exits first, beelining toward my brother. My lips pull down in disgust, and my stomach churns when I see him plant a sloppy kiss on her lips.

God, why is this my family?

Several more follow Casey, and eventually, they’re blocked from my view—thank God—followed by Poppy, who is hiking her bag on her shoulder as she turns toward the subway, her lips curling and nose scrunching in annoyance. I force back a chuckle at her obvious disdain for the NYC transit system.

But that, and her quick acceptance the last two times, is a good indicator that she will readily accept my offer of a ride.

One I shouldn’t be offering because the last thing either of us needs is to be confined in a small space again.

But beyond her dislike, I suspect she can’t afford it.

She’s all but admitted it, but I recognize the signs from when Casey let her undeserved guilt prevent her from asking for help.

I used to sneak food into her apartment all the time, just so I didn’t starve when I camped out there.

My question is, why can’t she afford it? I’m aware dancers don’t make much. Especially to live in Manhattan, but she said her apartment belonged to her grandparents. That they bought it decades ago. Wouldn’t their mortgage have been paid twice over by now?

Then again, if anyone understands things aren’t that simple, it’s me.

My father went from having more money than an individual should be able to spend in a dozen lifetimes to being bankrupt in less than a decade.

Graham is the only reason we—he still has the family home, and if not for what I inherited from my mom and the trust fund she and Dad created, there’s no way I’d be living in Manhattan either.

Not that I don’t make good money at the label, but this borough is expensive as fuck.

I’m probably fortunate that Dad had enough self-respect and restraint not to let his narcissistic, sociopathic pedophile of a wife blow through it, too.

Though I’m sure Graham had a hand in preventing that as well.

It’s annoying how much I actually owe my brother.

My lips twitch as I watch Poppy’s lips move, muttering to herself as she turns her gaze toward the sky. Her hazel eyes flare at the unseen stars with fury before she rolls her eyes and begins her journey east.

“Need a ride?” I call out when she’s directly in front of me.

Her feet stop moving as she whips herself in my direction. Kaleidoscope daggers are thrown at me like it’s my fault her life is difficult. And again, I feel actual laughter churning at her reaction.

The emotions she evokes are mind-blowing because it’s been years since anything but shame and anger has been genuine. I’ve done a decent job at faking it for as long as I can remember. No one was the wiser until my brother moved back to the city.

“What are you doing here?” Attitude is thrown at me as she sets a hand on her hip and pops it out.

“My question answers yours, Halfpint.”

Without an ounce of concern, she rakes those expressive eyes over me from bottom to top, quirking a brow as she scans the cap and sunglasses. They linger a breath before she meets my gaze. “You drove all this way to give me a ride?”

A shoulder tips up as I push away from the building. “You’re across town, not the state. Besides, I was in the neighborhood.” I lie smoothly, not wanting to spook her by looking like an obsessive stalker. “What do you say? Better than the train, right?”

Doubt dances across her face. She’s so animated all the time, but it’s obvious she doesn’t realize it. “Why would you be in the neighborhood?”

“Suspicious much, little diva?” I chuckle.

“I had a meeting a few blocks over. It ended a few minutes ago, so I thought I’d swing by and offer my services.

” My tongue swipes over my bottom lip, letting the tease hang, as I take my turn checking her out.

Yes, I have a very good idea of what she looks like beneath the fifteen pounds of layers, but for some reason, she’s just as hot when she’s covered from head to toe.

“Now, my question. Why are you so suspicious?”

“Because this…” Her hands wave in front of me before finding their place back on her hip. “It is suspicious. And Casey might see us.”

“Why are you so worried about Casey? You know we can be friends with each other, right? She’s not that damn fragile.”

“Yeah, but I rarely want to practice my cowgirl skills on my friend’s face,” she mutters.

And I would laugh, but dammit, my fucking dick just turned to steel.

She’s right. This friend thing will never work, but fuck if I can make myself walk away just yet.

“Do you want a ride or not?” The question isn’t meant to be sharp, but it is.

She doesn’t help things when her face heats as her eyes fixate on my mouth.

Fuck, this was a bad idea. So is walking toward her, grabbing her arm, and dragging her with me to my car.

“Come on, Halfpint. I’m tired of waiting for you to decide when we both know you won’t turn me down. ”

“Watch me, buddy.” She pulls against my grip, attempting to get away.

I won’t deny I’m curious about the mood. She’s always feisty. A continuous current of sass. But it’s almost like she’s pissed, but it can’t be with me because we were fine when I dropped her off this morning.