“I don’t just mean the phone.” Micah said, turning, but redirecting his eyes to the floor. Huh. There was a pizza sauce stain near the stove. That was embarrassing. Focus, dumbass. “I mean working as your pretend boyfriend, escort, whatever you want to call it. I’m going to have to retract your job offer, after all.”

Another pause.

“So you have been working.”

Damon sounded pissed again, and it was enough to get Micah to finally look up.

“What? No.” Not as a hooker, anyway. “I already told you I haven’t been.” Micah gestured pointedly at his puffy, formless jacket. “Does it look like I’ve been trying to pick up johns?”

Damon looked him up and down. “You’re actually wearing a coat.” It was the first hint of approval in his voice all night.

Micah rolled his eyes. “Yes, thank you, I can actually take care of my basic needs on my own despite the opinions of certain others.”

Damon reached out and fingered his damp hair. “But no hat,” he said, like he hadn’t heard a word Micah had just said. He frowned. “I didn’t buy you any winter gear on Saturday, did I? We’re going to have to go back to-”

Woah, woah, woah.

“I’m sorry. Did nothing I just say compute? I told you; I can’t work for you.”

“Why not?” Damon demanded bluntly. “What’s changed between this weekend and today?”

Oh, not much. Micah had just found out that Damon was a crime lord, probably supplying a good chunk of the drugs on the street that he was accusing Micah of using, not to mention the countless other violent crimes his syndicate was undoubtedly responsible for.

“It was a bad idea then,” Micah protested weakly, his stomach flipping at the thought of the man in front of him doling out drugs, beating someone to a pulp… ordering the murder of a rival gang leader or disloyal underling. “I think I must have still been drunk to agree to it.”

Damon scoffed. “You signed a contract,” he said.

Examining Damon now, his intimidating stance and rapidly darkening expression, Micah could picture it. He’d make a great mafia boss.

“Yes, but it says nothing about forced servitude,” Micah pointed out. (He’d checked.) “The contract contains stipulations about you still paying me out through the end of the month in the event I’m suddenly fired, but there’s nothing about me quitting.”

Damon scowled. “Is ten grand a week not enough money for you?” he all but snarled in Micah’s face. “Because I can guarantee you that no one out there is going to pay you half as much, no matter how prettily you beg.”