“Decker!” His footfalls close in behind me. “Wait up.”
“Get lost, Evan.” I pick up my pace, eyes forward and hands shoved in the pockets of my jacket.
“I have a proposition.” He catches up and darts into my path.
Like I need another proposition. I veer around him, and he moves with me, his expression hard with determination. We do a blisterfeld dance on the crowded crosswalk, shuffling side to side in my attempt to pass him.
Exasperated, I shove him away and charge toward the subway tunnel a block ahead.
A dark unheated apartment waits for me in Greenwich Village. No electricity or food, but I still have a bed. Might as well enjoy it, since I’ll have to evacuate the place as soon as tomorrow.
My stomach tumbles. What the hell am I going to do? Without family or friends to take me in, I’m back where I started a year ago.
Rock.
Fucking.
Bottom.
With time, I’ll find another shit job, but not before I’m evicted and back on the street without a pot to piss in. Thanks to a string of misfortune and a few poor life choices, I’m the quintessence of an Eminem song. Maybe my worthless mother was right. She’d love to see me move all my belongings into the pit of never-gonna-amount-to-anything and make a home there.
“Decker,” Evan calls after me. “I can get you an interview.”
That halts my feet.
“An interview for what?” I turn and find him standing several feet away, hands anchored on his hips.
“Have you eaten tonight?” He points at the narrow cross street that cuts through to Ninth Avenue. “There’s an Italian place. A little dive in a basement. Kind of rough around the edges, but they make the best gnocchi.”
“I know the place.” My mouth waters, but I can’t afford a meal there. “What’s the job?”
“I’ll tell you over dinner.” He cocks his head. “My treat.”
The offer smells sketchy and underhanded, and I always trust my nose. “See you around, Evan.”
I pivot toward the subway tunnel, my throat tightening with each step.
“They’ll pay you for the interview,” Evan says, still standing where I left him. “All you have to do is apply and show up.”
I stop at the stairway that leads down to the subway and grip the railing. What kind of employer pays applicants for an interview?
Evan doesn’t know me from Adam. Doesn’t know my prior work experience or qualifications. Hell, he just heard Shelby announce to the whole fucking bar that I assaulted her.
Warning bells sound in my head, spurring my feet down the stairs.
“Five thousand dollars.” His footsteps sound behind me, followed by a hand on my arm.
I don’t shrug him off, because fuck me, five thousand dollars would cover my overdue rent. It would mean the difference between a bed and park bench.
“What do I have to do?” Suspicion growls through my voice.
Expression softening, he nods in the direction of the Italian restaurant. “Dinner.”
CHAPTER 2
DECKER
I stretch my legs beneath the table, staring at the screen on Evan’s phone. The website he pulled up lists the senior leaders at the New York Presbyterian Hospital. Evan’s clean-shaved face smiles among the photos of suit-and-tie executives. I’m reluctantly impressed, despite the confusion pounding my head.
Evan Daniels, MD
Chief Operating Officer
Beneath his title is a bio of his prestigious education and work experience. Evidently, he was a cardiologist before he joined the board of directors at New York’s top rated hospital.
The url looks legit. Why is he showing this to me?
“You can get me an interview at the hospital?” I slide his phone across the table. “What’s the job?”
Janitorial? Security guard? Does it matter? The possibility of employment curls a tendril of hope through me, but the rational voice in the back of my mind swats it away. They won’t hire me when they research my background. Besides, janitors aren’t paid five grand for an interview.
“The interview isn’t at the hospital.” He rests a hand on the rim of his water glass, poking a finger at the floating ice cubes. “I showed you the web page to make a point. I have a legitimate job, one that’s public and sensitive. I have a reputation to protect.”
Fuck, that sounds ominous. I recline in the chair and slug back a gulp of beer. “Go on.”
His gaze darts around the room. The dozen other tables sit empty. We’re the only diners in the tiny restaurant.
Our balding waiter bends over the pastry counter near the exit, snapping in hushed tones at the silver-haired woman who seated us. She huffs and rolls her eyes, speaking in heated Italian. He throws his arms in the air and vanishes into the kitchen through a side door.
“The owners.” Evan grins, removing his gaze from the woman and placing it on me. “Married forty-five years. Always bickering and hopelessly in love.” His expression sobers. “What I’m about to tell you can’t be repeated.”