No, he hadn’t had tattoos ten years ago. Actually, he’d been a straight-A type, athletic and handsome with great grades, the favorite of every teacher. He wasn’t a bad boy. Why the hell was he in New York City now, working as an EMT, instead of back in Wisconsin? And come to think of it, why wasn’t he a lawyer or a doctor or a professional athlete? He should be well off by now, married with the requisite three kids and the white picket fence. He’d always been destined for it. What kind of left turn had his life taken?
And why the hell was I thinking about Holden Whittaker again?
“I’m sorry,” I said to Helen, trying to sound contrite. “I’ll get the order in now and it’ll go through first thing tomorrow.”
“It was supposed to go through today,” Helen said, as if maybe I was hard of hearing. She repeated it again. “Today, Mina. It was a simple request. The fact that you couldn’t fulfill it will have to go on your record.”
Well, now I was mad. “But you also told me that there’s been a cut to the supply budget,” I said. “You told me to shop around, look for lower prices for everything we need to order. I was busy doing that. I didn’t want to put the order in if I could get lower prices somewhere else.”
“Mina, this is a business.” Now, as well as being hard of hearing, I was also stupid. “Things have to get done. Mr. Morgan expects his employees to handle their jobs without hand-holding. That’s what I expect of you. If you can’t keep up, then you can’t keep the job.”
I had to clench my teeth together—actually clench them. Otherwise I’d tell her to shove it. But ever since I came to New York after high school, I’d waited tables while I auditioned. I didn’t want to go back to waiting tables. I had rent to pay, and I needed this job. And whenever I left—because I sure as hell didn’t want to order office supplies for the rest of my life—I wanted a good reference. A reference that would come from Helen.
“I’m sorry,” I said again. “It won’t happen again.”
“It can’t,” she said, and there was definite smugness in her voice. “At Morgan Financial Holdings, we have a three-strike policy. This is strike one on your record. If you slip up two more times, we’ll replace you. Now please get to work and put the order in so it will go through first thing tomorrow.” She checked her watch and walked away.
I watched her go into her office, then come out again with her gym bag and lock the door behind her. I got a strike on my record, and Helen got to leave at ten after three. I watched her skinny ass twitch as she took off down the hall, confident as you please. Helen the hellhound, I thought.
Then, because I was poor and desperate, I got back to work and ordered the stupid office supplies.
The elevator in my building was working, so I didn’t have to take the stairs to my apartment when I got home. I stood in the elevator and thought about Holden Whittaker again, wondering if there was still a whiff of his scent in here. I glanced up at the ceiling and pictured his perfect ass coming down the ladder in its hot navy blue uniform, then I closed my eyes and shook my head. I wondered how long Eric and Grim had left him in here while they had dinner. I hoped it was long.
There was a girl sitting in my hallway when I got out of the elevator. She was about fourteen, sitting with her back against my neighbor’s door and her long legs stretched out in front of her. She was wearing jeans and a red T-shirt, her dark hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she had earbuds in her ears.
I stepped over her Skechers in my heels, which were pinching my toes. I guessed she was waiting for someone to come home, though I’d never seen her before. I glanced at her as I stepped over her, and she looked up at me. She pulled her earbuds from her ears.
“I’m not a burglar or anything,” she said frankly as I walked to my door. “I belong here, I swear.”
“Okay,” I said. “I didn’t think you were a burglar.”
“I’m visiting my sister and her husband,” the girl said. “They live here.” She pointed at the door behind her. “They aren’t home from work yet so they can’t let me in.”
“Okay,” I said again. I put my key in my door, then looked at her again. She was lanky and skinny and looked nothing like me, but there was something about looking at a fourteen-year-old girl that made me remember so clearly what it had been like to be that age. “What’s your name?”
“Tess,” the girl said.
“That’s pretty.”
“What’s your name?”
“Mina.”
“Like in Dracula.”
I smiled. Mina Harker was a character in Bram Stoker’s original novel, a woman who Dracula is obsessed with and the heroes have to defend. Not many people knew that. “Like Dracula, yes, though that wasn’t what I was named after. That would have been pretty goth of my parents.”
Tess’s eyebrows went up. “Your parents aren’t goth, huh?”
“They’re a couple of accountants in Wisconsin, so no. My mom just thought it was a pretty name.”
My door was open now, and my feet hurt, and I wanted to get out of my stupid office clothes. I felt bad leaving Tess alone out in the hallway, sitting on the floor. “When does your sister come back?” I asked her.
Tess shrugged. “She’s working late. So is her husband.”
“Do you want to come in and sit down?”
The girl rolled her eyes in the way only fourteen-year-olds can do it. “God, do you know what year it is? I can’t do that. I don’t even know you. You’ll chop me up and stuff me down the garbage chute, and that will be the end of me. Or you’ll sell me into sex slavery.”
I blew out a breath. I was done with this day. “Well, I’m not going to do either of those things. My plan is to make popcorn, not chop up children or sell them. Join me or don’t. There’s popcorn either way.”
Tess looked unsure. It was after six o’clock, and I thought she was probably hungry. “I’m not a child,” she answered.
“Whatever,” I said. “The door’s open. Come in if you want a snack.”
I walked into my apartment, leaving her behind, and kicked off my shoes. Groaning as my feet hit the cool, bare floor, I walked to the bedroom, unbuttoning my hated blouse. When I came back out of the bedroom wearing yoga pants and a tee, Tess was standing in my doorway, looking around.
“Just for a few minutes,” she said.
“Fine.” I flopped onto the sofa, groaning as my calf muscles slowly unknotted.
I heard the door close behind Tess, so I guessed she was taking her chances that I wasn’t a murderer. “Why are you having popcorn for dinner?” she asked.
“Do you see how tired I am?” I replied. “It’s the only thing I have the energy to make. Plus it’s cheap. And I have to cut my calories.”
She rolled her eyes and walked toward the kitchen, dropping her backpack on the floor. “Okay, boomer.”
“Okay what?” I sat upright. “I’m twenty-eight!”
“Suuuure,” Tess said, drawing it out in a way that would be funny if it wasn’t annoying. “I’m just saying, body shaming is so eighties.” She opened the fridge and looked in, not knowing—or not caring—that she had her generations mixed up. “We could at least have grilled cheese. You have the stuff in here.”