“Okay. I’m pulled over. What’s up?”

Bridget hesitates. It’s only three seconds or so, but it slows my breath. Bridget doesn’t hesitate. To Bridget, life is a game, and you win by punching your opponent in the crotch and taking their pieces while they’re planning their next move. She doesn’t flinch, or back down. Not since Keith, anyway.

“I need money.”

“Shit, Bridge. For what?” I don’t protest. She doesn’t like to ask for things, so she must be desperate.

“Don’t make me beg. If I weren’t waiting for Archive’s fucking quarterlies, which should actually be good this time around, I’d never even consider — ”

“I’m not prying. I just want to know if I can help.”

“Yes. You can help by loaning me eight hundred bucks.”

“Eight hundred!”

“Jesus, Brandon. I feel bad enough. Don’t make me — ”

“Stop being so defensive. You don’t want to tell me, fine.” I don’t go on because I’ve already put her on speaker and am trying to reach my bank’s website. Give her the illusion that I can help for at least a little while longer.

“I’ve got nodules,” she blurts.

I don’t understand that sentence.

“Nodules. On my vocal cords. Look. It’s not a big deal, but they can take them off right now, but only if I can give them a deposit ahead of time because I’m still paying off my last thing.”

Bridget’s “last thing” was a fracture in her femur that hopefully represented the last of Keith’s handiwork. It had been latent since their big incident then suddenly decided to flare up ten months ago and give her a limp. She tried to play it off jokingly as her pirate walk, but I made her get it fixed. She insisted on paying every cent. My protests that I was at fault for Keith fell on deaf ears.

“Are they … I don’t know … dangerous?”

“They’re nodules.”

I also don’t understand that sentence. Is it a yes or a no?

“I don’t know what the fuck nodules are, Bridget.”

“Like bumps.”

“And?”

She seems exasperated. Not by me; by herself. I’ve known Bridget since we were twelve, back when the foster care system first made us siblings. I know how painful this is for her — not the nodules, but the request for help.

“I’ll have to have them removed eventually, or they’ll affect my moneymaker.”

She means her voice. Bridget makes her living as a voice-over actor and an audiobook narrator. Her friends keep saying she should do phone sex, and I’m not sure if it’s a joke, and certainly don’t want to ask.

“It doesn’t have to be right now,” she says, “but I guess it’s a three- to five-week recovery period, and during that time I can’t work.”

“Will you be able to speak enough to meddle in my business?”

“Ha fucking ha. Look. I’m waiting on final edits of Sensation right now, and supposedly that’s at least five weeks. If I get it done now — like right now — I can be back in speaking shape by the time the script comes in. But if I wait, I’ll have a forced three-week break when I can least afford it.”

She’s right. We had this discussion the other night. She was all excited. Sensation has two sequels, Temptation and Reformation, and the trilogy already has enough gas in print and ebook that her best client, Archive Audiobooks, is ready to pay handsomely. But only if Bridget can keep their time frame … and maybe finally get the tiny break she desperately needs and badly deserves.

I nod to nobody. I’ve pulled up my bank account, and it looks like my entire net worth has topped out at $791.43. I made it to four digits once. That was a banner day. I supersized my Value Meal. I make decent money with Life of Riley, but it isn’t great. And holy shit, my debt has had children.

“Eight hundred bucks?” I try to sound casual. Just for kicks, I look inside my wallet, where I keep a twenty folded small for emergencies. Room to spare.

“I’ll pay you back, I swear.”

I’d laugh if I thought it wouldn’t insult her. Loaning money to Bridget is like making a Kiva loan. Her repayment rate is stellar, considering what most people would think of the recipient. Secure as Fort Knox. She’ll probably insist on paying interest. She hates imposing that much.

“I know you will. It’s not a problem.”

And it’s not. I’ve got a credit card. I’ll be paid again before the bill is due, and I can make the minimum payment as always. Rent is taken care of. I’m just on the goddamned edge, which is where I always seem to be. As a hammer-swinging grunt, I lived at redline. As a foreman, I lived at redline. As team leader, I still live at redline. On paper, I do well. It’s only unexpected, random events that knock me off kilter, and I’d be fine if those unexpected punches would stop coming. Too bad they seem to be nearly as reliable as rent and electric.

Now, if I could get the promotion? I’d move into six figures for sure. And if a hundred grand per year isn’t enough to sustain my shitty little life, there’s something wrong with the world.

“So … ?” Bridget says.

“I’ll bring you a check tonight. No problem.” A check because it’ll look official, like I’m Rockefeller and can spare it easily. Although come to think of it, I’d need to deposit my twenty to write her a check. So it’ll probably be a cashier’s check. Even more official.

“I’ll pay you back.”

“You said that.”

“You’re sure you can afford it?”

“Of course. No worries.”

I hear this little stirring on the phone’s other end, and I can picture Bridget warring with an appropriate response. Right now, her dignity wants her to reexplain how she has the money coming and this is just bad timing. But the bigger part of her knows she should be grateful first, defensive later.

“Thanks,” she says. Then we hang up.

It’ll be fine. I get paid soon. I have my credit card, and the debt can keep on waiting. I’ve paid 18 percent interest for years; it can keep on building. What do I care?

I need this promotion. Mason likes me. It’s hard to believe that with one side of my brain, but the other side thinks I’ve got a good shot. If I could move up to vice president, I’d make enough money to get out of debt. To leave the Regency and move into Old Town proper — or maybe Cherry Hill, in time. And it’d be another chance to prove myself. Land deals drive Life of Riley’s profit. The better I do, the more grateful Mason will be, and the more I’ll make.

Maybe the long road can finally be over. For me, and for Bridget.

I need to keep being impressive. Keep doing my job as well as I can.

I slip my wallet back into my pocket. The smooth leather sliding on my palm for some reason reminds me of the touch of the company’s namesake — Miss Riley James herself.

I shake the thought from my head. I make myself stop picturing the boss’s daughter, start my truck’s engine, and pull back out onto Rum.

I go home to change. Because for now, I’m still not the kind of man who wears a suit and has money … or resides in developments like I spend my day’s building, living the life of Riley.

CHAPTER SIX

Riley

THE WAITRESS STARTLES ME NEARLY enough to tip my coffee all over the table — I’m sure it’s an odd breed of college homesickness working its way through my system.

I told Dad I could take care of myself now — or, more accurately, that I want to take care of myself. I’m twenty-two. I never had to struggle like my friends. Phoebe, who should be here any second, grew up poor and managed to never resent me for having more money by the year while her family stayed where it was. She didn’t get her first job at Key Notes for “something to do” or “to teach me responsibility” like I got mine. And she isn’t a clerk at Très Chic because she loves clothing, though she does. For Phoebe — as for pretty much everyone other than me — working is survival.