“Like smoking, dropping out of school isn’t a turn-on either. Women like men who are educated, so you might want to get your butt back in school and get an education… That’s if you ever want to meet a woman.”
He scoffs. “Doubtful. My dad has women falling all over him, and he dropped out of college.”
Little shit…
Before I can think of a comeback, he points behind him at the building. “Do you live there?”
“Yeah, I just moved in. I’m new to New York.”
“I live there too. Just moved in, but I’ve lived in New York my entire life.” Like a gentleman, he extends his hand. “I’m Brody.”
“Savy.” I shake his hand. “Do you still have time to get to school?”
“Nah, school gets out soon. It’s a half-day. My dad’s totally going to kill me for skipping.” He says it like it’s a fact—one he’s not at all worried about, reminding me of the foster kids I’d lived with growing up, who’d do things like skip school to get a rise out of the people taking care of them. I don’t know this kid, but based on his comments, the smoking, and the truancy, I’d bet he’s seeking attention.
“Well, I need to find somewhere to eat. How about you show me somewhere good, and I’ll buy you your last meal?” I wink playfully, making him chuckle.
“I know just the place.”
We end up a few blocks down at a little hole-in-the-wall deli that, according to Brody, serves the best sandwiches. Brody tells me how he’s recently moved in with his dad and was supposed to start school today.
“So, what happened?”
Brody shrugs, averting his gaze.
“You get scared?”
“Pfft,” he huffs. “I’m a man. We don’t get scared.”
I raise a brow. “Even men get scared.”
He sighs and takes a bite of his sandwich. When he’s done chewing, he swallows it down with a gulp of his lemonade and is about to speak when his cell phone rings.
“Shit, it’s my dad.”
“Shoot,” I correct, feeling a bit of sympathy for his dad. “And you better answer it. He’s probably worried sick.” I know I would be if my son were wandering around the streets of this vast city on his own.
Brody rolls his eyes as he hits answer. “Hello?”
I can’t hear what his dad is saying, but I can hear him yelling.
Brody huffs, then says, “Whatever… I’m sorry.” His tone doesn’t match the last two words. He’s not sorry. His eyes meet mine as he tells his dad where he’s at. “Fine… I’ll be back soon.” He hangs up and groans. “I forgot he was meeting with my guidance counselor today to go over my credit-retrieval schedule. He’s at my school now.”
“And you’re not.”
He nods.
“What’s credit retrieval?” I ask curiously before taking another bite of my delicious sandwich.
“I failed a few classes last semester, so I have to take them online to get credit.”
“What are you, a freshman?”
“Yeah.” He shoves the final bite of his food into his mouth, chews, then swallows, sucking down his drink to wash it down.
“That’s a bad way to start high school. You planning to go to college?”
“Nah, I’m going to work for my dad. He has the best job there is.” His eyes light up, making it clear, despite his act of rebellion, that he loves his dad very much.
“What does he do?”
“He owns a bunch of nightclubs. His job is literally to party.”
I cough out a laugh. “I think there’s more than that to owning nightclubs. I doubt he makes money by partying.”
Brody shrugs. “I don’t know.” His phone rings, and he curses under his breath. “It’s my dad again.”
“You should probably get going.”
“Or we could have cake for dessert. This place makes the best éclair cake. It is my last meal after all.”
“Nice try.” I reach over and tousle his hair. “You made your choice, and now you have to face the consequences.”
Chapter Three
Benjamin
My alarm goes off, and I groan, exhausted. Yesterday felt like the never-ending day from hell. After a shitty meeting, where I learned we’ve hit some red tape on acquiring the permits to get started with Artfully Delicious, I headed to Brody’s school to meet with the counselor. When I got there and learned he wasn’t there, I nearly lost my shit. Apparently, my damn kid thought school was optional.
After a long talk about our roles and responsibilities—where I did all the talking, and he grunted and rolled his eyes—I took his phone away. He stormed out pissed and stayed in his room for the remainder of the day, refusing to come out for dinner. Hopefully, today goes a bit smoother.
After getting dressed in my workout clothes, I wake Brody up so he can start getting ready. To ensure he makes it through the doors of his school today, I’m going to have to deviate from my routine and drop his ass off myself.
When I enter the gym, I’m taken aback by the woman already on the treadmill. Caramel hair up in a ponytail, tiny cotton shorts that show off her thick thighs and plump ass, fluffy boots—beige today—and instead of a T-shirt, she’s sporting a tank top. She’s walking, once again, at a leisurely pace. Only, unlike yesterday, today her treadmill isn’t squeaking… because she’s on mine.
I stalk over to her and cut around the front so I can look her in the eyes, and when I do, I’m stunned silent. The woman is eating a goddamned bag of Doritos while walking on the treadmill. Is she fucking for real? My gaze slides from her mouth to her ample cleavage peeking out of the confines of her top. The saying on the front reads Mind your own biscuits & life will be gravy.
“Oh, hey,” she says with a bright smile, pulling one earbud out of her ear. “Fancy seeing you here again.”
“You’re on my treadmill,” I deadpan, ignoring the way her smile and accent fuck with my head.
She glances around, confused. “Really? Do we sign up somewhere to reserve certain equipment?”
“No, but I use that treadmill every day at this time.” I’ve been using it for years at this time—since I bought a place in this building to use as my home base—and not once has anyone else ever joined me to work out… until now.
“Oh.” She pops an orange chip into her mouth. “Well, good thing there’re two.” She plucks another chip from the bag and drops it into her mouth, then wraps her lips around the tip of her finger, sucking the orange residue off. My thoughts go to her using those same lips and tongue to suck my dick… Fuck, I need to get laid.
She puts her earbud back in and hits something on her treadmill. Frustrated in more ways than one, I walk around to get on the screechy machine next to hers and see she has a tablet resting on the front of her treadmill. What. The. Hell. She’s… reading a book. This woman is barely walking while eating a bag of Doritos and listening to a goddamned audiobook.
I jump on the treadmill and hit the quick start, pushing the speed up to my usual nine miles per hour. The screeching begins immediately, and the faster the speed, the louder it gets. This can’t be happening. I’m never going to make it for an hour. I pound my feet onto the belt of the machine, trying to rid myself of the anxiety and frustration I’m feeling. One minute, I was building nightclubs, partying it up and getting laid in LA, and the next, I’m trying to raise a teenager—one who’s failing out of school, almost burned my apartment down a few days ago when he was trying to smoke in his bathroom, and refuses to speak to me unless I force him to.