Page 19 of Rake

I delete the texts and shut off my phone.

After I watch the snow fall for a while, I decide to take a shower, grateful for the en suite bathroom. My ankle isn’t any better, no surprise there. It hurts as I strip off my borrowed clothes and climb into the shower. The water pressure is amazing. Luckily our Lothario keeps souvenirs like a rake version of a serial killer, and I find a basket full of toiletries left behind by his former conquests.

I’m not averse to using men’s supplies when I have to, but I don’t want to smell like him.

Trying to fool a man like Finn won’t be easy, and it strikes me as more dangerous than openly defying him. Still, I have to succeed to keep my brother safe.

After my shower, I wash my clothes in the sink. It’s nothing new for me—growing up poor gives you a particular skill set. Luckily, I haven’t had to do it much lately.

As I wring my underwear out, I consider: they’re practical and not at all sexy. Do I have any sexy underwear? Probably not. Certainly nothing that could be construed as lingerie. I set the blow-dryer on low and hoping it won’t wake Finn, dry my hair along with my clothing.

How does one go about locating the right kind of sexy underwear? Most of the “sexy lady” stores in the mall seem more cheesy than anything else—like a teenager’s version of sexy. Finn is in his mid-thirties, sophisticated and wealthy. There’s no way he’d like the cheaply made garments my high school friends and I used to giggle at.

They’ve all finished college and moved far, far away from Everett. Someday I hope I can do the same.

When my clothes are dry, I put them back on. I’m not the kind of girl who can go braless. My mother always tsk’d at me.You got Grandma Goldie’s big ol’ titties on my bird bone frame. Gotta support ’em so they’re not dragging on the ground by the time you’re forty.

My family’s nothing if not classy.

Still, it’s good advice and I hold on to all of my mother’s words of wisdom. Sometimes I’ll forget what she sounded like. That scares me. We were too poor to have the latest technology, so the videos I have of her are grainy at best.

The bruises on my neck are ugly now. Talk about manhandling. Jamilah suggested going the damsel-in-distress route, but he responded more to my anger. I’ll give him that, but always let him win. Always let him think I’m submitting to his masculine prowess against my better judgment. Because I have to.

Surviving difficult men is something the women in my family excel at, for better or worse.

I can do this.

I hate that I’m in this awful position, but I’ll do what it takes to keep my brother safe and get the casino staff organized. Then my brother and I can both leave Boston and I can restart my life.

Finn doesn’t start moving around until nine am. Must be nice. I emerge fully dressed in my work clothes from yesterday. It’s nothing impressive—black slacks and a plain purple sweater. Grandma Goldie always told me she liked me in purple. Made the green in my eyes pop, she’d said. Maybe that’s why she gave me the purple bunny socks.

I limp over to the couch. Finn’s doing pull-ups on the doorframe.

God, he’s hot. I hate it. He’s got an intricate sleeve of tattoos on one arm, and I can see through his t-shirt that it continues onto his chest. His broad chest, that tapers into a lean waist. Ugh.

“Sleep well?” he asks, not looking at me.

“No,” I say.

Better save the lying for when it counts.

“That’s too bad.” He doesn’t break a sweat as he continues to do pull-ups. “There’s coffee in the kitchen.”

I need to stop staring at him. Coffee is a good distraction. I walk slowly into the kitchen. Like I said, damsel in distress doesn’t seem to play to Finn’s appetites.

The coffee’s a dark roast, full-bodied and delicious. It’s probably the best coffee I’ve ever tasted. I settle into a chair and pick at my nail polish. His feet hit the floor, and he joins me with a cup of coffee.

“This coffee is incredible. Another business perk?” I ask. I need to push him just enough and back off.

His smile turns predatory for a moment and then eases into something more generic. Perfect.

“No—my father has shit taste in coffee. He’ll drink the instant stuff to save time if he has to. Absolutely no palate, that man. How’s the ankle?”

“Fine.”

“If it’s anything like those bruises on your neck, I doubt it.”

My hands fly up to my neck. It’s tender, but not even in the top ten of my catalog of injuries now.

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