Christmas with a Rockstar (Rock Revenge Trilogy 3.50)

“It’s okay.” Kindness might not change much, but I couldn’t blame her for it.

I cover

ed her fingers with my own. Even through the worn cotton of my hoodie, I could tell her skin was freezing cold.

“Two softies is what we are.” I gave her a warm smile. “I probably would’ve done the same thing. What are the odds we would end up rooming together, huh?”

“You regret moving in with me?” Her crimson lips trembled uncertainly.

“No. And anyway, it was your apartment to begin with. Lucky for me, you took me in. I had no job. Barely any money after my boyfriend screwed me over. You took a chance on me. Rescued me.” I squeezed her hand and frowned. “You’re freezing.”

I removed her fingers, unzipped my jacket, and shrugged out of it. Goose bumps erupted on my exposed flesh, and there was a lot of it, more than Cam revealed in her slinky slip. A guy in a passing car let out a piercing whistle and gave me a leering look, and then he was gone.

“Put this on,” I told her.

“I’m okay. It’s seventy degrees outside. I’m hardly freezing.”

“It’s damp. There’s a chill in the air. Take it.” I shook it at her. “I was just going to tie it around my waist, but it messes with my look.”

“All right,” she grumbled, but put it on.

“You make any money tonight?”

I held my breath for her answer as we moved into our usual position by the streetlight closest to the curb. Best to flaunt our attributes in the light while we could. The longer we kept on making our living like this, the sooner we would wind up falling back into the shadows to hide the toll it took on us.

“Fifty bucks.”

“That’s something. Good for you.”

“One blow job.” Her brow creased. “That’s hardly rent.”

“It’s a start.” I bit down on my plump, often-abused bottom lip. “Maybe we can convince Wanda to let us pay what we owe in installments.”

“Maybe,” she said, but we both knew there was zero chance. No excuses. No exceptions. Wanda was a total hard-ass.

“Hey.” Cam lifted her chin to point at a sleek sports car idling at the curb. “Would you look at that.”

“What?” I swiveled to glance in the same direction.

“It’s a Porsche 911 GT2 RS.”

“I know what kind of car it is,” I lied.

She raised a disbelieving brow.

“Okay. No, I didn’t. You’re the car expert, Camaro Montepulciano.”

“Not an expert. Not like my dad.”

“Yeah,” I said softly. “But you have nearly every make, model, and spec memorized like he does.”

A love for all things automotive was his one and only legacy to her. After she’d lost her job as a cashier in the auto parts store and her father discovered what she’d taken up as a second career, he completely shut her out. Yet she religiously read Car and Driver magazine every morning as though it were a devotional, just on the off chance that he might one day change his mind and welcome her back.

“Special silver-metallic finish,” she said almost reverently as she drank in the sight of it. “Rear-wheel drive. Six cylinders. Three-point-eight-liter twin-turbo engine. Seven hundred horsepower. That baby can do zero to sixty in two point seven seconds.”

“Sounds super sexy.” I snorted, not as impressed by cars. “So, go get him.”

“Nah.” She shook her head. “You look way hotter than I do.”