As I debated whether it was technically possible to kill myself by smashing my head into the economics textbook, I heard a familiar voice three rows down, seeping from the Braille selections like poison.
“…in motion. You’ll have to put things together quickly. I’m shooting for next month, or the one after it. Soon.”
There was a pause. The other person was talking. What were the chances of Syllie going to the library to take a personal call? Good, I realized. The place was dead, and you wouldn’t find any of the Fitzpatrick men in the library unless it was a trendy name for a brothel.
Or so he thought.
“Father and older son pose more threat than the little one, as I mentioned,” he added.
Don’t be so fucking sure.
“Keep me posted. I’ll call soon.”
He killed the call. I threw my sandwich into the trash can, my appetite gone.
He was going to pay.
HHH: When are you coming home 2night? I got nudes.
HHH: News*. #DieAutocorrect.
HHH: (tho I got nudes too, if you’re interested).
Sailor: You know that means you type the word nude more than news, right?
HHH: I’m sensing you have a point somewhere in this sentence.
Sailor: How often do you sext women?
HHH: Is that a trick question?
Sailor: Nvm. Getting into PT in 2 mins.
HHH: How’s the Patriots’ dude?
Sailor: Good. Thanks for hooking me up.
HHH: Always happy to hook a friend up, unlike someone I know. *eyes peeking emoji*
Sailor: If I had a guilt trip every time you made me feel shitty about holding my side of the bargain with your dad, I’d be crippled with anxiety.
HHH: Sex is great for anxiety.
Sailor: Besides, I gave you Knox.
HHH: That you did. And I successfully deployed all the devices he sold me.
Sailor: I’m glad! I knew you could do it.
HHH: When did you say you were coming home again?
Sailor: Late. Got a meeting with Junsu after this, then I have that shoot for the sports magazine Crystal got for me. DoorDash away without me.
HHH: Ok. x
I ordered sushi that night.
Not good sushi, either. Sailor always knew what to get, where to get it, and who made the best food in the city. The apartment felt extra empty without her. I resisted the urge to FaceTime Vaughn or Knight as I placed my reusable chopsticks and LaCroix on the dining table, listening to a podcast about this hipster chick who lived a year in the Scottish highlands trying to figure out if the cryptozoological loch ness monster really did exist.
The doorbell rang. I opened up. It was a woman: Asian, real babe, with a heart-shaped face and long, purple hair that looked extra silky. Banging body. Sailor-small, as in miniature. She raised the thrice-knotted plastic bag between us.
“Lights are down, and reception is empty. This place is a ghost town. Did you know the electricity is off in the entire building? I had to take the stairs.”
I didn’t, but that meant that Da’s assholes weren’t on my case for the first time in weeks, and I wasn’t even aware. The CCTV was down.
“Nope.” I took the food from her, rummaging my pocket for the tip (people who didn’t tip DoorDash heroes twice were dead to me).
“Enjoy your meal, Rapunzel.” She winked, but didn’t make a move.
“Enjoy it with me.” I threw her a lazy smile.
“For real?”
“Forreal, forreal.”
Sailor was out. The building’s electricity system was down, other than in the actual apartments, I guess, because my lights were on. No one knew I had a chick in here. Bonus points, it had been a long-ass time since I’d shared a meal with something that wasn’t a textbook or Sailor.
“I’m Emily.” She stretched out her hand.
“Hunter.” I took it, pulling her in gently. She fell into my chest, giggling breathlessly.
“Whoa. This place. Are you loaded or something?”
“Cocked, too.” I was openly flirting. She was openly responding.
I closed the door behind us and took another LaCroix from the fridge. There was only one left, and Sailor was going to kill me, but whatever, served her right for not being here when I needed her. We ate.
Two hours later, Emily was still here. We watched Brick on Netflix because she said she was crushing on Joseph Gordon-Levitt like it was 1998. Honestly, I didn’t care for the movie. But the situation was nice. Natural. Our socked feet on the coffee table, munching on the organic dark chocolate the housekeeper stocked the fridge with.
It was the last ten minutes of the movie when she realized I wasn’t going to pounce her. Emily put her thigh on mine and wiggled her socked toes to touch my skin. I didn’t make a move, watching it play out, and knowing I was going to stop it—probably—but also feeling dangerously high on the two hours of freedom I’d been given.
“My bra is super uncomfortable,” she purred, pouting. “Can I take it off?”
“Is that even a question?” I asked groggily.
Hey, that’s just being a cordial host.
Emily reached under the bottom of her shirt and removed her bra with her shirt still on, throwing the lacy, white thing in my face. I let it sit there, draped on my head, for comic value, popping another chocolate square into my mouth.
“You’re such a dork.” She laughed.
Brick, my ass. She was interested in watching this shit like I was interested in bathing in acetone.
“Are you going to hit on me?” she asked, finally, her eyes not wavering from my bra-clad face.
“I’m a deadly sin you don’t want to commit,” I confessed.
“I’ve done them all.” She looked at me, straight-faced. “Do me.”
I shook my head, not believing I was doing this, but doing it anyway, because fuck, I needed the money, and fuck, a dirty fuck was just not worth it.
“Sorry, lovely. Getting fucked is not in your cards tonight.”
The door opened.
“Honey, I’m home,” Sailor sing-songed sarcastically. She froze on the spot when she realized I wasn’t alone. I sat upright, thinking, This is salvageable, until I felt the bra falling from my face onto the carpet.
Shitfuckhell.
Song of the day: “Born to Run” by Bruce Springsteen.
“CT, this is Emily.” I motioned to my guest, pretending this chick hadn’t been in the process of hoisting herself onto me a hot second ago. Swear to God, the idea of fucking her hadn’t even occurred to me. I mean, in the future—one-hundred-and-ten-percent yes. Right now, though? Too risky. My bloodline, my inheritance, my future depended on my ability to keep my pants on. Plus, I was putting a dent in the Sailor project. “Emily, that’s my roomie, Sailor.”
“Hi!” Emily jumped to her feet, waving and flashing a smile. Her tits bounced, bra-less, and her nipples were semi-hard. Sailor didn’t return the gesture. I paused the movie no one was watching anyway and strolled over to my banshee frenemy.
You could feel the atmosphere shifting, dipping in dark smoke. Emily picked up on the awkwardness. She scooped up her bra, phone, shoes, and car keys while shuffling around like a harassed ostrich.
I took Sailor’s duffel bag and disposed of it in the spare room for her. “How was the photoshoot, kiddo?”