My parents find it comforting; I found it suffocating.
Here, every day is a fresh adventure. I mean, a bald man in a ballgown? Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore. The streets of New York are the most fabulous theater in the world.
Then a blast of ice-cold wind nearly knocks me off my feet. My eyes water, and I hug myself as I make my way back to my building, shivering and cursing.
The jackhammers are still going. My nemesis is climbing into a limo. His minion holds the door open for him.
“Good luck with the city!” Tall, Dark and Dickish calls out to me. “Don’t be too hard on them!” The minion climbs in next to him and shuts the door, and they pull away, leaving me with rage-steam shooting out of my ears. At least that’s how I picture myself.
“Hey! Unicorn-pants!” Isabella’s standing in the doorway of our lobby, yawning and stretching. She’s pulled on leggings and a sweatshirt – like a sane person would before leaving their apartment to greet the world. It’s the sweatshirt I upcycled for her, with the Puerto Rican flag sewn on the front.
She looks me up and down. “You… I just… No, I’m not even going to ask. I only want to know one thing. Who in the holy hotness was that?" she asks, pointing at the limo as it vanishes around a corner.
I scowl. “That was Lucifer himself, risen from the Underworld, and pay him no mind. If he ever comes back around here again, I’ll take care of him.” I stalk into the lobby, and she follows me, letting the door shut behind her.
“Pshh. I bet you will,” she smirks. “Let me know if you need any help.”
“Isabella Maria Consuelo Sanchez.” I put my hands on my hips, mom-style, and narrow my eyes at her. “You’re engaged!” Her fiancé is deployed overseas.
“You forgot the ‘Leticia.’ It goes in between the Maria and the Consuelo. Leticia was a medieval saint. Don’t laugh,” she adds, but it’s too late.
I snicker aloud. “Your parents were very optimistic.”
She trots after me as we head back to the old, creaky elevator. “Anyway, Emilio and me have an agreement while we’re apart. We can lick but don’t touch. Did I say lick? I meant look, but for that tall slice of sexy, I might make an exception.”
I turn and shoot her a disapproving look.
She shrugs. “Just kidding. Probably.”
“Anyway, I owe you big time. Thanks again.”
She grins. “Say something cute and Southern and we’ll call it square.”
“Well, sure as shootin’, sugar britches.” I make my accent so thick that molasses drips off it. “Since this was an exceptionally big favor, I will give you three. That jerk who just drove off? Slicker than a boiled onion, and so low-down I wouldn’t trust him with his mama’s egg money.” I hold up my hand and fold down two fingers. “As for me, I need to go get me a real job, because I’m so poor I’m serving fried water for Sunday supper.” With my accent, it sounds like “frahd watah foah Sunday suppah.” I fold down a third finger.
She skewers me with an indignant side-eye. “So there will be no bail money?”
“Well, look at you, figuring it out. You’re bright as a new penny. That’s four. Now you owe me.”
We climb into the elevator. Isabella jabs the button for our floor, and I lean my head on the wall and yawn hugely. The jackhammers pound so hard I can feel them vibrating my fillings. I won’t be able to get back to sleep. I’ll just have to chug the last of my instant coffee and pray that I can perk up by noon.
“Thank you for coming down to rescue me,” I sigh.
She grins. “The view was worth it.” And I know she’s not talking about my unicorn pants.
Chapter Two
Winona
The first day of May sweeps in on a gust of warm air, fresh with hope and new possibilities.
But because I am Winona Jeffers, the weather forecast also calls for scattered chaos with a chance of light mayhem.
It’s 7 a.m. on a Monday, and I’m getting ready for my miraculous second shot at that personal shopper job, when two little words throw my day into disarray.
Two words that send my heart racing and make my mouth go dry.
Two words, texted to me by Jemma, owner of my favorite coffee cart.
He’s back.
No need to ask who. Over the past few weeks, our regular clashes have become the stuff of legend on 47th Street. When civilization dies and the last survivors huddle around fire pits to seek warmth, they will sing of the battles of Winona and The Nameless Bastard. Nameless because I’ve never introduced myself to him and I never will.
It’s reported on daily by the Kitchen Krew Bulletin, which is run by Isabella’s aunt. In the “Around the Neighborhood” section, yesterday’s headline was “All Quiet on the Western Front”. There was a brief blog post about how The Suit hadn’t been seen in several days now.
The war started in earnest the day after I first confronted him – when the crew returned at 6 a.m. And promptly started up their jackhammers. Again.
This time, it woke Isabella up. We conferred briefly, then opened the kitchen window and emptied the contents of our garbage cans onto their heads. I scored a direct hit, drenching Horrible Hottie’s suit in coffee grounds and orange peels and damp teabags. Then I stormed downstairs with my hair wrapped in spiral curlers, wearing vintage Fiorucci pajamas with kittens in sunglasses.
I stomped over to the construction lot and yelled into his furious face, “My neighbor is recovering from heart surgery, you douche-nozzles!” Which was true.
I slammed the door shut before he could say anything back. The jackhammers turned off and stayed off. They didn’t start up again until 8 a.m. But that wasn’t the end of the hostilities. Oh, no. He just couldn’t let it rest.
A lovely bouquet was delivered to my doorstep the next day – addressed to “Miss Winona Jeffers”. Roses, tastefully arranged with boxes of Summer’s Eve. Har de har.
He reappeared a few days later. I stomped up to him and demanded to know how he knew my name and where I lived. He wrinkled his brow in mild concern and asked if I also heard voices.
The next time I saw my nemesis, I was walking five dogs for one of my part-time gigs. The air was thick with dust – the crew had been tearing up the lot for a week straight.
As I strolled by, I called out to ask him when in tarnation they’d be done with all this nonsense. He flicked a look of icy indifference at the dogs, then said sharply, “It’ll be finished when it’s finished.”
I stalked off and circled around the block. On the way back, I rearranged the dog leashes so that Beanie was on the outside. Then I casually strolled by Suit-jerk…and paused. Beanie may look like a standard poodle, but he’s actually a hollowed-out pee robot; whenever I pause, he piddles. He obligingly lifted his leg and decorated the Suit’s pant-leg.
The resulting bellow of outrage is a sound I’ve replayed in my head ever since, whenever I need a quick pick-me-up.
That evening, I came home to find that our apartment stank like sun-ripened roadkill. The source was sitting on the counter – a box of pizza made with Limburger cheese and Surströmming, which is a spectacularly smelly fermented fish. How do you even find a pizza parlor that has those ingredients on hand? Is there a place in Manhattan dedicated entirely to making gag-gift pizzas? And how much did he bribe the landlord to let him into our apartment?