Page 49 of Clashing
Dan emerged from the kitchen and grinned when he spotted me. “How’d it go?”
“Good.” I tied my hair up in a messy bun. “Do you need extra help this week? I heard there’s a fight that a lot of people will be watching.”
“Yeah, on Thursday. I’ve been advertising. You want to work?”
“Please. What about the weekend or any other days this week except Friday?”
His lips tugged down. “Do you need money, Scar?”
Oh, God. Here we go.I squared my shoulders and looked him dead in the eye. “No.”
His chest puffed out more than it needed to. “It seems like it.”
“I don’t. What’s wrong with wanting a little extra money?”
“There something you can’t afford?”
“Oh my God.” I braced my elbows on the counter and dropped my head in my hands. “Nothing I want you paying for. Do you need help or not? And don’t cut any of Tammy’s hours to do it.”
“I wouldn’t. If anything, I’d take more days off.”
I arched a brow as he limped to a glass and a bottle of amber liquid. “As you should.”
“I will for you.” He slammed the glass in front of me and poured a shot of whiskey. “Not because I need to.”
“Whatever.” I rolled my eyes. “Which days?”
“I’ll look at the schedule.Ifyou tell me what you need money for.”
“I don’tneedmoney. I want it for an art class. That’s all.”
“What art class? Who’s going to teach you anything?” His brows pulled together. “You’re already the best.”
I sipped my whiskey and fought a smile. “Says the man who only has my art in his house and never looks at anyone else’s.”
“It’s because I’m a distinguished man of taste and yours is the only art that measures up to my standards.”
I laughed. “You’re so full of shit, Dan.”
“How much does the class cost?”
I inclined my head to the water pitcher behind him, and he obliged, pouring me a glass. “None of your business.”
“How much, Scar?”
I gulped the icy water. “Eighty cents.”
“Eighty dollars?”
“Sure. Eighty dollars.”
He sighed and stroked his beard. “Come on, honey. Why can’t I help you out sometimes?”
“You already do too much for me. You’re letting me live here for ridiculously cheap, and you keep buying my art supplies when I tell you not to.” He pouted. I covered his hand with mine. “Okay, tell you what. I’ll let you help me if you let me take you to the doctor for your knees.”
He scowled. “A doctor can’t tell me what I need.”
“Sure, I mean, they only have doctorates and machines that can tell you why you can barely walk, and medicine and therapy to help, as well as years of experience, but yeah, I get your point. What do they know? The silly bastards, trying to help people.” I scoffed. “Thenerve.”
