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before. I'm not exactly some naive prepubescent. But it's never been like this. I can still feel his hard bicep under my hand as I tripped in the kitchen this morning and he swooped down to catch me. If it wouldn't have meant death and dishonor if someone somehow found out, I would have given myself to him right then and there, on the kitchen counter. Oh, how I wanted to.
    But it does mean death and dishonor, I remind myself. And not just for me—Cooper would be a bloody smear on the floor of an abandoned backwoods shed somewhere if one of Daddy's thugs got to him. I can't risk that.
    I sigh and pull my long, black hair up into a ponytail. Anna-Lynne had called this morning with the great news that she’d talked to some friends, who’d talked to some friends, and that she’d landed an interview for me. It's at one of the tattoo parlors that I visited yesterday, not the super-ritzy ones but also not the crappies. It's a pretty standard, blue collar tattoo parlor in downtown and, with Anna-Lynne's recommendation, I have the chance to be considered for a position as general all-around lackey to the artists there.
    So basically, I'll be their bitch.
    But I really want it, because at least it's doing something in a parlor and it's something I can put on my resume. I'll also be the best damn lackey any of one of them has ever seen and maybe someone will give me the chance sometime, probably a ways down the road, to prove that I have what it takes to ink.
    The place is called The Ink Joint and my interview is in half an hour. Beyond
    my aspirations and just focusing on the practical side of things, I need this job. Even split with Cooper, it's not like I can pay the rent here without some kind of job. I can't file unemployment because I'm technically still an underage runaway. Besides, I'm a Santos, and Santoses don't take welfare.
    I line my dark, almond-shaped eyes with kohl and rub a little lip balm onto my naturally cherry-colored lips. I pull a fresh shirt over my head, run a hand over my faded cutoffs, and give myself a quick look-over in the mirror. Not bad.
    I lace up my sneakers, grab my bag, and head out of the door. Not looking where I'm going, I walk straight into a tall wall of muscle. It's like I've been electrocuted—my body is on fire with longing. I subconsciously cross my legs in front of each other, a pitiful attempt to control myself.
    "Cooper," I breathe.

Chapter Twelve
    Cooper
    F uck, I can't remember what I came to say to her.
    Petite with firm curves in all the right places, this woman is trouble. She's definitely not what I was expecting when I put in the ad for a roommate. She's the kind of woman I'd normally take straight to bed.
    But she's my roommate; sex would complicate things. I don't do relationships and you can't exactly send a roommate home when you're done with her. Besides, I don't know anything about her. I don't know how old she is, where she's from, what her story is. If she hadn't made a face like she screwed up after she told me she's Savannah, I wouldn't even know if that's her real name.
    Everything I know is telling me to stay away. But all my instincts are saying something quite different. Fuck, there's no question why I've been doing so many extra workouts and taking so many cold showers since she moved in. And there's no question that, just like I realized last night, I want to know more.
    "You said you have an interview today, right?" I ask. I'd walked in when she was looking for something to make for breakfast this morning and tried to strike up some conversation. She had been half-asleep still, but had mumbled something about The Ink Joint.
    "Yeah, I did," Savannah says. "Thanks for letting me bum some cereal off you earlier, by the way—I realized I forgot to thank you. I'm not normally so rude, but I was exhausted this morning."
    "No worries." I smile. "You did an amazing job on this place. I get all that for a bowl of cereal?" I whistle.
    She laughs. "I just needed to get