Besides, our parents were still broke. So were we, but I was much better at shouldering the financial burden. I was young and still had fight in me. Our parents were old and worn-out, two sixty-something servants living in California, still in that stupid servants’ apartment on the Spencer estate.

It wasn’t that bad for us most of the time. Rosie had worked too, until pneumonia knocked her on her butt. The wet, cold fall had made her sicker, and now winter had hit early and we were behind on the heat bill. But spring was going to come. Cherry trees were going to blossom. We were going to get better. I knew we would.

Still, telling her about my encounter with Vicious was out of the question. She didn’t need another reason to worry.

“I need a distraction.” I rubbed my face, changing the subject.

“You can say that again.” She tugged on her lower lip before turning and walking toward my easel in the corner of the small room.

The easel held a half-finished painting I was working on—a sandstorm rising to an inky black sky. An art collector from Williamsburg named Sarah had ordered the painting. She used to work for Saatchi Art and was still tight with gallery owners all over the city. I wanted to impress her. I wanted to get my foot in the door. I also needed the money.

Rosie knew painting soothed my soul.

She took out the half-squeezed oil tubes, my brushes, and wooden palette, mimicking my usual routine when I prepared to paint. Then she swayed her hips to our old stereo, put on “Teardrop” by Massive Attack, and silently made me some coffee.

I loved my baby sister so much in that moment. It reminded me the sacrifices I made for her were worth it.

I painted as cold December rain furiously knocked on our window. Rosie plopped onto our mattress and talked to me like when we were in high school, exchanging notes about people we went to school with.

“If you could fulfill one dream, what would it be?” she mused, propping her pajama-clad legs against the cold wall.

“Own a gallery of my own,” I answered without even thinking, a stupid smile plastered all over my face. “You?”

She picked at the fringe of the pillow she was hugging to her chest. “Get that damn degree and become a nurse,” she said. “Wait, scrap that. Jared Leto. My dream is to marry Jared Leto. I’d take a stab at Jared Leto. I’m not even talking about, like, a shallow wound. I’m talking a full-blown, deep-cut, ER-worthy stab. I mean, we’d be able to afford it. He’s doing very well for himself.”

I shook my head. She laughed, prompting me to do the same. Lord, Rosie.

I knew it was important to box up these kinds of moments, keep them locked away in my heart, and call them up when things got hard. Because moments like these reminded me that my life was hard, but not bad. There was a difference between the two.

A hard life equaled a life full of obstacles and challenging moments but also full of people you loved and cared about.

A bad life equaled an empty life. One that wasn’t necessarily hard or challenging but was devoid of the people you loved and cared about.

By the time I was done painting, my fingers were numb and my lower back ached from standing in a weird position for hours. We shared mac and cheese and chicken broth and watched “The One With The Lottery” episode of Friends for the six-millionth time. Rosie mouthed all the punch lines, her eyes never leaving the TV, and eventually fell asleep in my arms, snoring softly, her lungs wheezing for air.

I was confused. Tired. A little hungry.

But above all, blessed.

Four days passed before I caved and bought a new phone. I didn’t want to spend the money, but how else would potential employers contact me? It was nothing fancy. The kind of Nokia from before the smartphone era. But I could text and make calls and even play some old-school games like Snake.

I’d been spending the week knocking on recruitment agencies’ doors during the day and working shifts at McCoy’s at night. Rachelle begged the other waitresses to give me their shifts so I could pay the rent, and even though I was embarrassed, I was mostly just grateful.

Rosie took her medicine, but she was still getting worse and worry gnawed at my gut.

It was the apartment.

We didn’t have adequate heating in our tiny Sunnyside studio, and sometimes it was colder inside than it was out. I often found myself jogging in place, doing jumping jacks to warm up. Little Rose didn’t have that option because she was always out of breath.

I didn’t know how to get out of the financial hole I’d been digging ever since I’d offered to have her come live with me. She’d wanted to study in New York, so I temporarily gave up on my internship at an art gallery and took the PA job to support us.

That was two years ago.

Stuck in a rut, I needed a miracle to survive until Rosie was back on her feet.

My mind drifted to Vicious and the fact that he hadn’t come back to McCoy’s. Well, at least there are small miracles to be thankful for.

I was mostly happy about it, but an occasional pang of sorrow would pierce my heart at the thought of him. I couldn’t believe he hadn’t left a tip. He really was a heartless bastard.

It was another cold night, and I was getting back from a double shift at the bar. I held on to the bannisters in our building as I fumbled my way up the dark staircase of the Italianate-style brownstone. The hallway upstairs was dark too, because the landlord hadn’t bothered to replace the dead lightbulbs. I couldn’t complain since I was late on the rent almost every month.

My arms were stretched out in front of me as I felt my way down the hall. A shriek escaped my lungs when moonlight slanted through the tall window near my apartment door. A large shadow fell across me.

My pepper spray was already out of my new thrift-store courier bag when a light flashed from a smartphone the shadow was holding. Bluish light enveloped the angles of Vicious’s face.

He was leaning against my door, wearing a tailored navy sweater rolled to his elbows, black dress pants, and stylish shoes, the leather still wrinkle-free. He looked like a Ralph Lauren ad, and I looked like the girl who cleaned up the set. The visual alone made me scowl at him before he even opened his mouth.

“I’m surprised, Help.”

The ever-constant nickname gave me yet another reason to scowl. Help.

His eyes dropped to the Mace, but he didn’t seem fazed by it. “I thought you’d come for your tip.”

“You did?” The tension in my body eased as some of the fear rolled off of me, but my heart continued pumping furiously for a whole different reason. “Well, here’s a tip from me to you—when you single-handedly ruin someone’s life, said someone is not too eager to contact you. Especially for money.”

Vicious looked indifferent to my bitter tone. He pushed off from my door and strode closer, purposeful and confident, reminding me that he was much more comfortable in his skin than I was in mine. When he stopped, his chest brushed mine, sending shivers to the rest of my body.

I moved aside, crossing my arms over my chest and quirking an eyebrow. “Do I want to know how you found me?”

“Your little friend Rachelle thinks I’m taking you out on a surprise date. Not the sharpest pencil in the box, but then you always had a soft spot for the simpletons of the world.”

I looked away from his face, concentrating on the peeling, worn door leading to my shoebox apartment. “What are you here for, Vicious?”

“You said you’re a PA,” he replied on half a shrug.

“And?”

“And I need one.”

I tossed my head back and laughed, not a trace of humor in me. He really had some nerve. My laughter died quickly. “Leave.”

I fished my keys out of my purse and stabbed the key toward the lock. He reached for my waist, effortlessly spinning me around to face him. His touch caught me off guard. Suddenly, I felt light-headed. I jolted away from his body and twisted back to the door, hysteria climbing up my throat. I dropped the keys and picked them up. I didn’t like the way my body reacted to this man. It always had been—still was—completely out of sync with the way I felt about him.

“Name your price,” he growled, way too close to my ear.

“World peace, the cure for lung disease, for The White Stripes to reunite,” I shot back.

He didn’t even blink. “One hundred K a year.” His voice crawled into my ear like sweet poison, and I froze. “I know your sister is sick. Work for me, Help, and you won’t have to think about how to pay for Rosie’s meds ever again.”

How long a conversation did he have with Rach, and more importantly—why?

That kind of pay would be amazing, especially for a PA. I could quit my night job at McCoy’s, not to mention provide for my sister and myself. But my pride—my stupid pride, a monster that demanded to be fed only when Vicious was at the dinner table—snatched the imaginary microphone and did the talking for me.

“No,” I gritted out.

“No?” He cocked his head to the side, like he didn’t hear me right, and dang it, he looked good doing it.

“Is this word new to you?” I squared my shoulders. “No amount of money is going to make the fact I hate your guts disappear.”

“One hundred fifty K might,” he said, unblinking.

Does he need a hearing aid?