Chapter Text
Stiles ignored the whistling, concentrating on the feel of the cold pole against his skin. His focus had become otherworldly, enabling him to forget that he was on stage, that he was in a world he thought he’d never be in. The pay was good even though the hours were hell. He was glad he had a shorter night, compiling his grocery list in his head as he wondered if James had fallen asleep yet.
After the song finished, Stiles walked back towards off the stage, remembering to scoop up a few of the bills scattered across the stage. He remembered how some of the bouncers kept a good chunk of the money after it was collected. He pushed down his desire to punch the guy that smacked his ass, easily slipping the fifty out of the man’s other hand while he seemed distracted enough.
It wasn’t until Stiles was in the dressing room that he really let himself breathe. He leaned against his table, staring at himself in the mirror. He still had glitter scattered over his body from the private lap dance he did at the beginning of his shift. Why people still wore glitter was beyond him, but the woman loved glitter and she loved the way Stiles moved for her. The woman was a somewhat regular—she loved to grope here or there, but let Stiles finish the dance for her without trying to grab his dick like most others usually did. She always paid in hundreds, slipping an extra bill into Stiles’ booty shorts, gently tapping his ass in a silent resemblance of congratulating him on a job well done.
Stiles sighed as he snatched one of Erica’s make-up wipes. He knew he was rubbing harder than he had to.
“Whoa, easy there,” Erica called out as she moved to sit beside Stiles, taking the wipe from him. “You’re going to scrub a hole in your skin.”
Good, Stiles thought as the familiar knot formed in his stomach.
“Tomorrow’s your day off, right?” Erica asked as she opened the rubbing alcohol bottle, squirting a little on the make-up wipe. She took Stiles’ arm and started gently rubbing the wipe over the glitter.
“Yeah,” Stiles stated. “James’ birthday is coming up, though.”
“Man, how old is that little guy?” Erica asked as she determinedly worked.
“He’ll be eight,” Stiles fondly answered.
“Well, I’m sure all the guys and girls will want to pitch in to get him something,” Erica answered.
“Erica--”
“I’m not saying we’re going to buy his birthday gift for him,” Erica corrected Stiles before he could even start. “We love the little guy. It’d be nice to get him something to show our love.”
Stiles sighed. “Maybe we could give him a small party or something. Not here,” he quickly added, not putting it passed Erica to try and host a kid’s birthday party in a strip club.
“I was going to suggest some place like the park, since James likes the outdoors so much,” Erica stated in a matter of fact voice. “But if you want your eight year old son in a den of sin, by all means feel free,” she stated in a playful tone, discarding the wipe covered in glitter.
“Thanks, Erica,” Stiles replied, leaning in to place a kiss on her cheek. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Crash and burn, baby doll,” Erica answered with a smile as she turned to her own mirror to touch up her make-up. “Oh! And Stiles,” she called to his retreating form as she applied more eyeliner. “Boyd says that you need to start telling him when a patron grabs your ass,” she looked at Stiles in the mirror. “My man can spot an unwelcomed ass grab when it happens. He can’t kick those people out when you don’t tell him about it.”
Stiles sighed, nodding. “He’s not going to make me give back the fifty, is he?” He asked.
“Keep it,” Erica replied. “As an annoyance fee.”
Stiles snorted as he headed for the showers. His favorite part of working was the moment he stood under the hot spray of the showerhead. His entire body relaxed, muscles still aching from all the practicing and working out he does a few hours prior to showing up for work.
Tomorrow was Stiles’ day off from the club, but he was working at the diner as well and couldn’t afford to not show up again. He usually worked early on weekdays, able to bring James into the diner with him, feed him his free meal for the day, and then use a fifteen minute smoke break to not smoke and get James to the bus stop on time. But the manager bitched Stiles out for oversleeping last Monday morning, costing him almost a day’s wages. Working tomorrow meant that he didn’t have to worry about stripping afterwards, but it also meant that James would have to be watched by Mrs. Kay almost all day tomorrow.
Mrs. Kay was the retired woman who lived across the hallway from Stiles and James. She was a wonderful older woman who took a liking to James immediately, telling Stiles that she had a grandson about his age that she didn’t get to see very much since her son moved out of town—it reminded Stiles of his dad, making him feel even guiltier. She watched James whenever Stiles was working at the club—she thought he was doing professional ballroom dancing at different hotels, and Stiles didn’t have the heart to tell her that he was stripping uptown.
Beacon Heights was an unforgiving environment, unlike Beacon Hills. Stiles never walked down the street at night without a hand clutched around his mace. He had been harassed a few times, but knew he’d have it worse if he was a woman walking alone at night. The walk from uptown to downtown was one that got worse the closer you got to your destination.
Stiles was used to getting called at, most of them men offering him money for sex. He had even accepted a few times, pinched for cash while having a stone-hearted landlord meant that he didn’t have a lot of options. Deep down, he knew he could always go home—that despite the fight, his dad would always let him come home, even with James. That was why he hated himself more every time he accepted the cash and let some stranger fuck him.
Part of Stiles could get off on it, if he didn’t think about the reason they were in the motel room to begin with. It had been a while for Stiles—having a kid made it difficult to date, let alone hook up with anyone. He always used condoms, immediately heading to the local clinic the next morning to get tested.
With all the propositions he received in the past years, Stiles never was propositioned in the parking lot of the strip club. He was surprised when the guy stopped him—some young kid, no doubt in a frat if the douchey backwards cap was anything to go by.
“You’re drunk,” Stiles finally answered when the kid laughed through his slurring.
“I’m not too drunk to fuck,” Douche-cap tried to counter.
“You’re too young for me,” Stiles answered, moving to get passed the kid. He startled some when the kid roughly grabbed his elbow.
“Good enough to shake it on stage, huh? Like some cock hungry slut, only to act like a fucking prude now,” the kid harshly spit.
Stiles knew the beginning of closeted homophobic slurs when he heard them. He was about to reply when he noticed that the kid had friends. Horror stories of strippers and prostitutes being gangbanged into an inch of their life started to flash before Stiles’ eyes. He ripped his arm out of the kid’s grip, immediately heading back towards the strip club’s backstage entrance. When one of the kid’s friends made a grab for him, he pulled the mace out of his pocket and pointed it directly in kid’s face. “I will empty this whole fucking can in your eye sockets if you don’t back the fuck off,” he firmly stated, his voice unwavering. He was sick of being seen as an object.
“Fag,” one of them spat.
“Right, I’m a fag for not wanting to get raped by three rich assholes who probably have daddy issues,” Stiles spat back as he backed towards the club’s door.
“I called the cops,” a suddenly new voice added to the conversation, almost startling Stiles into spraying the mace.
Stiles turned his head to see a man in a suit smoking a cigarette. He noticed that the guy was actually standing the asked distanced from the entrance—which no one ever did.
The guy dropped his cigarette, extinguishing the flame with the sole of his shoe as he moved into the parking lot. He belonged in uptown, suit clearly expensive as well as the big shiny watch wrapped around the man’s wrist. His beard was tamely trimmed, his hair appeared soft and immaculately untangled.
“I said, I called the cops,” the guy repeated, his words making the kids jump.
Shit, Stiles thought, images of his dad coming to the scene and having to find out that his son was not only still a single dad, but also a stripper.
“Let’s go,” one of the kids said to the other two.
Douche-cap gave Stiles a fleeting look before leaving with the other two, the three of them climbing into an expensive Escalade.
Stiles released a heavy breath, turning to look at the guy. He sighed in relief when he didn’t hear the sirens coming. “You bluffed,” he stated as he placed his mace back into his pocket.
The guy arched one of his thick eyebrows at Stiles, silently asking Stiles to explain.
“It only takes the cops a few minutes to arrive on scene in uptown Beacon Heights,” Stiles answered. “And there’s a cop car across the street at the diner.”
The guy looked at the diner, catching sight of the cruiser parked far down the line. He snorted, a small smile pulling on his lip. “I figured those idiots wouldn’t be able to tell my bluff.”
“Well, thanks,” Stiles stated, gesturing in the air to where the trio of would-be-rapists were. “Should really contact our Congresswoman about working on laws that won’t let people get away with threats of rape, huh?” He tried to playfully call behind him as he started walking, noticing that the guy was staring at him.
“Wait,” the guy called after him, hurried footsteps following after Stiles. “I wanted to ask you something.”
“Not tonight,” Stiles answered, wishing that Mr. Tall-dark-and-handsome had turned out to be a good guy and not just running the competition off. “I’m not even the best you can get, buddy.”
“What?” The guy questioned in confusion as he got closer to Stiles.
“I have to get home, and I’m not looking to fuck,” Stiles almost snapped as he turned to look at the guy. Damn it, he was more attractive up close.
“Wait … what?” The guy looked very confused, which made Stiles confused.
“Maybe some other time,” Stiles offered, his mind still focusing on the fact that he had enough money for rent and food this month, but there was no way he had enough to get James that action figure he wanted for his birthday. “I don’t really feel like getting paid for someone else to use my body right now, I just got off the clock.”
“Jesus, Stiles,” the guy almost cursed under his breath.
Stiles’ entire body went rigid, taking a stumbling step away from the guy. A trembling hand snatching up the mace from his pocket, pulling it out once more. “How the hell do you know my name?” He demanded, holding the mace up in defense. “Stalking me isn’t a good idea—I own a gun.” He didn’t, he just knew that scared more than one person away whenever his dad mentioned it.
“Stiles, it’s me, Derek,” the guy quickly stated as he backed up some, not trusting Stiles to not spray the mace at him. “We went to high school together.”
Stiles narrowed his eyes at ‘Derek’ carefully taking him in. He tried to remember who, out of the vast number of people he knew stayed in or around Beacon Hills, this guy was. He looked at his eyes again, thinking that they had looked familiar before. Then it all suddenly clicked. Green and gold speckled eyes, bushy eyebrows, bunny teeth. “Derek Hale?” He immediately lowered the mace.
“Yeah,” Derek answered, a slight blush staining his cheeks. “I thought it was you when I saw you inside earlier. And then just now …”
“What … what are you doing at a strip club?” Stiles questioned.
“What are you doing stripping?” Derek countered.
Stiles narrowed his eyes at Derek. It was a fair point, and it reminded him how good Derek had been at verbally keeping up with him.
Derek sighed, his eyes drifting to look at the diner. “Do you, I don’t know, want to get coffee or something?” He nervously rubbed the back of his neck as he waited for Stiles to answer him.
Stiles turned and looked at the diner, stealing a quick glance at his watch. It was a little past 10. He had to be home by eleven, knowing that Mrs. Kay couldn’t be expected to watch James past that. “Sure.” He tried to lie to himself, saying that he agreed because Derek saved him from a horrific encounter—not because he remembered how bad of a crush he had on Derek in high school. He remembered the crush the moment he saw the small smile grace Derek’s lips.
The man still looked like the fucking sun when he shyly smiled. Great.
~*~
Stiles smiled at Barbara when she slid a strawberry milkshake towards him. He spun the glass in his hands, looking over the rim at Derek. “I shouldn’t be allowed to have caffeine after lunch,” he explained.
“He gets a little jittery,” Barbara commented as she filled Derek’s mug with coffee. She gave Stiles a small wink as she turned to head back to the counter.
“Come here often?” Derek asked as he took a sip of his coffee.
Stiles snorted as he unwrapped his straw. “I actually work here,” he proudly stated as he plopped the straw into the milkshake.
“Really?” Derek asked, sounding more impressed than judgmental.
“Yup,” Stiles answered in a sing-song voice, taking a long sip of his milkshake. He loved milkshakes, but they were normally too expensive for him to enjoy in excess. “I don’t just shake my ass for grubby men and women. I work tables so they have the pleasure of seeing my ass up close.”
Derek kept his eyes on Stiles, clearly thinking of his next words.
“It’s okay,” Stiles stated as he leaned over the table some. “You’re the first person to hold a conversation with me and not be staring at my ass.”
“Would be difficult to achieve that with you sitting on it,” Derek countered as he took another drink of coffee.
Stiles released a soft chuckle. “So, what is a man like you doing in a strip club?”
Derek partially grimaced. “My sister’s bachelorette party.”
“Laura or Cora?” Stiles asked as his fingers idly played with his discarded straw wrapper.
“Laura,” Derek specified. “She insisted I join the party, and only got me to come because she threatened to send a stripping candy gram.”
“Oh, come on, those are fun,” Stiles smiled, remembering that Laura had a sense of humor similar to his own.
“Not for me, they aren’t,” Derek stated.
Their conversation devolved into playful banter, reminiscent of the few times Stiles actually interacted with Derek. Stiles remembered Derek being on the basketball team, one of the most beloved people in Beacon Hills. He recalled the way his father often had business meetings with Congresswoman Hale, leaving Stiles home alone or dragging him along. The conversation started to lull the closer they approached the topic of current events.
“What did you … want to ask me earlier?” Stiles asked as he looked up at Derek. “Before you said who you were, you said that you wanted to ask me something.”
Derek suddenly shuffled his weight a little bit, guiltily looking down at his coffee mug. His fingernails picked at the small crack in the mug’s handle, focusing on it as if it would erase the fact that Stiles asked him a question.
“Oh,” Stiles stated, a weight dropping in his stomach, the strawberry milkshake suddenly souring. “Right, the old ‘how did you end up here’ question, right?”
“Not entirely,” Derek admitted. “Just wondering what happened.”
Stiles scoffed. “It’s still the same question—only one doesn’t imply that I did it to myself. There are two types of people, Derek,” he started as he leaned back into his seat. “There are the kind of people who see someone like me and automatically think that I like to dance like that—having people ogle me, grope me, yell derogatory things at me, threaten me. Those are the people that act like strippers are the ones that should be ashamed, but we’re not the ones that have to pay to get off on someone stripping for them. Then, there are the people who think we’re charity cases—that we have to be helped because we’re too lost for direction. I don’t know which one you are, but I don’t need either in my life right now.”
“You’re working two jobs—”
“A lot of people work two jobs, Derek,” Stiles snapped. “Do I have it rough? Yeah, I do, but so does a majority of residents in downtown Beacon Heights. I don’t need charity.”
“I’m not saying you do,” Derek answered, setting his jaw in a tight line. “I’m just saying that it’s not like you. You graduated valedictorian, Stiles. Your dad is the Sheriff of Beacon Hills.”
Stiles released an angered huff of air. “I’m so glad you were here to tell me that, Derek, because I forgot all that. Don’t you think I know all that? But my life isn’t black and white, good and bad. A lot of it is shitty, and I had to pull myself up off of my feet and give up on some dreams so I could keep living—but you know what? I’m alive.” He moved to stand up.
“Stiles—”
“This is what I call my life, Derek,” Stiles answered, grabbing his dance bag from the booth. “And it’s ugly; it’s terrifying as hell some nights. But I didn’t have a lot of options. I thank you for what you did, but I don’t need to be talked down to.” He hurried out of the diner, almost running down the sidewalk out of paranoia that Derek would chase after him. He knew he was being an ass, knowing that Derek appeared to be genuinely concerned about him. He didn’t need it, though—he didn’t need to think of his life as a series of pathetic excuses.
~*~
“Where did you slink off to?” Laura questioned over the music when she caught Derek walking back over to them.
“I was talking to an old friend,” Derek answered, plopping down in the booth next to her.
“You pointed Stiles out to him, didn’t you?” Cora asked Allison.
Allison couldn’t help guiltily smiling before turning an apologetic look on Derek. “I’m sorry. They wouldn’t stop feeding me tequila shots and it blurted out—I hope Stiles wasn’t embarrassed by it all.”
Derek lightly chuckled, surprisingly happy at Allison’s genuinely heartfelt apology for being manipulated by his sisters. He always thought she was too good for this world.
“I can’t believe Peter hired him,” Cora commented.
“He’s a great dancer,” Derek retorted.
“You’re biased,” Laura replied.
“Shut up,” Derek slightly snapped.
“Oh, touchy,” Laura partially laughed. “All of Beacon High knew you had a crush on the Sheriff’s kid.”
“I knew,” Allison chimed in.
“You two are the worst,” Derek said to Cora and Laura, rolling his eyes when they both looked offended. “You’re corrupting Allison.”
“I’ll have you know, she was corrupted since birth,” Laura stated. “Her father is the one man to actually whisk our dearly beloved outcast of an uncle up off of his feet. Her father got Peter to believe in the concept marriage.”
“And proved me right that marriage is a defective concept.”
“Jesus Christ,” Cora abruptly yelped, spilling her drink. She turned her head to look at Peter, noticing that her uncle was leaning over the back cushion of their booth.
“I’m sorry, Uncle Peter,” Laura started to apologize as she turned to look at him.
“It’s fine,” Peter replied with a small smile, leaning over to place a light kiss against Laura’s forehead. “Are you having fun?”
“Yes,” Laura answered with a slight smile.
“Good,” Peter replied. He turned to look at Derek. “I wanted to say thank you for your little heroic act in the parking lot.”
“Heroic act?” Cora questioned.
“Parking lot?” Allison asked.
“Thank you?” Laura arched her eyebrow.
Derek shook his head, knowing that they were all going to demand to know what happened. “I was doing the right thing, nothing heroic about it,” he replied to Peter.
“Sometimes doing the right thing, even when you have nothing to gain, can be terrifying,” Peter answered. “That’s why people often don’t do the right thing.” His eyes wandered over to Allison, his smile faltering only slightly before he waved his hand. “But enough about that. You four enjoy the rest of the night. If you need anything, let me know.”
Allison placed her drink down as she looked at her hands, aimlessly picking at her fingernails. She released a heavy breath after Peter finally left.
Derek placed his hand over hers, prompting Allison to look up at him.
“He hates me,” Allison stated with a weak shrug.
“He doesn’t hate you,” Derek answered.
“Sure, I’m just the walking reminder that his ex-husband remarried only a few short months after their divorce finalized,” Allison countered.
“Peter … Peter’s complicated,” Laura explained. “He doesn’t hate you, and I would wager that he doesn’t hate Chris.”
“He probably wants to still fuck him,” Cora commented.
“That’s my dad,” Allison grimaced. “I don’t need to be thinking about his sex life.”
“You didn’t walk in on them and be scarred for life as a child,” Laura replied as she downed a shooter.
Derek couldn’t help laughing. “That’s what you get for being nosey.”
“I wanted to play hide and go seek,” Laura loudly argued. “Besides, we were all talking about you and Stiles, not Peter and Chris.”
“That was a horrible segue,” Derek countered.
“I’m drunk, I don’t need good segues,” Laura replied. “Did you at least get his number?”
“No,” Derek stated.
“Why the hell not?” Cora demanded. “You pined for years after you graduated high school—moaning about how I didn’t hang out with Stiles enough because he wasn’t over our house all the time. Then, you tragically groaned about how you hadn’t seen him in such a long time.”
“Look,” Derek snapped, all playfulness draining form the conversation. “Stiles and I didn’t part on the best terms, alright?”
Laura looked at Cora and Allison before looking back at Derek. She scrunched her eyebrows as she tried to decipher what Derek was getting at. Her eyes widened. “Derek Samuel Hale, the third. You did not be an entitled, pompous asshole. Tell me you did not.”
“I wasn’t an entitled asshole,” Derek grumbled.
“But you were pompous?” Allison questioned.
“I tried talking to him about why he was dancing in a strip club,” Derek finally stated, knowing that they wouldn’t drop it.
Laura dramatically gasped as Cora judgingly shook her head.
“You two are too drunk to have this conversation with,” Derek stated.
“You don’t ask someone why they have a certain job,” Laura snapped. “You don’t like me asking why you became a doctor, or assuming that you became one because it was mom’s dream for you.”
Derek sighed, knowing that Laura was right. He knew he was crossing the line the minute he even touched the subject of Stiles’ dancing career. He felt like an ass, sitting there and having Stiles think that he was judging him.
~*~
“Dad?” James tiredly questioned as he turned over to look at the person waking him up.
“Hey, kiddo,” Stiles smiled as he spoke in a soft voice. “I have to head in to work today.”
“But I thought you worked last night,” James questioned as he yawned.
“I did,” Stiles answered, knowing he couldn’t lie to James. The kid was too smart for his own good, and Stiles was starting to realize how his dad must have felt. “But I need to go in again.”
“Okay,” James quietly agreed. “Will you help me this afternoon?”
“This afternoon?” Stiles asked. “Oh, Little League, right. Yeah, I’ll be home after lunch, does that work?”
James nodded as he started to curl around his pillow, drifting back to sleep. “Thanks, dad.”
Stiles pressed a kiss to James’ forehead, brushing his stray curls from his forehead. He briefly lingered, absorbing the details of James’ face. He moved to leave, his gaze catching sight of the bat and glove resting on the floor next to the bed. He stared at the worn leather of his old glove, noticing that a few of the laces were frayed, almost ready to break.
Stiles bit his lip as he hurried out of the apartment, knocking on Mrs. Kay’s door to let her know he’d be back after lunch. He tried running the numbers, knowing that if he took one or two extra shifts at the diner, he could cut out dance practice before heading to the club. He’d have enough money then.
“I don’t have any more shifts to give, Stiles,” Carl almost growled as he passed by Stiles, going through a handful of papers.
“Come on, Carl,” Stiles started as he followed after him. “There has to be something.”
“Not unless you want to stop dancing and start working here full time,” Carl countered.
Stiles halted, doing the quick math in his head. There was no way he could quit dancing—even working at the diner full time for a week wouldn’t get him the same amount of money he made in a couple of nights dancing. “I can’t,” he stated.
“Them’s the breaks,” Carl answered, not at all swayed by Stiles’ situation.
“Carl—”
“Getting your kid a gift isn’t my concern, Stiles,” Carl stated as he started to walk away. “You’ll just have to find more shifts dancing, then.”
Stiles leaned against the kitchen counter, dragging in a deep breath as he fought back the tears. He could do it—he had a couple of weeks until James’ birthday, and an additional week after that before the Little League tryouts started. If he slept with one or two people, he’d have more than enough to get James a new glove and bat.
It would only be two more times, Stiles told himself, as if it made the pain any easier to bear.
~*~
“Choreography?” Stiles questioned as he watched Peter mending one of the costumes.
Peter bit down on the pins in his mouth as he focused on feeding the fabric through the sewing machine’s needle. “Yup,” he spoke through the pins. “Everyone here has some form of dance experience. I figured you, having the most, would—Ouch!” He cursed as he drew his fingers back, looking at the tip of his finger. He took the pins out of his mouth, pushing them back into the cushion by the sewing machine.
“I told you to get a protection guard,” Erica called as she walked by Stiles to grab the hat from the props rack to accompany her magician’s outfit.
“I don’t need protection,” Peter huffed as he looked at the completed costume.
“This sounds like a strangely perverted conversation,” Stiles stated.
“Leave it to Peter to make a conversation perverted.”
Peter abruptly stood, handing the costume off to one of the girls running around the back of the stage. He pushed his spectacles up into his hair, sighing as he prepped himself to look back at Chris. “What the hell at you doing here?”
“First of the month,” Chris answered, crossing his arms over his chest.
“The answer is still no,” Peter firmly stated. “I’m not selling.”
“Peter,” Chris sighed, shifting his weight some. “You don’t have the money to—”
“Would you mind having this conversation in private?” Peter snapped. “I know how much you hate people knowing so much about your personal affairs.”
Chris released a heavy breath as he nodded, following Peter to his office.
“They’re going to go at it again,” Erica sighed as Boyd helped her lace up her boots.
“Again?” Stiles asked as he looked at Erica.
“They always yell at each other,” Boyd stated. “Chris wants him to sell, Peter refuses.”
“Why does Peter even listen to him?” Stiles questioned.
“I guess Chris still feels slightly responsible for Peter becoming the ‘fallen woman’ stereotype after their divorce,” Erica stated. “The Hale-Argent name breaking apart did a number on—”
“Wait, Hale?” Stiles looked at Erica. “Peter was married to a Hale?”
Erica furrowed her eyebrows as she looked to Boyd for help.
“Peter is a Hale,” Boyd finally stated. “Talia Hale’s younger brother, actually.”
“Hale,” Stiles echoed. He knew Derek’s family was conservative, but he never recalled hearing the Hales accepting same-sex marriage. “You are talking about the conservative political family that practically owns all of the city and surrounding towns, correct?”
“Yep,” Erica stated as she looked in the mirror, finishing her makeup to look like an overly attractive mime in a magician’s outfit. “Peter kept Chris’ last name to keep from all the drama that happens with divorce.”
“That, and his family sees him as the black sheep,” Isaac added to the conversation as he dropped his dance bag by one of the mirrors.
“Derek and his sisters were here the other night,” Stiles commented.
“They still talk to Peter,” Boyd explained.
“Besides, Derek is a rebel child,” Erica purred with a slight laugh when Boyd rolled his eyes. “Being bisexual in a conservative political family is always seen as horrific. But his mom is trying to change the conservative image—well, at least appeal to liberal voters.”
“I’m surprised Derek isn’t the poster child of her new campaign,” Isaac stated as he started going through Erica’s makeup. He scowled at her when she pulled her foundation out of his hands.
“I’m surprised the Argents even allow Peter to still be in the city, let alone uptown Heights,” Boyd stated.
“Why do you think they sent Chris?” Erica asked in response. “They want Chris to get Peter to sell.”
“Is Little Red’s really doing that poorly?” Stiles questioned, a knot forming in his stomach. He couldn’t lose this job—not now.
“Peter will never sell,” Isaac stated in reassurance. “He’d take out another bank loan if he had to.”
“It’s why he is shifting from only stripping to cabaret and stripping,” Erica explained.
Stiles flinched when he heard Peter’s voice rise louder.
~*~
“Peter, you’re not being reasonable,” Chris started.
“Reasonable,” Peter echoed. “Reasonable. Were you being very reasonable when you out of the blue decided you didn’t want to be married anymore?”
“I’m not doing this with you,” Chris curtly stated. “Not again.”
“I don’t think we ever finished it,” Peter snapped. “You never told me what your family said that sparked it all.”
“This is what sparked it all, Peter,” Chris answered. “Us. We can’t go more than a minute without arguing. I always wanted to talk about it, and you always wanted to fuck instead.”
“I think you should leave,” Peter replied.
“See? You don’t want to talk,” Chris pointed out without moving.
“At least I’m not trying to fuck you.” Peter glared at Chris. “Oh, I forgot, not my job to fuck you anymore. How is Victoria?”
“Peter—”
“She’s probably waiting for you,” Peter stated. Understanding dawned on him when Chris didn’t say anything else. “She’s waiting in the car, isn’t she?”
Chris looked away from Peter, unwilling to say anything.
“Jesus, Chris,” Peter exasperated.
“What do you want me to say?” Chris asked, sounding sincere in how lost he was.
“Nothing,” Peter emptily replied. “Go back to your perfect life—go back to your wife, your daughter, your fucking white picket fence. Just go back to it and leave me in the gutter where both our families think I belong.”
A rap of knuckles against the office door sliced the tension.
“Peter,” Stiles’ cautious voice cut through the thin door. “I have to go pick up James from school—I promise him I’d meet him. Can I talk to you about everything tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” Peter answered. He waited until Stiles’ footsteps retreated before turning to Chris. “Tell your father I’m not selling. The day he buys Little Red’s will be the day I die, or the day he buys it from the bank.”
~*~
Stiles tried not to think about what was happening with Little Red’s. He had to focus on James and hope that Peter wanting him to choreograph meant that he’d be paid the same amount of money, with less hours dancing.
He smiled as he watched James thoughtfully look up and down the shelves in search of a cereal. He looked down in the cart, counting the items and their price in order to estimate just how much they could get. He looked up when James came running back to him, holding out a box.
James smiled up at Stiles as he tipped the box into the cart, bypassing his father’s normal inspection. He frowned when he saw his father was picking the box up anyways. He didn’t understand this part—he didn’t understand why some things were considered better than others, and why everything just couldn’t be the same.
“Mikey says they’re really good,” James argued, as if his friend’s opinion of the chocolaty cereal made it an acceptable meal.
“I don’t know, kiddo,” Stiles stated with a frown of his own. He never said that they couldn’t afford anything, merely acting as if the food wasn’t a wise investment.
James frowned, moving to take the cereal box from Stiles’ hands. He moved to put the box back on the shelf as he looked over more of them. He grabbed a different box—it looked similar enough. “What about these ones?” He held it up as he walked over to Stiles. “They look the same, but are they better for you?”
Stiles lifted the box from James’ hands, noticing that it was the generic brand of the previous cereal box. His eyes scanned the ingredients, wanting to make sure that it was at least as healthy as the brand name. He was surprised when he found that this box appeared to be healthier than the other one—at half the price.
“I think it might be,” Stiles stated, looking down at James. He sighed, not wanting to lie to his son. “This one is less money.”
James looked at the box and then to the brand name box he just placed back. “But … isn’t it the same? Dad, it looks the same,” he stated in disbelief.
“This one is less money because the store made it instead of someone else,” Stiles explained.
“Will it taste the same?” James asked as he took a step closer to Stiles, trying to look on the box.
“I’m not sure,” Stiles replied. “But if you don’t like it, we’ll get you something else, okay?”
“I’m sure I’ll like it,” James answered, smiling up at Stiles. “Why wouldn’t everyone buy this one then?” He asked as he helped Stiles push the cart forward.
Stiles was about to answer when he looked up. His stomach dropped when he locked eyes with Derek.
Derek wore a faded pair of jeans and a fitted Henley—a look that made him appear completely different from his suited persona the other night. He looked like a normal, approachable everyday guy. He was looking right at Stiles, and there was no telling how long he had been watching the scene unfold. His eyes slowly traveled to look at James, a look of perplexity on his face.
James saw Derek look at him, offering a faint wave and a soft, “Hello,” as their carts passed one another.
Derek offered a wave in return.
Stiles looked away from Derek, focusing on James.
~*~
It was the weekend before James’ birthday when Stiles walked into Little Red’s and had Boyd stop him. Mrs. Kay had called, frantic with worry as James cried in the background. James had hurt his leg practicing baseball.
Stiles could barely function, only hearing Boyd tell him that he squared it away with Peter and that he had the night off. He ran as fast as he could, his heart pounding in his chest as he hurried home.
James was crying as he looked down at his swollen ankle, apologizing to Mrs. Kay.
“Sweetie, it’s okay,” Mrs. Kay tried to soothe his tears.
“No!” James argued. “Daddy has to work, and now they’re sending him home because of me!” He cried some more, heavy sobs.
“It’s just for the day,” Mrs. Kay tried to explain. She sighed in relief when Stiles come into the apartment.
James cried harder when he realized Stiles was home.
“Buddy, it’s okay,” Stiles quickly said as he ran over to him, looking at his dirty clothes.
“I brought him across the street so he could play—he couldn’t stop talking about practicing,” Mrs. Kay explained. “He took a nasty tumble, Stiles. He scared the daylights out of me.”
“Me too,” Stiles answered as he hugged James, looking down at his swollen ankle. He hated to admit it, but he couldn’t tell if it was sprained or twisted—even with all his experience in dance related injuries. “I think I have to take him to the hospital,” he explained to Mrs. Kay.
“Let me call a cab,” Mrs. Kay started as she moved towards the phone.
“No, I can’t,” Stiles countered as he picked James up, pressing a soft kiss into his hair.
“Stiles—”
“The hospital isn’t that far,” Stiles answered as he started to head out the door. “We’ll be okay, Mrs. Kay.” He gave her a reassuring smile as he hurried out of the apartment.
Stiles kept his pace brisk, making sure not to jostle James too much. He settled James in one of the many chairs in the ER waiting room. He gave him a faint kiss on the forehead before going up to the receptionist. He always hated this part—every receptionist gave him the same once over whenever he tried to explain that they didn’t have any insurance.
“I applied for it multiple times,” Stiles cut the woman off as she begun her lecture. “Look, my son needs to be seen by someone—his ankle is hurt.”
“I understand your urgency, sir, but you have to fill out paperwork and attempt applying for a payment plan before—”
“Can’t you just page a doctor and have him come look at my son?” Stiles demanded. “I’ll fill out the papers if you just get him looked at.”
“Sir, calm down,” the receptionist answered.
“I just want someone to tell me my son is going to be okay!” Stiles snapped.
“Is everything okay?” A male voice asked from behind Stiles.
Stiles turned around, ready to yell and argue with another person, his heart beating heavy in his chest the longer James went without someone looking at his ankle. His words died in his throat when he came face to face with none other than Derek Hale wearing a white coat with a stethoscope wrapped around his neck. His eyes caught sight of his nametag, a small sticker of a cartoon wolf next to his name.
Derek Hale, Pediatric Surgeon.
“Dr. Hale,” the receptionist greeted.
“Stiles,” Derek ignored the receptionist when he saw that it was Stiles making the commotion. He looked further into the waiting room to see James sitting in one of the chairs, tears staining his cheeks as he sniffled. “It’s okay, Anna,” he said as he looked at the receptionist. “I’ll just take a look.”
“Dr. Hale—”
“It’s not a problem,” Derek stated as he pressed a hand against Stiles’ shoulder blade, turning him away from the desk and towards James. “I’ll look and then we’ll see if he needs to fill out the paperwork.”
Stiles felt a knot tighten in his stomach. “You don’t have to give me special treatment,” he muttered under his breath. He didn’t want to be treated differently, but if it meant that James would be looked at, he’d swallow his pride some.
“I’m not,” Derek answered. “I try looking at patients first before trying to bill them an absurd amount of money,” he softly stated so both James and the receptionist couldn’t hear him.
James looked up at Derek before looking to his father. He wiped at his cheeks, drying the tears away as he looked back at Derek.
“Hey, buddy,” Derek greeted him as he kneeled in front of James. “So, why did dad bring you in?”
“I hurt my ankle,” James answered as he pointed at his swollen ankle.
“Can I take a look?” Derek asked with a small smile.
James nodded, his hands fisting into his sweatshirt’s pockets.
Derek gently took James’ calf in hand, lifting up his pant leg some to inspect it. He carefully took hold of James’ sneaker, rotating his ankle to put it on better display for him. He was conscious of the way James winced once he turned his ankle too far.
“How did you hurt your ankle?” Derek asked.
“I was practicing,” James answered. “Daddy was at work, and Mrs. Kay said it would be fine if I practiced some—I’ve been bothering her about it since yesterday. And then I stopped too soon and tumbled over myself.”
“I’m sure you weren’t bothering her,” Derek replied, his eyes still on James’ ankle.
“I was,” James countered. “I just want to practice to be good enough for the team.”
“Team?” Derek asked as he looked up at James.
“Little League,” James shyly replied. “I’m using my dad’s old glove.”
“That must be a lot of fun,” Derek stated with a smile. “I played baseball in college—it was a lot of fun.”
“You played?” James asked, seeming to forget about his ankle.
“Yeah,” Derek replied. “I wasn’t the best, but fun of the game was the focus for me.” He gave James another smile before looking down and softly touching his ankle, feeling around for a sign that it was broken. He released James’ leg, giving him a soft pat on the shoulder before standing up.
“Derek, is he going to be okay?” Stiles immediately asked.
“He’ll be fine,” Derek answered. “He just rolled his ankle.”
“Okay, okay,” Stiles quickly nodded, having dealt with a few rolled ankles himself.
Derek took a pen and prescription pad from his pocket, jotting down a series of instructions. “Keep it elevated and iced. Try to make sure he keeps his weight off of it as much as possible. It should clear up in a few days at most.”
Stiles nodded, thankful that it was Friday, which meant that James didn’t have school. He looked at the piece of paper Derek ripped off the pad and held out to him. He took the paper, eyes scanning over the surprisingly legible words. He caught the sight of a phone number scrawled at the top.
“If you need anything,” Derek offered as explanation. “As a doctor, my phone’s constantly on.”
“So, 3 in the morning, if James has a nasty sneeze, I can call you,” Stiles deadpanned.
“If you think you need help with that,” Derek answered with a small shrug. He looked away from Stiles, turning towards James. “You take care, okay, buddy?”
James nodded in response. “Thank you, Dr. Derek.”
Derek smiled at him before looking at Stiles. “See you around,” he offered, almost unsure of himself as he walked away.
“I like him,” James announced as Stiles moved to pick him up.
“Yeah,” Stiles softly agreed. “I like him, too.”
~*~
It was a difficult night.
Stiles was exhausted, climbing the steps up to the apartment. His entire body ached, the dancing getting more elaborate to guarantee more bills thrown at him. His ass hurt from the john that offered him three hundred dollars for a good fuck. He made sure to take the cash first, securing it in his dance bag before discarding his clothes. He always prepped himself, never trusting anyone else to be thorough enough—he wasn’t going to the hospital because some guy liked it a little rougher than need be. He closed his eyes and pretended it was someone else. He couldn’t help feeling guilty for imagining a certain tall, gorgeous, scrubs wearing blast from his past, which got him off faster than he had in a long time.
Everything went to hell the moment he saw his landlord standing outside his apartment. He hiked his bag up higher on his shoulder, moving towards the man.
“Stilinski,” the man growled out in greeting.
“Mr. Malcolm,” Stiles answered. “Is there a problem?”
Mr. Malcolm moved, smacking an envelope against Stiles chest, leaving it there to fall if Stiles hadn’t caught it. He kept moving towards the stairs, not bothering to give Stiles a second glance. “Rent has been raised.”
Stiles dropped his dance bag, catching the letter before it fell to the floor. “Wait, you raised it a few months ago,” he called as he tore the envelope open, hurrying after Mr. Malcolm. “This is more than a thirty percent increase!” He yelled.
“You have a problem with that?” Mr. Malcolm asked as he turned to look at Stiles.
“Yeah, actually, it is a problem,” Stiles snapped as he looked at the man. “More than half of us could barely afford the last increase, and now you’re raising it again?”
“I’m raising yours,” Mr. Malcolm replied.
“What?” Stiles demanded.
“Your apartment is a two bedroom. Those are highly sought after,” Mr. Malcolm nonchalantly stated.
“You can’t do that,” Stiles argued. “I—I’m barely making end’s meet as it is.”
“Maybe get another shift shaking your ass on stage,” Mr. Malcolm commented.
“Please, I can’t—” Stiles’ voice cut off, taking a deep breath. “Please, I can’t pay a higher rent.”
“I’m not changing my mind,” Mr. Malcolm countered.
“Please,” Stiles begged, grabbing Mr. Malcolm’s arm. “There has to be … something. Payments or a loan …” He should have kept his mouth shut, knowing that his night was going to go from bad to worse.
“Maybe something could be worked out,” Mr. Malcolm stated as he turned to look at Stiles. “Alternative means of payment are always negotiable.”
Stiles immediately released his hold on Mr. Malcolm when he caught the way his eyes traveled over his body. He knew a look of salacious lust when he saw it—he lived dealing with that look almost every day.
“Suddenly frigid when it counts, huh?” Mr. Malcolm countered Stiles’ silence.
“Only when it comes to being manipulated into it,” Stiles stated, crumpling the rent notice in his hand, ready to walk back to his apartment.
“You’re the one that enjoys getting fucked up the ass for money,” Mr. Malcolm answered.
“I’m not the first person you’ve offered to accept … alternative means of payment from, am I?” Stiles asked as he focused on the beating of his heart, focusing on keeping calm.
“Everyone always needs a helping hand,” Mr. Malcolm replied with a small shrug of his shoulders, as if he wasn’t talking about taking advantage of desperate people.
“You’re disgusting,” Stiles hissed as he turned to leave. He whipped around when Mr. Malcolm grabbed his arm. “Don’t touch me,” he smacked his hand away. “Don’t ever think you can touch me. Don’t come near me or my son, ever.”
“Rent is due at the end of the month,” Mr. Malcolm countered, knowing he still held all the cards.
“And I’ll make the payment as usual,” Stiles stated, walking back to pick up his discarded dance bag. He paused at his door, looking at Mr. Malcolm as he unlocked the door. “How about you go fuck yourself in the meantime?”
Stiles knew he slammed the door too loud, but he couldn’t contain his anger. There was no way he was going to be able to pay the new rent, but there was also no way he was going to allow Mr. Malcolm the satisfaction of trading sex for housing.
Stiles huffed loudly as he collapsed on the sofa, cursing when part of the broken back jabbed into his back. He closed his eyes, calmly breathing as he ran the number in his head. He startled when he heard a small rustling followed by a warm weight pressing against him. He opened his eyes to see James climbing onto the couch beside him, his Batman costumed, pig-shaped piggybank in his hands.
“You’re supposed to be asleep, buddy,” Stiles stated as he sat up some, watching James’ determined face as he pulled the cork out of the bottom of the piggybank.
“I’ve kept all the money grandpa sends in my birthday and Christmas cards in here,” James explained as he put the hole in the bottom of the piggybank on display—trying to show Stiles the money it contained. “I’ve taken some out to get candy and stuff, but we can use it now.” He started pulling various coins and bills from inside the glass pig.
“James, we’re not using your money,” Stiles started, grabbing James’ hands to stop him.
“But you said we can’t pay a higher rent,” James stated as he looked up at Stiles.
Stiles’ stomach dropped, realizing that through the thin walls, James must have heard his argument with Mr. Malcolm. “Do you even know what a rent is?”
“It’s when mean Mr. Malcolm comes and takes money from everyone,” James stated. “But I have money, so we can give it to him next time he comes.”
Stiles pulled James into a hug, pressing a soft kiss into his hair. “That’s sweet of you, kiddo,” he stated. “But I’ll figure something out.”
Stiles managed to get James back into bed, agreeing to hold onto his piggybank while thinking his offer over. He trudged into his bedroom, setting the piggybank onto his nightstand—a makeshift piece of furniture made from milk crates. He sat on the edge of his bed, looking at the giant crack in one of the milk crates, knowing that it was going to break sooner rather than later. He sighed, pressing his face into his hands, pretending that he could bury his head and forget about it all. Everything was falling apart faster than he could manage to stop it. He didn’t know what to do, and for the first time, going home to his dad seemed like the only option.
Stiles slowly peeled out of his jacket, toeing out of his shoes and heading towards the bathroom. He wasn’t sure how long it took—whether he had been standing in the shower for a few minutes, or half an hour—but he finally let the tears go. A sharp sob cracked through his chest as he placed a hand out against the shower wall for support. He hung his head as he hoped the sound of the water blocked out the noise he was making—he didn’t want James to know that he was crying.
Stiles dried off, trying to pretend that he wasn’t sore all around—even his heart felt sore. Everything was becoming too much to handle for him. He kept the towel wrapped around his waist, catching the sight of bruises a little high on his hips. He knew he couldn’t keep doing it—that it was going to get worse.
Stiles walked back into his bedroom, sitting on the edge of his bed as he thought about his options. He reached for the house phone, typing in his father’s home phone number. His finger lingered over the send button. He hit the end button before he could change his mind.
Stiles held the phone in his hand as he thought about his next move. He bit his lip when he saw the small prescription slip Derek had given him last weekend thumbtacked to the wall by the phone base. He couldn’t remember why he kept the scrap piece of paper, knowing how to treat James’ rolled ankle from past experiences. But a part of him forced him to hold onto it, if only for the sake of having Derek’s phone number handy.
Stiles swallowed his pride and dialed Derek’s phone number, knowing that it’d be easier to talk to someone who knew his situation than to explain it to his father.
“Hello,” a sleepy voice groggily answered the phone. “Dr. Derek Hale speaking.”
“Uh, hi,” Stiles started, wincing at how stupid he sounded. “Hey, Derek, it’s Stiles.”
“Stiles?” Derek suddenly sounded more alert. “Is everything okay?”
“Um, no.” Stiles offered a weak, watery laugh to cover up his tears. “Everything is so far from okay, Derek,” he added as he altered pressing the palm of his hand into his eyes to stop his tears.
“Are you hurt?” Derek asked in concern. “Is your son hurt?”
“No, James is fine,” Stiles stated, wiping his tears as he sniffled to keep his nose from running. “But I’m in a tough situation. I … Jesus, I know you’re a busy guy, I shouldn’t have bothered you. It’s after one in the morning and I’m bothering a surgeon.”
“You’re not bothering me,” Derek immediately answered. “Besides, I don’t have surgeries tomorrow.”
“Good,” Stiles answered. “I’m not risking anyone’s life by bothering you, then.”
“Stop saying you’re bothering me,” Derek retorted. “What’s wrong?”
“Could I meet with you?” Stiles finally asked, not wanting to explain it all over the phone. “Whenever you can,” he added, knowing that Derek probably never had time off.
That was how Stiles came to be sitting in the diner across the street from Little Red’s, staring down at a mug of coffee as he waited for Derek. It was an hour before Stiles’ shift started, leaving him time to focus on trying to persuade Derek to do the unthinkable and loan him a significant sum of money. He figured that if he was going to borrow a little, he might as well do the rash thing and borrow enough for reassurance that he wouldn’t be in this situation again.
“Hey,” Derek greeted Stiles as he slid into the booth, sitting across from him.
“Hi,” Stiles forced a weak smile onto his lips as he looked up at Derek.
Derek waved to the waitress, getting a cup of coffee to match Stiles—neither of them making an attempt to drink.
“Sorry for calling you so early,” Stiles offered. “I couldn’t think of who to call.”
“It’s okay,” Derek replied. “But I still don’t know what’s going on,” he added.
Stiles ran a hand through his hair. “I need to ask you for a favor, I guess,” he started. “I never thought I’d be here. But I … I need money. I know that it’s lousy, me taking you up on your offer to help … and then I’m asking for money. But I’ll give it all back, I swear. I just need a little bit to keep ahead of the bills.”
Derek was silent as he slowly spun his coffee mug around in his hands. “Can I ask why?”
Stiles nibbled the inside of his lip, hopeful that this meant Derek was willing to accept his request.
“Stiles,” Derek started, taking a deep breath before leaning forward against the tabletop. “I’m sorry, about before. I never meant for you to think that I was talking down to you. It’s just … it’s been a while since I seen you—more than a decade. And then to find out that you’re forcing yourself to—”
“It’s disgusting, I know,” Stiles answered in defeat, not wanting Derek to say it out loud.
“It’s disgusting that people are taking advantage of you,” Derek corrected him. “You were right in saying that you shouldn’t have to feel ashamed of dancing at a strip club. Those people paying you have more to be ashamed of than you do.”
Stiles wished he could believe it.
“And it was wrong of me to just assume you could go home,” Derek continued. “I shouldn’t have pushed you or criticized you. I didn’t mean for that to happen—that was wrong of me and I’m sorry.”
“I don’t think someone’s really said sorry to me in the past couple of years,” Stiles replied.
“Well, they should,” Derek answered.
“You’re being nicer than you have to be,” Stiles weakly argued. “You know, I almost called my dad before calling you. I knew it would have been a shitstorm if I called him—I’d never hear the end of it. But I called you because I knew you’d be less judgmental.”
“Your dad loves you, Stiles,” Derek corrected him. “He’d never push you away.”
“But he’d lecture me,” Stiles countered.
“Well, I think any parent would lecture their child for staying away from home for too long,” Derek offered.
Stiles nodded. “Do you … do you know how he’s doing?” He asked, looking up at Derek.
“My mom says he’s doing fine,” Derek offered. “She speaks with him every now and again, mostly about politics and business. But she said that he seems … fine.”
Stiles released a shaky breath. “Last time I spoke to him, I had set up a P.O. Box and told him he could contact us through that. I didn’t want him to know where I was. He sends James and I birthday and Christmas cards. Sometimes he just sends letters that roughly update us. I … I can never bring myself to actually write back. I’m too ashamed to even talk to my own dad.”
Derek carefully watched Stiles, uncertain what words would be a comfort to him.
“We got in a fight,” Stiles started to explain, looking down at his coffee. “About James—he wasn’t a planned pregnancy, and my ex and I decided to try being parents. She … it wasn’t for her after the first few years. My dad had tried to tell me that having a kid was a lot harder than just making the decision to have one. He told me not to … and then when things got bad … some harsh things were said.” He paused, unsure how to continue.
“Sounds like my uncle,” Derek offered to fill the silence. “He had a dream that didn’t fit my family’s clean-cut image. He hasn’t spoken to my grandmother since he left—we were still in high school when that happened.”
Stiles nodded.
“Were you … dancing? Isn’t that what you went for after graduation?” Derek uncertainly asked.
“Yeah. James was about two when I had to quit dancing,” Stiles explained. “I didn’t have enough time to dance and hold down a job after James’ mom left. So I gave up the less important thing.” He released a soft laugh. “It’s nearly impossible to juggle a toddler and a job, then adding dancing is just senseless. I had to move us out of the dorms and to a shitty ass downtown apartment. So I pushed myself to find a higher paying job,” he paused, collecting his thoughts, conscious of Derek’s eyes on him. “James just kept crying most of the time, and I found him one day, just crying all alone—in pain—because he was hungry.” He quickly wiped the back of his hand over his eyes, ridding himself of his tears. “And one night, while looking for a job, I stumbled on Little Red’s—the owner was nice enough to just believe me that I had nearly finished my professional training. And when I was leaving, still no money but the promise of a job, some guy asked for my … services.”
Stiles looked up at Derek for the first time, surprised not to see any judgment or revulsion like he normally saw. There was no hint that Derek wanted to try arranging a type of beneficial deal.
“So, I did it,” Stiles admitted as he looked down at his coffee. “And I hated myself for every second of it—before, during, and after. But I had enough money to feed James for more than a week.” He stared down at his hands, fingertips tapping against the glass. “My landlord—he knows. Well, I think he assumed that just because I dance at Little Red’s means that I sleep with people. Which isn’t the case with other dancers, you know? Just really me.”
Derek shuffled his weight a little bit. “Did he … did he threaten you, Stiles?”
Stiles looked up at Derek.
“If he’s blackmailing you—”
“No,” Stiles shook his head. “He raised the rent again,” he explained. “I tried to bargain with him—begged him not to raise it, asked about payments and even a loan. But he … he offered to let me to pay by alternative means.”
“Prick,” Derek cursed under his breath.
“So, that’s my life,” Stiles stated. “Really sad, isn’t it.”
“You’re surviving,” Derek offered.
“Surviving,” Stiles echoed. “That’s why I need money—I can’t take more shifts at Little Red’s, and if I tried quitting and working full time at the diner, I’d make less. Even with … even with accepting to give my services elsewhere … it’s not enough.” He ran his hands over the edge of the table. “I just want to make sure James has a roof over his head, that’s all. And I figured, since you’re a surgeon, that you might have enough money, that you wouldn’t mind loaning me some.”
“I have money,” Derek confirmed as he stared at Stiles. “But you shouldn’t be going back to that apartment,” he stated. “Not with that landlord there.”
“Derek, I have nowhere else to go,” Stiles started. “Every other place is more—there’s a reason people stay in those apartments with an asshole like that as a landlord, and it’s called cheap rent.”
“Come live with me,” Derek uttered before he could stop himself.