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show up looking like this, even if she hadn’t been so paranoid about Monica following her around… but she’d need to hit the books later. At least the books didn’t hit back.
    Her bruises felt better, and in fact her head hurt only a little. Her ankle was still the worst of it, sending sharp glassy jabs of pain up her leg with every step down the stairs.
    She was halfway down when she saw the boy sitting on the couch, where Shane had been sprawled before.He had a guitar in his hands.
    Oh. The music. She’d thought it was a recording, but no, this was real, this was live, and he was playing it.
    She’d never heard live music before – not really playing , not like this. He was…wow. He was wonderful.
    She watched him, frozen, because he clearly didn’t even know she existed yet; it was just him and the guitar and the music, and if she had to put a name to what she could see on his face, it would be something poetic, like longing . He was blond, his hair cut kind of like Shane’s, in a careless mop. Not as big as Shane, and not as muscled, though he was maybe as tall. He was wearing a T-shirt, too, black, with a beer logo. Blue jeans. No shoes.
    He stopped playing, head down, and reached for the open beer on the table in front of him. He toasted empty air. ‘Happy birthday to you, man.’ He tossed back three swallows, sighed, and put the bottle down. ‘And here’s to house arrest. What the hell. Own it or get owned.’
    Claire coughed. He turned, startled, and saw her standing there on the stairs; his frown cleared after a second or two. ‘Oh. You’re the one Shane said wanted to talk about the room. Hey. Come on down.’
    She did, trying not to limp, and when she got into the full light she saw his quick, intelligent blue eyes catalogue the bruises.

    He didn’t say a word about them. ‘I’m Michael,’ he said. ‘And you’re not eighteen, so this is going to be a real short conversation.’
    She sat, fast, heart pounding. ‘I’m in college,’ she said. ‘I’m a freshman. My name is—’
    ‘Don’t bullshit me, and I don’t care what your name is. You’re not eighteen. It’s a good bet you’re not even seventeen. We don’t take anybody in this house who isn’t legal.’ He had a deep voice, warm but – at least right now – hard. ‘Not that you’d be signing on to Orgy Central, but sorry, me and Shane have to worry about things like that. All it takes is you living here and somebody even hinting there’s something going on—’
    ‘Wait,’ she blurted. ‘I wouldn’t do that. Or say that. I’m not looking to get you guys in trouble. I just need—’
    ‘No,’ he said. He put the guitar aside, in its case, and latched it shut. ‘I’m sorry, but you can’t stay here. House rules.’
    She’d known it was coming, of course, but she’d let herself think – Eve had been nice, and Shane hadn’t been horrible, and the room was so nice – but the look in Michael’s eyes was as final as it got. Complete and utter rejection.
    She felt her lips trembling, and hated herself for it. Why couldn’t she be a badass, stone-cold bitch? Why couldn’t she stand up for herself when she needed to, without breaking down into tears like a baby? Monica  wouldn’t be crying. Monica would be snapping some comeback at him, telling him that her stuff was already in the room. Monica would slap money down on the table and dare him to turn it down.
    Claire reached in her back pocket and pulled out her wallet. ‘How much?’ she asked, and started counting out bills. She had twenties, so it looked like a lot. ‘Three hundred enough? I can get more if I have to.’
    Michael sat back, surprised, a little frown bracketing his forehead. He reached for his beer and took another sip while he thought about it. ‘How?’ he asked.
    ‘What?’
    ‘How would you get more?’
    ‘Get a job. Sell stuff.’ Not that she had much to sell, but in an emergency there was always the panicked call to Mom. ‘I want