Ken would absolutely care.

“Why are you doing this to me?” I have a lot of practice not screaming even when I want to.

“Because I can. Because nobody walks away from me. Because you’ve got great tits and a fuckable ass, and I want it. Because,” Christian says in a flat voice, devoid of emotion, “I get what I want.”

“And you want … me?”

His fingers snag my wrist, tugging, but I yank it free. I drop my new wallet on the driveway’s pitted blacktop. The hundred dollar bill falls out and almost flutters away in an errant breeze before Christian steps on it to stop its flight. He bends to pick it up. He offers it to me, and I snatch it from his grip.

“I want what you have,” he says.

Laughter grinds out of me. “I don’t have anything.”

“Bullshit,” he says. “Look at you. Running errands in a Gucci fucking watch and matching shoes. Tossing hundreds out of your wallet like they’re scrap paper. How do you even manage to lift that wallet with that rock on your finger?”

I almost can’t speak because of how ludicrous this all is. I try to explain, but what can I say, what can I tell him without spilling the entirety of my truth and the years of lies I’ve been weaving to cover it all up?

“The ring belonged to Ken’s mother, and my parents gave me this house instead of a cash inheritance. We’ve remortgaged it twice since then. And the clothes, all of that, it’s … nothing, Christian, it’s all smoke and mirrors. If you really meant it when you said you wanted a sugar mama, you’re looking at the wrong woman. I promise you, I can’t keep you in any kind of style.”

“How’s that lie taste, Jewelann? Because I bet I have something you can keep in your mouth that has a much better flavor.”

“You’re crude.”

He laughs. “Yeah. And you love it. Bet Kenny doesn’t talk to you that way, does he? Mr. All-American? Mr. Goody Two-Shoes?”

“You don’t even know him, Christian.” But he’s right. Ken would never. Women who sleep around are whores, according to him, and although I never told him he was my first, I’ve also never told him how many others had been there before him.

“I know he keeps you in hundred dollar bills, and I know you’ll do anything not to lose him. You just said so.” Christian makes a tutting noise and wags a finger back and forth. “You were never good at hiding your hand, Jewelann. But hey, you don’t want to let me back inside? Whatever. I don’t need it.”

Sweat trickles down my spine. My armpits are dank with it. I need to get inside the house, out of the sun. Away from him.

“What do you need? I really don’t have money—”

“Money,” he says, “is not the only thing I might need from you.”

“If you want me to sleep with you,” I begin in a low voice, but his laughter cuts me off.