Page 25 of Rent: Paid in Full

He pours a shot of some distinctly nasty-looking stuff, and I knock it back without bothering with salt or lime.

“Again,” I say.

In case it’s not abundantly clear, I’m staring down the barrel of willfully making a very bad decision here. I know it. You know it. The only person who doesn’t know it is Miller fucking MacAvoy.

Correction. The only person who doesn’t know ityetis Miller fucking MacAvoy.

I put my key in the lock, but the door is snatched open before I have time to turn it.

“Where’ve you been?” Miller asks as if it’s not only his business but his right to know where I am at all times.

“Out.”

“Student services again, huh?”

“No.” I mean to sound cool, calm, and collected in my lie, but it doesn’t come out quite like that.

His eyes are unreadable. Steel-gray and hard, mouth slashed into an easy smile. A smile that I’m more convinced every day is less of a smile and more of a threat. A storm of nerves gathers in my belly. The fist threatens but doesn’t clench.

Thanks, tequila—love you, long time.

I hand an open-mouthed Miller my messenger bag as if he’s the hired help and step around him, flicking my hair out of my face as I do it. I walk to his desk with purpose and a little sway of my hips.

Don’t ask. Just don’t. You won’t like the answer, I can promise you that.

I look down and blink. There have been two stacks of cash on his desk for almost a week. I’ve seen them there morning and night. I’ve spent every waking hour trying—and failing—not to think about them. I’ve woken up in the night, and when I’m absolutely positive he’s asleep, I’ve reached out and touched each pile, just a light touch, a brush of fingertips, no more. Cautious and careful not to disturb them in case he’s memorized their position.

He’s exactly the kind of prick who’d do something like that.

My point is that there were two. There were definitely two.

“Where’s the other one?” I demand.

He sets my bag next to my desk and leans against my closet, arms crossed. “The other what?”

“The other—”Shit, I don’t know what to call it. Is it a stack, a strap, a roll?“The other m-money.”

“Ah,” he says sympathetically, “the offer on the hand job expired. You took too long to make up your mind, so now, if you need cash, you’ll have to earn it on your knees.”

I’m not sure I fully understood the word balk before, but I do now. My entire body reacts, tensing and recoiling before I have time to act cool. I recover quickly, although not well. Surely, that’s the only way to explain what I do next. I reach out and take hold of the money on Miller’s desk. I pick it up firmly and decisively, not like it’s something that could burn me or bite me, despite that being exactly what it feels like. I yank the money pin off the notes and throw it down on his bed roughly, then I count the money and stuff it as deeply into my back pocket as I possibly can.

“Where’s my tip?” I ask haughtily.

He doesn’t skip a beat. “Careful, or I’ll give you a lot more than the tip.”

I balk again but shake it off quickly and get to work.

In case you were thinking there’s a graceful way to get on your knees to blow a guy you hate, you’d be wrong. Dead wrong. I mean to be slick about it, but kind of crumple instead. One knee gives way first, followed quickly by the other.

Miller’s eyes narrow with joy, lips parting in a huge smile. He looks positively radiant. I swear to God, he might actually be glowing. He saunters to the door, locks it, and turns off the overhead light. His study lamp casts a long, moody light over the room, changing the atmosphere from almost clinical to sultry in the blink of an eye.

“You don’t need to do that,” I start but falter when I hear how affected I sound. I change course, attempting to deflect with humor. “I’m kind of a sure thing.”

A Pretty Woman quote?

Jesus Christ.

Thanks a lot, Bev. This is what you get when you tell someone like me that he’s funny.