Becoming Rain (Burying Water 2)

“I need Miller there.”

“Until when?”

“Until I say so.”

“And then what?” Rust keeps telling me I’m smart, I’m going to go far. I assume “going far” means more than the glory of filing paperwork, ordering parts, and being called “Nurse Boone” by a bunch of greasy mechanics for the rest of my life.

The revenue from the garage isn’t bankrolling Rust’s high-end lifestyle; that much I know. Neither does RTM International, the online vehicles sales company he co-owns, though that company puts him on the map as a legitimate global businessman.

I have a pretty good idea where his money comes from by now.

But he has yet to admit anything to me and, until he does, I’m nothing more than an errand boy. He can be such a secretive son of a bitch, even when it comes to family.

“I just . . .” I try to bite my tongue, but the dam breaks anyway. “Stop dangling this big plan in front of me like a diamond-encrusted carrot.”

I get a sour smirk in response. “How about you stop whining like a pissy brat and spend all this energy establishing yourself as a leader. Run the garage as well as Miller does. Better than Miller. Learn how to deal with people. You’ll meet all kinds when you’re in charge and you’ve got to be personable and keep them all happy, kid. I didn’t build up that place so you can drive it into the ground with your smart mouth.”

Same old spiel. “It’s hard to believe that’s really so important, considering you’ve got King Kong Grouch dealing with the customers right now.” Rust knows he doesn’t have to worry about my personality. I’m Prince Charming, for fuck’s sake. Just, maybe not after this much vodka . . .

“The customers come back. Plus, he has the guys’ respect.”

“That’s not respect. That’s working for a paycheck under constant threat. The dickhead told me he’d cut an hour from my pay today for being late. To my own fucking shop!”

“It’s still my fucking shop,” Rust throws back, his tone warning.

I hold my hands up in surrender. “Fine. But I need to start making real money, Rust. My own money.”

“You aren’t exactly suffering. I’ve taken good care of you.” His manicured fingertip taps the face of my gold Rolex—a hand-me-down from him when he upgraded last year. It’s part of the long list of gifts and cash that he’s easily doled out and I’ve gratefully accepted, just as easily as a son would accept something from his father. Because that’s the role Rust has played since I was six years old, ever since my dad skipped out on my mom, little sister, and me.

I lean back against my bench, trying to decide if this argument is worth it. I know I can’t win. Rust’s an unmovable bastard when he wants to be. “I’m just tired of Miller’s crap,” is all I say. I’m tired of punching in and out every day, of working Saturdays. It’s a sucker’s life and it’s not one I have any interest in living. It’s the one Rust promised me I wouldn’t have to live.

A harsh chuckle escapes Rust. “You’re only twenty-four years old. You’ve got too many years to go to be tired of people’s crap already. Go on . . .” He waves a lazy hand back toward the common area of the club—we’re sitting in the VIP section, as usual. It’s packed with bodies and thrumming with deep-bass trance music. “It’s a busy night here. Why don’t you cheer yourself up with a bliad.”

I roll my eyes. Go find a whore and get laid. Classic Rust advice when he’s trying to blow me off. Sometimes I listen. It’s never hard to find one. Not in this place, not looking the way I do. Like money. That’s what these kinds of girls like. And I’ve never minded playing the part of a guy who has it if the night ends with one of them naked and on her back in front of me.

I down the rest of my drink and flick the empty glass across the table. “I’m going home.”

“Probably a good idea. You’re obnoxious tonight. Doubt you’d impress anyone in your state.”

I have no interest in impressing anyone tonight. Not even Priscilla—a bartender and a sure thing, if she hasn’t already dug her claws into a true high roller for the night. “When you hear that I’ve beaten Miller to death with that fucking stapler of his, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” I slide out of our booth to the sound of Rust’s booming laughter. Pushing my way through the crowd, I keep my head down to avoid all conversation.

A sudden splash of cold liquid hits my chest, doing nothing to cool my simmering rage.

Chapter 2

CLARA

“I’m so sorry!” I peer up through the dim club lighting to take in his face. It’s angular and masculine. He’s far prettier than the pictures do justice. And, by the deep furrow and the clenched teeth, he’s also oh so pissed.

He’s too busy glaring at the tumbler’s worth of Coke that I just dumped all over his steel-blue shirt to even bother a glance up at me. “Fucking perfect,” I hear him mumble.

“Let me get that dry cleaned for you. Please,” I offer, my voice a seductive purr, hoping the view down the front of this slutty overpriced dress will finally grab his attention. I place my hand flat against his stomach as I step into his personal space. Physical contact usually works.

Instead, he shoulders past me, pushing through the crowded bar and toward the exit.

Shit. I didn’t nurse a drink on this bar stool for the past two hours with the better part of my breasts on display so this asshole could ignore me.