As I step up next to him, I notice the two double shots of Jack on the bar in front of him. I clear my throat and tap him on the shoulder. “You want some Ginger with that shot?” I ask.

He unsuctions his face from the blonde, who glares past him at me as he turns to look over his shoulder.

“Red!” He drops the blonde and spins his stool to face me. “Holy shit! I know we said we’d never do the nasty again, but that performance really made me second-guess my decision.”

I shove his shoulder, and he’s just drunk enough that I nearly knock him off his stool. He knows I was on the rebound the night we slept together. “Get over yourself. You weren’t that good.”

“Jon,” the blonde behind him whines.

He glances over his shoulder at her as if he’d forgotten she was there. “Oh. Hey. So, my friend’s here. You can take off now.” He turns back to me and lifts his glass. “To hot redheads who can fuck an entire room from the stage, and make every guy feel like it was just for him.”

I roll my eyes and we shoot. This time I beat him by at least half a second.

Behind him, the blond skulks off as Gina pours us another shot.

IT’S NOON WHEN I wake up on Jonathan’s sofa. I pick up my phone and scan my texts, same as every morning, but so far nothing from Mom. It’s warped, I know, but I’m so used to her to-do lists every morning that, as much as I hated them, and usually didn’t to the things on them just to spite her, I miss them. I think about calling her, but what would I say? I’m not going to beg her to let me come home. Doing so would show her that I can’t take care of myself. It would prove her right.

My gut tightens in that way it always does when I think about our last conversation. I remember how disappointed she looked when she told me she was done with me. But the kicker? Apparently I’m a bad influence on my eight-year-old brothers. God forbid I should corrupt the golden boys. She gave me twenty-four hours to get out and that was that.

If nothing else comes of this, I want her to see that I’m not a waste of space. I don’t know if it’s retribution or redemption that I’m after. All I know is that either of them will prove her wrong about me, and that’s all I really care about.

I push the blanket Jonathan gave me when we got home last night to the side and sit up. Last I remember, he and Ginger were in his room, fighting. She was here waiting for him when we got home at sometime after three, and she was super pissed. Can’t say I blame her. They were screaming so loud when I finally turned off the light and went to . . . sofa, I can’t believe I actually fell asleep. But as I sit here trying to shake off my hangover and wake up, it becomes glaringly apparent Ginger didn’t make good on her threat to rip Jonathan’s dick off because, based on the rhythmic knocking of his headboard against the wall, he’s clearly using it at the moment.

I drag myself to the kitchen and start the coffee, then stand here staring at the pot until a full cup has dribbled into it. The heating plate hisses as I yank the pot out from under the drip and pour the contents into my mug. I’m holding it to my face and burning my mouth on the sweet nectar when Jonathan’s door clicks open.

I look up, and wish I hadn’t, because the only thing he’s wearing is his extensive ink, and the condom he’s in the process of peeling off as he crosses to the bathroom. And I’m suddenly feeling like I’ve made a huge mistake. Do I really want to live here with a guy I’m not dating, but I’ve already seen naked more times than his mother ever did?

Ginger stumbles out of the room behind him in one of his band T-shirts, her spiky white-blond hair looking how it always does—just fucked—and her black eyeliner smudged, giving her a distinct raccoon look.

“Hey, Red,” she croaks as she staggers into the kitchen. She makes a beeline for the coffeepot and pours a cup. I hold out my mug and she refills it, then I shuffle out to the sofa and curl into the corner, cradling my mug to my chest and breathing in the steam so no caffeine escapes.

Jonathan comes out of the bathroom in a pair of jeans that he probably left on the bathroom floor last night. “Kevin wants nine hundred,” he says as he drops onto the sofa next to me.

“A month?” I ask, my eyes bugging out of my head.

He nods.

“To sleep on his sofa?”

He nods again.

“But aren’t you paying nine hundred?”

“Yep.”

“So, if I’m paying nine hundred, and you’re paying nine hundred, what’s he paying?”

He shrugs.

I roll my eyes as Ginger comes out of the kitchen with her mug and a granola bar, sitting on my other side. “Jon says you got a gig at Benny’s.”

“Yeah, for now. Jonathan got me hooked up.”

She gives Jonathan a “what the fuck?” look. “You brought her to that flesh pit on purpose?”

He holds up his hands as if surrendering. “Hey, she needed a job. I got her one.”

I scrunch my face. “If Kevin’s going to charge me nine hundred a month to sleep on this sofa, I’ve got to sock away some cash.”

“Yeah, well . . . if it were me, I’d tell Kevin to go fuck himself,” she says. “And I can help you find a real job, if you want. One that doesn’t involve pandering to the lowest common denominator and endorsing the double standard.”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” I say. But then I remember the stack of cash in my bag. “You know . . . I think I’m going to stick with this for a while and see how it goes. But, thanks.”

“Whatever,” she says. “And, if Kevin’s seriously charging you nine hundred, you definitely need to find a new place to live. There are a hell of a lot better places than this for that kind of money,” she adds with a flick of her eyes at the apartment.

I burrow deeper into the sofa and sip my coffee. “Well, if you hear of any, let me know.”

“You got it,” she says, then leans in and presses her shoulder into mine. “But as long as you’re living here, can you do me a favor and remind Jonathan to keep his dick in his pants?”

“I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise anything.”

“My dick was in my pants all night,” Jonathan protests, “until you took it out.”

I don’t mention the blonde at the bar because, technically, I don’t think he’s lying.

Ginger cuts him a look, then pushes up from the sofa. “I gotta get ready for work.” She takes her coffee and disappears behind Jonathan’s door.

“Speaking of work, when do you go back?” Jonathan asks.

“Tonight. Nora put me on center stage.”

Jonathan sits up a little straighter. “Are you shitting me?”

“Um . . . not as far as I know. Why?”

“You just need to watch your back. Center usually goes to the girls with seniority. There are a couple of them who are going to be pissed.”

The truth is, I’m not nearly as excited about going back tonight as I thought I’d be, and I know why. Dancing for Harrison got me hotter than I want to admit. There’s something about the way he watched me on stage—like I could actually feel his gaze—that was totally erotic. It’s depressing to think about going back there and not having him in the room for inspiration.

Ginger struts out of Jonathan’s bedroom, now fully dressed, and I do a double take. She’s in heels and a cropped black jacket over a green silk blouse and black pencil skirt. Her makeup is minimal and her hair is freshly gelled.

“Try not to fall dick first into anyone today, honey,” she says with a syrupy smile, and blows Jonathan a kiss before vanishing through the front door.

“Where does she work?” I ask Jonathan, staring after her.

“She’s a paralegal for the ACLU.” He flashes me that boyish grin. “Hot, huh?”

“How old is she?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Jeez, Jonathan. Didn’t know you were into older women.”

“Yes you did. You’re older than me and I’m into you,” he says, nudging his elbow into mine.