Free Pinups and Possibilities by Melinda Di Lorenzo Page A

debt?”
    My mouth twisted. “If I tell you it is…will you let me go?”
    There was the briefest hesitation before he answered. “Would you lie to me to make me let you go?”
    “Yes.”
    Shit.
    I was failing miserably at helping myself.
    “Has anyone ever told you that you aren’t very good at small talk?” he asked.
    “I have no reason to be,” I stated.
    “Everyone has a reason to play nice sometimes.”
    “Ellis—my boss—doesn’t like us to talk to the clients.”
    “Ah. That’s probably for the best,” he said.
    “It keeps us safe.”
    “What about when you’re not at work?”
    I tensed again. “What about it?”
    “Don’t you have to be polite to people? At the post office or the grocery store or the place where you buy your dresses?”
    “Of course. But they’re not usually threatening to duct tape me up at every turn.”
    “Goes with the job. It’s just a career hazard, I guess.”
    “If you say so,” I replied with a snort. “How long you been doing it?”
    “Threatening to duct tape you? Today’s my first day.”
    “Ha-ha.”
    “I’ve been working for Cohen for six years.” His voice was tinged with poorly disguised bitterness.
    “You don’t like it,” I stated.
    “No.”
    I turned his words on him. “Then why are you doing it?”
    “Very funny,” he said.
    “Oh, I’m deadly serious.”
    “Are you?”
    He hates Cohen as much as I do, I realized, and I felt a little worse about giving him a hard time.
    “Don’t look so sad, Mr…” I trailed off.
    He hadn’t given me his name.
    Why would he? I asked myself. I’m just another pay cheque, and giving me his name turns me into a loose end.
    “I’m Painter,” he stated without hesitating.
    I laughed in spite of myself. “Painter? What is that? Your day job?”
    You’re obviously sleep-deprived, I told myself. Feeling sorry for the man who’s going to turn you over to Cohen Blue and teasing him about his name isn’t normal.
    But then he grinned and it was worth it, just to see the genuine pleasure in his green eyes. The smile transformed his face. I admired his profile as he answered.
    “Unfortunately, no, it’s not a title. My mom was an artist, and for some reason, that seemed like a good enough reason to name me after an art medium.”
    “Wait. That’s your real first name? Not one you just give to Cohen’s…friends to throw them off?”
    “Yep. Real name. Painter Garret Darren. And really, I’m lucky I wound up as Painter and not as something far worse.”
    “Like what?”
    He shrugged. “Just about anything. Sculpture. Van Gogh. Dancer.”
    “Prancer? Vixen?”
    He rolled his eyes. “Just so you know, I’ve punched people for mocking me about less important things.”
    “Are you going to hit me, Painter Garret Darren?” I asked.
    His face tightened, and I put my hand on his arm to let him know I was kidding. The thick muscles of his biceps made my heart beat a little faster before he shook off my grip.
    “I’m not that kind of man, Polly.”
    He twisted the steering wheel and pulled off the road. For a second I thought it was because he was mad, and then I spied a dimly lit gas station just ahead. We coasted up to one of the pumps.
    Painter reached across my lap, pressing his elbow against my knees in a way that gave me a bit of an involuntary thrill.
    “What are you doing?” I asked.
    Painter didn’t answer right away. He let his arm rest there, building up heat in my thighs.
    “Does he hit you?” His voice was gruff.
    The abrupt question caught me off guard. “What?”
    “Does he hit you?” Painter repeated.
    Had he spotted my black eye? I stole a glance in the mirror above me on the shade. No. It was still well covered.
    “Well,” Painter prodded. “Does he?”
    “Does who?”
    “The dangerous man you have at home. The one you say you didn’t call.”
    “No!”
    “Because if he does…”
    “He doesn’t. He’s kind and sweet.”
    My sincerity seemed to satisfy him, even