Page 125 of Pretty Little Thing

But it doesn’t feel all that wrong, either.

* * *

I knewmy answer the second the job offer fell from her mouth. Long before I had the chance to grab that harddrive and take off. Long before I sat down in this old, damn car and drove out here to the gym.

A salaried position at Little Black Book isn’t something anyone turns down, homeless or otherwise. I could work normal hours. Take nights off for something — anything — else. I could have hobbies. A life.

A life with Nora Payne.

That doesn’t sound all that bad.

I walk through the gym, scanning the faces for Alex. A few regulars notice me and acknowledge me with a head nod and I do the same.

Strange. This might be the last time I do that.

I hear him before I see him. He’s chatting up some woman who clearly just wants to use the treadmill in peace.

“Alex,” I say.

He twists around and smiles at me. I wave him over, gesturing for him to follow me into the locker room — and leave the poor girl alone. He’s not supposed to stop and talk to the customers in his jumpsuit anyway.

I wait in a quiet corner among the lockers. Private but not too private. I don’t think he’ll react to this very well.

Alex springs into the room with a mop and bucket. He rolls it in my direction and raises his lip at my suit and tie. “Hey, Mr. Fancy Pants. I didn’t think you worked here today.”

“I don’t.”

He wrings out the mop and plops it on the floor. “Come for a run? Because I must request you do it somewhere away from the redhead out there,” he jokes. “If she sees you, she’ll never look at me again.”

“Listen, Alex,” I say, keeping an even tone. “We need to talk.”

He barely looks up from his mop. “About what?”

“This job. I can’t do it anymore.”

He snorts. “It’s just cleaning toilets, man.”

“You know what I mean.”

His head finally rises. “You don’t mean the job job, right? Not that job?”

I nod. “That job.”

Alex tosses the mop back into the bucket. “What do you mean you can’t do it? Just swipe the damn thing while she’s sleeping. Easy peasy.”

“I can’t,” I say again.

His brow furrows in confusion for a moment before shifting to a frown. “Oh, this isn’t can’t, is it? This is won’t.”

“She’s a good girl,” I argue.

“She’s a what?”

“I mean, she’s a good person,” I correct myself. “And she doesn’t deserve this.”

“What the fuck do you care about some rich bitch?” he asks, growing furious. “She’ll manage. Meanwhile, poor, hardworking men like you and me get shit on. It’s time for us to get ours, Clive.”

I shake my head. “Not like this.”

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