Hard Rock Arrangement.

The Lonely Kings #1.

Ava Lore.

Chapter One.

I excel at only two things in this world: the first is feeling sorry for myself, and the second is housework. The first inspires the second, and my whole family knows it. This makes it difficult to hide my feelings, but it doesn't stop me from trying. If I can't clean out in the open, then I have to do it stealthily, after everyone has gone to bed. I'm like one of those shoe-making elves, except instead of making shoes I scrub the c.r.a.ppers.

Even c.r.a.pper-scrubbing elves, however, sometimes give themselves away. Bright and early one Monday morning, one week after I had showed up on my older sister's doorstep and begged for a place to crash, Rose stumbled out of her bedroom in search of coffee and found me on my hands and knees on the kitchen floor, grinding borax and lemon juice into the grout with a toothbrush. I'd forgotten that she had to go into work early this morning, and I started guiltily when she cleared her throat.

"Rebecca..." she said, crossing her arms and sounding just like our mother.

I was caught red-handed, but I still tried to cover things up. "Haha!" I said. "Just getting some housework done."

"I see that," she replied. "I appreciate the effort. And yet I can't help but wonder what you aren't telling me. What time did you wake up to clean? Don't look at the clock."

Dammit. "Five-thirty?" I hazarded.

"I see," she said. "You mean five-thirty last night, yes? Because it's only five o'clock right now."

Double dammit. "Sorry, I meant, er, four-thirty." I tried to meet her eye while I lied my a.s.s off, but unfortunately Rose is not like me, always thinking the best of people and getting s.h.i.t for her trouble. Rose is the go-getter sister, the one that doesn't take c.r.a.p from anybody, the one who went to law school and is now an excellent lawyer who mows down all who seek to oppose her. I'd always hung back and tried not to screw things up.

That's why Rose landed a sweet job as an a.s.sociate at a prestigious law firm here in LA, dealing in entertainment industry contracts and I was a shiftless-and now homeless-bartender whose last known residence was a studio apartment in San Diego. So while I can smell vodka on someone's breath, Rose can smell a lie from a hundred yards away. Sometimes she can even sniff one out over the phone. I didn't stand a chance.

I only lasted a few seconds before I dropped my gaze. "I didn't go to bed last night," I muttered. "But it's okay! It's the least I can do since you're letting me stay here rent free!"

Rose shook her head. "Rebecca, I let you stay here free because you are my little sister and I'd be a terrible person if I didn't. I don't need you to clean my apartment."

I couldn't stop myself from saying it. "Actually," I said, "you, uh, kind of do."

She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, and I knew it was all over. She knew I was in a Bad Spot, and now she was going to help me in her usual go-getter Rose sort of way.

"Rebecca, I'm afraid it's time for you to get a f.u.c.king job," she counseled.

Yeah. That's Rose.

"I'll get a job,"I said. "I promise."

Rose dropped her hand and stalked across the floor. Bending over, she grabbed my wrists and hauled me to my feet. "No you won't," she said. "I know you. We are going to find you a job now. Whatever s.h.i.tty personal thing you're working your way through, it will help if you have something else to think about. And stop cleaning!" She grabbed the toothbrush out of my hand and tossed it in the trash and I felt a pang lance through me.

"Hey," I protested, "I was using that!" My despair at losing my precious toothbrush was very real. I'd been in the zone. I'd been about to conquer the forces of entropy. I didn't need a job, I needed a n.o.bel prize, or at the very least some grant money.

Rose didn't care. "When was the last time you showered?" she demanded, steering me into her room. "The last time you had a decent meal? The last time you talked to someone besides all those dumb parents on Supernanny? They can't hear you, you know. They're in the TV."

I opened my mouth to reply, but honestly I couldn't think of the answers to any of those questions, and Rose's face told me she knew it.

"See? You need something to take your mind off things. Therefore you are getting a job today."

Defeated, I let her have her way with me. Rose sat me down in front of her computer, pulled up Craigslist, and found every listing in the downtown LA area for a bartender. Then, because those listings were slim, she looked for 'housekeeper' and 'maid'.

"What?" I said in protest. "What makes you think I'd be a housekeeper?" I preferred my own messes, or the messes of those I was well-acquainted with; the thought of having to deal with the filth of strangers made me itch.

Rose rolled her eyes and ticked off her fingers. "Because A, judging by how fanatically you clean my apartment, you'd be good at it, B, the pay is better than fast food, which I don't think you'd get into anyway, and C, it doesn't pay as much as tending bar, but it's an honest living."

Says the woman with a law degree, I thought, but I sucked on those sour grapes in silence.

With a click of her mouse, Rose sent no fewer than ten job openings to her printer, seven of which were for a maid or housekeeper. Then she shoved me into the shower and supervised me while I got dressed to make sure I was actually going to drag my carca.s.s out of the apartment.

As I pulled on clothing appropriate to a bartending gig-which were totally inappropriate elsewhere-she typed numbers, information on companies, and addresses into my phone. When I was dressed to my satisfaction, she pressed fifty dollars into my hand, gave me a bus schedule and a file full of the printouts and shoved me out the door.

I stumbled into the light of the rising LA sun. It was going to be another beautiful day in southern California, and I was pretty sure it was going to just go downhill from there.

"Have fun!" Rose called from the doorway. Then she went back inside and slammed the door.

"Thanks," I said.

She meant well. To Rose, the right job could cure, in one fell swoop, my broken heart, my wrecked life, and my degenerate homelessness, though she only knew about the last bit. I hadn't shared the other parts with her. I'd burdened her enough already. Still, she suspected. She wouldn't pry, but the cleaning gave me away.

I can't help it. I want there to be a place for everything and everything in its place, and since I clearly couldn't acheive that with my personal life I had to make do with ordering my surroundings. I mean, you can't clean the toilets often enough, I always say...

Okay. Maybe I did need a job.

With a sigh, I shoved the file folder into my messenger bag, checked the bus schedule, and started down the street, determined to, if not find a job, then to at least try.

After all, who knew? Maybe the right job would cure all my problems.

I walked into the rising sun.

When I opened the door to the lobby of office suite 305-my final application of the day- fifteen well-coiffed heads whirled around. Fifteen pairs of shrewd eyes narrowed as they scoped me out. Fifteen noses lifted higher in the air when they processed what they saw. Then a tiny bit of tension melted away from fifteen pairs of smartly dressed shoulders as, almost in unison, the other applicants turned back around, dismissing me from the compet.i.tion for the job.

It was a bit unnerving, to tell the truth, but I really should have twigged to the fact that somewhere, somehow, some wires had been crossed. After all, every single applicant was dressed in some variation of a business suit. Pressed, prim, and utterly proper in dark fabrics, white shirts and polished shoes. Each one had a shiny leather briefcases with gleaming bra.s.s buckles, and some of the briefcases even had those little spinny numbers on the locks.

Me? I wore a sparkly black- and silver-striped tube top, skinny jeans from the sale rack at H&M, a ratty pair of Chuck's that I'd had since my senior year in high school, and an old white polyester tuxedo jacket pa.s.sed down to me by my grandfather from his '71 wedding. The b.u.t.tons had long since fallen off the sleeves, so I wore them rolled up to my elbows. It was my bartending uniform. You had to look somewhat hip to land the good gigs at places where rich yuppies liked to go, so it's safe to say I was severely underdressed compared to everyone else.

So yeah, that should have tipped me off. Unfortunately I had been awake for almost thirty-six hours at that point, so my only thought was, Holy c.r.a.p, all this for a lousy part time housekeeping job? This economy sucks.

...I'm serious. I was tired.

Besides, I had just been witnessing first hand exactly how terrible the economy was so at the time the situation made perfect sense to my sleep deprived brain. I'd been on my feet all day, running all over downtown LA looking for a job I didn't really want. I mean, I needed a job-that much was obvious-but after a whole morning of job hunting I remembered why I'd been so reluctant to do so in the first place. Job hunting is brutal. And I'd recently been through the wringer. Subjecting myself to the Rejection Roulette was just cruel.

I'd had no luck at all yet. I'd spent the morning riding the bus and walking from place to place getting rejected, so by the time I walked into suite 305 I was tired, bruised in spirit, and in no mood to get scrutinized by a bunch of yuppie wannabe housekeepers.

Still, the place seemed like it might be a nice place to work-you know, if I managed to not get laughed out of the building upon first contact with HR. I didn't even know the name of the business I was applying to-the notes in my phone said it was a software consulting firm-but I had to admit it looked sw.a.n.k as h.e.l.l.

The lobby was decked out in cool, modern furniture, all sleek lines and irregular curves and angles that ended abruptly. The couches and chairs were pastel pink with lime green accent pillows, and the walls had been painted in cream and turquoise stripes, as if the sixties had vomited all over an Ikea. Large frosted gla.s.s doors with brushed steel handles stood at the entrance to the rest of the office, and next to them the secretary, a middle-aged woman with bottle-blond hair and steely gray eyes, sat at a hammered steel desk typing away at a slender computer that probably cost more than my last car.

As I stood just inside the entrance, trying to muster the courage to sit down next to one of these intimidating strangers, the secretary looked up. Raising an eyebrow, she peered at me from over the top of her dark-rimmed gla.s.ses.

"Are you here for the job screening?" she asked me. Her tone of voice was incredulous.

A few t.i.tters rose from the other applicants, and I had to fight down a blush. "Um, yes?" I said.

She raised the other eyebrow. "You sound uncertain."

Oh, G.o.d. I was uncertain. I wanted nothing more than to turn around and run back out the heavy gla.s.s doors. How could I have known this was a position that required a business suit? I didn't even own a business suit. I hoped I never owned a business suit.

But if they're laughing at you now, my brain whispered, imagine how much they'll laugh at you if you turn around and walk out.

The thought paralyzed me. My defensive reflexes rose up and took over.

A bright smile slid over my face and I shook my head. "No, I'm sure!" I chirped at the secretary. "That's what I'm here for!" And with a bounce in my step that sent my b.o.o.bs jiggling in their tube top I turned and took the last remaining seat. I set my messenger bag down between my feet, then bent over to look for my cell phone within its cavernous depths. This also had the bonus side effect of hiding my flaming cheeks.

"Well, that's good to hear, although you are a little late," the secretary said. The note of mockery in her voice was clear as crystal. Then she coughed genteelly and seemed to sober up. "Well, at any rate, I'm afraid Mr. Hudson has been slightly delayed by an emergency phone call, but he will come greet you all as soon as possible. Please be patient." Mr. Hudson. That must be the office manager or whatever. Why did the name ring a faint bell, though?

I shook the thought off-I'd tended bar in a popular touristy night spot for almost three years so most people and names seemed familiar to me now-and nodded at the secretary on the off chance that she had been addressing me specifically and continued my search. At last I managed to locate my phone. Pulling it out of the bag I turned it on and began scrolling through my contacts, trying to convey the impression to anyone who might be watching me that I had some very urgent business to attend to.

Inside, of course, I wanted to die of humiliation. The laughter echoed in my head, like a cheesy flashback in an old 80s flick.

I hated myself for it. Why did I care what a bunch of stuck up douchebags in business suits thought of me? They were douchebags, and after I got turned down for this job I'd probably never see them again. Douchebag opinions were, by definition, inconsequential.

Except I did care. I cared very much. If they laughed at me I wouldn't be able to bear it. And they probably weren't douchebags, to be honest. They were probably all very nice people who rescued turtles from the middle of the road and called their grandmothers every Sunday. Disappointing them would be even worse.

Good little Rebecca, I thought sourly. So sweet. So nice. Always aiming to please.

Yeah. That's me.

And look where it got me.

I bit my lip and kept my head down as I scrolled around my phone. I avoided the potential minefields of my email and Facebook, as I'd been doing for the past eight days, and instead checked innocuous things like the weather (always pleasant) and my agenda (always empty). I hoped I looked busy. I felt as though the word 'LOSER' were written above my head in neon letters. You know, just in case people couldn't tell from simply looking at me.

I didn't dare risk a look around. I didn't want to accidentally catch anyone's eye.

After about a minute or so, the silence in the room began to grate on my ears, so I took a deep breath and peeked from beneath my lashes to scope out the rest of my comrades, but most of my fellow applicants were staring at tablets or typing on laptops. I surrept.i.tiously studied them as I paged through my mixed drinks cheat sheet app, trying to size them up.

From what I could see, my compet.i.tion ranged in age from fresh out of college to mid-thirties. The women were, to a one, lovely and perfectly made up. They all wore their hair-invariably blond-loose and highlighted, cascading over their shoulders in either straight layers or soft waves. I tried not to finger my long wavy indigo, black, and platinum undercut. They were also, to a woman, skinny. My full b.r.e.a.s.t.s, solid waist and wide hips made me feel like a whale. I turned my attention from them and instead attempted to study the men as well.

Which was weird. Because there actually were men. I don't want to get all s.e.xist up in this piece, but generally you don't see men going out for jobs as maids. I mean, sometimes you do, but these were all white and east Asian guys clearly from the upper crust, and that was just straight up unusual.

I felt a frown creep across my features. Was... was I in the wrong place? Apprehension building, I double-checked the entry on my phone that Rose had keyed in. There it was-the address of the building, and suite 305. I had already checked it twice before I came in. Glancing around, I spied a small deck of business cards sitting on the secretary's desk. Should I get up? If I did, everyone would look at me, and if I approached the secretary she'd probably give me another skeptical glare and then I would perish of embarra.s.sment. Just fall down on the floor and die. But I should triple check, just in case. Just in case I had somehow got the wrong address.

...No. I couldn't have. There was a job interview going on right now, and I was applying for a job. That my compet.i.tion appeared to be unusually stiff was just one of those weird quirks of fate. I'd heard McDonald's had held a job fair for sixty thousand job openings and had received over a million applications. If that didn't point to desperate times, I didn't know what did.

It was fine. Everything was fine.

And then I had no more time to contemplate macroeconomics as applied to the domestic service industry, because suddenly the frosted gla.s.s doors opened and a tall man in a dark suit swept through them, pulling a small gaggle of peons behind him. They were all scrolling through tablets and babbling into phones and sending texts as they tried to keep up with him. He ignored all of them, stepped into the center of the lobby, and swept his gaze over the gathered supplicants like we were slaves up for auction. His eyes locked with mine.

My brain jumped the tracks.

You know how sometimes you meet someone's eyes and your heart drops through the floor? Your blood races through your body, heating you up, because you know, know in your bones, that this person would be the grand pa.s.sionate love affair of your life? That the desire you feel in that very moment will scorch the pages of history, if you could only screw up the courage to speak to this stranger who has suddenly set you on fire? The sort of moment that always ends in disappointment because the object of your sudden and unholy l.u.s.t is clearly not interested and looks away? Or, you know, breaks your eye contact to kiss his girlfriend or something?

It was like that.

I sat there and stared at him, and he stared back at me. Normally I would tear my gaze away, since staring is rude and I'd hate to be rude, but my G.o.d, he was hot as sin.

First there were his eyes, long-lashed and blue-green, as intense as the waters of the Caribbean. His dark hair was messy and a few days of growth stubbled his chin. He was young, probably no more than twenty eight, a few years older than me, and clearly a shark in the world of business if he was running an office like this already. The suit he wore so casually was clearly expensive because it had that certain messy rolled-out-of-bed look that really expensive suits can give the right kind of man. His lips weren't full or thin, but rather almost pursed, kissable, and his broad jaw gave the impression of a man who never took no for an answer.

Even more intriguing, however, were the tattoos peeking from beneath his white collar and twining around his hands, and the rows of elaborate silver and diamond earrings bristling from the sh.e.l.ls of his ears. He was completely respectable, except for those little touches.

This was a man with a rougher past than his insanely expensive suit would imply. A man with a bit of history. If I'd met him while I was tending bar, I would have poured free drinks down his throat all night hoping to get his story out of him. Then I would chicken out of attempting to jump his bones and probably watch in envy as he left with another girl.

He also seemed strangely familiar to me, but I couldn't put my finger on why.

For what seemed like an hour we stared at each other. Then he looked away.

Oh well. I knew it was too good to last.

I sat there trying to regain my composure and suppress the flush rampaging across my face while he coolly inspected the rest of the candidates. Then, in a bored voice, he said: "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I am Kent Hudson. It's good to see you all, and thank you for coming out. Before we start, I would like to ask if any of you have commitments later this afternoon or this evening? A show of hands will be sufficient."

More than half of the pool of applicants raised their hands.

"Good, good. Please, anyone who has an appointment to make after this, come to this side of the room. Everyone else, this side, please." And he swept his arms wide to indicate which side was which. He moved with an elegant grace that reminded me of a dancer or a pianist.

Biting my lip, I rose to my feet and followed the lesser half of the room that had no other commitments that afternoon. Feeling like a fish out of water, I joined the rest of the losers. There were only six of us. The girl I ended up standing next to was almost a head taller than me, with long b.u.t.tery blonde hair, a smart black business suit and red pumps. She was gorgeous. I felt like a cow standing next to her. Her eyes met mine briefly and she gave me a pity smile before turning away as soon as was politely acceptable, missing my returning grateful smile.

I sighed and stared across the room at the larger group of people. This division probably meant the people with things to do would be given priority, which meant that I wasn't going to get home until well after six. Just because I'm a loser who doesn't have any friends or places to go doesn't mean my time isn't valuable, I griped to myself. I was going to lose valuable bathtub scrubbing time. And the toilets hadn't been cleaned since Friday...

Then Mr. Hudson-the-Hot clapped his hands. "Good, good. Everyone who has a prior commitment, get the h.e.l.l out of here."

Silence fell like an ax. I stared at the other applicants across the room, their faces drained of color, their jaws slackening. One of them piped up, a guy with dark auburn hair and an old vintage briefcase: "I beg your pardon, sir?" he said. "What do you mean?"

Mr. Hudson shoved his hands in his pockets, looking bored. "Exactly what I said. If you have something else to do this afternoon, get the h.e.l.l out of here. This job requires total commitment. If you can't even give me a committed afternoon to interview for this job, then you are not committed enough to win this job. Leave. Goodbye. Sayonara." He jerked his head toward the gla.s.s doors. No one moved, and he snorted in irritation. "Well? What are you waiting for? Get out of here before I call the cops."

And just like that, the scales had tipped. What I had thought was a liability was actually a good thing... if working for Hudson-the-Horrible counted as a good thing, that is, and that was clearly up for debate.

What he had said about the job bothered me, too. Why did a maid job require total commitment? I mean, I'm pretty good at committing to cleaning, but what sort of jacka.s.s boss thought anyone would be committed to it at all? Rose had said this was a software consulting business; I knew how grungy software developers could get and I had no doubt that they needed someone to clean up their goon hovels, but the way Mr. Hudson talked about it it seemed like the lucky winner of the job would have to be on call twenty-four seven.

I knew trying to find a job was a bad idea, I thought. But I couldn't bow out now, not when my chances of finding paying work had suddenly risen significantly.

Then Mr. Hudson turned and studied the remaining six of us, his blue-green eyes narrowing. I tried to look as small as possible, my shoulders hunching as I clutched my messenger bag in front of me. Maybe if I tried folding my body this way, I could hide inside it! I'd have to cut off my arms and legs first, though. Cut off arms and legs, or risk working for Mr. Hudson? Life was full of tough decisions.