I raise the fine-tip marker and circle another job listing in the newspaper. The red ink bleeds through the thin paper, staining my fingers. I lick the ink and wipe it on my jeans, ignoring the red smear it leaves behind.

“I have everything under control, Mom,” I say once again, speaking into the smartphone. It slides down my shoulder and I catch it just in time to avoid paying for another shattered screen. “In fact, I have a few interviews later this week.”

I glance up at my calendar, tacked up on the bare, white wall of my studio apartment. The entire week in question is blank.

“If you must insist on working, I don’t want you flipping burgers, Rockette,” my mother says. “You are a Belmont. I want you to act like it.”

I roll my eyes. It drives me crazy when my mother acts more important than she really was. If I listen carefully, I’m sure I can hear the sound of her filing her nails down while the maid cleans nearby, her sounds echoing off the walls of the Belmont mansion.

And I am not a Belmont. My name is Rocky Ramone. I was a teenager when my mother married Mason Belmont — the Mason Belmont — and I had no real reason to legally change it to match my new stepfather’s name. But just by association, most people call me Belmont. I grow tired of correcting them.

“Once again, Mother, I have it under control. I won’t be flipping burgers anywhere.” Another lie. My eyes scroll over the next ads in the paper.

I’ve been at it for weeks. The job search is not going as well as I hoped it would. If I don’t find one soon, I’ll be kicked out of my university for failing to make minimum payments. My education means the world to me. I want to make my own way in this life and the thought of relying on my wealthy family for anything makes my stomach turn in knots. I’m desperate to keep that from happening. They could easily pay for everything I need or want in a heartbeat. It would be a parking ticket in the grand scheme of their bank account.

Unfortunately, I hit a few snags in my quest for independence. Right now, I can barely pay my rent.

“Why don’t you call your brother?”

I twitch. “Zeke?” I ask. “Why would I do that?”

“Because he lives in the city and he can help you.”

“No,” I say with a firm voice. “I’m not going to ask my stepbrother for money.”

“You’re not asking him for money,” she says. “You’re asking him for a job. I would trust him to find you suitable employment over anyone else in that godforsaken hellhole city you choose to inhabit.”

I open my mouth to argue but pause when I hear the cruel growl of my empty stomach. “I’ll think about it,” I say.

“I’m sure he’ll help you out. He’s always been quite fond of you,” my mother says. “I’ll text you his number.”

“I can look it up.”

“No, you’ll just get the hotel’s desk. I have his direct line.”

“I don’t need a direct line—”

“Rockette, for heaven’s sake, I’ve already sent it.”

I sigh and glance at my phone. A brand new text message from her with ten numbers all in a line. “Thanks,” I say.

“Call him. Now. The sooner you nip this, the better off your bud will be!”

“Fine. I will.”

I hang up and toss the phone onto my bed. I really have no intention of making that call. It’s been ages since I’ve seen my stepbrother, Zeke.

Ezekiel Belmont. Zeke is his father’s golden child. He’s been primed for leadership since he was crawling, the sole male heir of his father’s company.

She is right, though. Zeke was always fond of me. Of all the Belmonts, Zeke treated me the least like a plague when I first entered the fold, much better than my stepsister, Becky, and the monsters she called friends.

But our friendship fell apart during the summer before our senior year. I honestly don’t remember what it was that did it.

It doesn’t matter anyway. In the end, I don’t want to be a part of that life. To have everything I want handed to me and to watch everyone else in the world suffer from a tower made of ivory. I cringe just thinking about it.

I eye my phone, a hunger pang striking my gut. I feel immediate regret over what I was about to do. If I don’t make the call, my mother surely would. And then I’d have to wait for the inevitable phone call from Zeke. “Oh, hey, so your mom called me…”

If I make the call myself, I could at least control the outcome. I pick up my phone and open my mother’s text message. I stare at the numbers, reading them over and over again in my head.

You don’t even need to ask for a job, I remind myself. You can just call, say hi, tell him that your mother made you call him, decline any offers, and part ways. It will be a piece of cake.

I feel my stomach growl once more, the painful urge of hunger.

“Here we go…” I say to myself as I tap the number and hold the phone up to my ear.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

“What?”

I pause, startled by the suddenness of his greeting. “Um, I… uh…”

“Who is this?”

“It’s Rocky.”

“Who?”

I take a deep breath and suddenly remember why I stopped speaking to the Belmonts. “It’s Rocky Ramone. Your stepsister. Or do you actually know more than one person named Rocky?”

A short pause fills the void. “Oh, hey —” His tone changes. “What… uh, what’s going on?”

I sigh, lost in my train of thought. “Oh, not much, Zeke…” I roll my eyes, hating everything about this phone call. “I’m just calling to check in on you… and, uh…”

“And, uh… what, Rocky?”

“Listen, Zeke,” I begin, choosing my words carefully. “I didn’t want to call you, but my mother insisted.” My eyes flick toward the newspaper, stained red with ink. “And if I didn’t make this call myself, then she would just find out and call you herself and I didn’t want to put you through that.”

“How very kind of you.”

I chuckle. If there was ever anything the two of us agreed on, it was how intrusive my mother is. “Right, and she just wanted me to ask if you… had any job openings at the hotel?”

“Job openings?” Zeke repeats.

“Yeah. I want a job.” I decide at the last moment to change my word choice of need to want. Wanting a job sounds far less desperate than needing one.

I brace myself for a response but only hear breathing on the other end.

“Zeke?”

“Come over,” he says.

“What?” I ask.

“I’ve got some extra time today. Come over and we’ll talk about it.” He speaks fast, his words quick and precise.

“Um… okay. At the hotel?”

“Yeah, I’ll let my guys know you’re coming.”

“Okay… thanks—”

Zeke hangs up before I can finish my sentence. My arms fall to my side and I stare once again at the blank, white wall in front of me. I feel like I’d been sideswiped on the highway, left to watch the other car race off into the distance. Confused and afraid. Lost and angry.

But excited.

So very excited.