Chapter 39

There’s a knock on my door bright and early, and I groan, rolling out of bed and padding over to open it. As soon as I’ve got the lock undone, the door flies open and there’s Zayd waiting for me, one forearm leaning against the doorjamb. He’s dressed in a torn, black tank top with a zipper sewn diagonally across the side. Paired with white skinny jeans and boots, he looks like a punk rocker from the 90s—but in a good way.

“Morning Working Girl,” he says, whistling as he pushes his way into my apartment and looks around. “Didn’t expect the Brothel to look this nice.”

“The Brothel?” I ask, rubbing sleep from my eyes. I’m too tired to be angry about it. Too tired to be concerned about Zayd tromping around my room. He reaches up and touches the crystals on the chandelier, letting them clink together with a soft tinkling sound. “Really?”

“It’s what everyone calls your dorm,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders, like it’s no big deal. “You ready or what?”

“Ready?