I slammed the door shut and locked it, fuming. I slid the chain in place with a loud snap. I could hear him cursing and muttering on the other side of the closed door.
I walked away, only to swing around when the door unlocked and Terry’s ugly face appeared through the opening allowed by the chain.
“You forget, bitch. I have a key that gets me in anytime I want.”
He slammed the door before I could move.
For a moment, I stood, anxiety sinking into my chest. He was right. He could get in anytime. There had been times after my first roommate, Rhonda, moved out, I thought someone had been in the apartment while I wasn’t home, but I could never prove it. My next roommate, Trish, worked from home, and she denied he’d ever bothered her.
Terry lifted the mail slot of the old-fashioned door. “You have until the end of the month. Either pay up what you owe plus an extra month, or you’re out of here.”
The mail slot slammed with a loud metallic noise, and his heavy footsteps echoed in the hall.
The end of the month was in a week. I owed three-months’ worth of back rent now. I slid down the wall, pulling on my hair in worry.
I looked around the small apartment. I had lived here for two years. When Rhonda had gotten married, I had advertised and found a new person to split the bills. Trish seemed great at first. She liked to cook, she was fun to be around, and I felt as if I had found a new friend. When I confessed to finding the landlord a little unnerving, and that Rhonda had always dealt with him, Trish insisted she be the one to pay the rent every month, saying she “didn’t want me uncomfortable,” and she “could handle him.” She’d made a point of showing me she put the receipt in the drawer the first month, and I never gave it a second thought after that.
Until I came home one day two weeks ago to find she’d hacked in to my accounts, stolen all my money, racked up some charges on my credit card, taken anything of value I owned, and disappeared.
Literally.
It was as if she had never existed. Which, it turned out, she hadn’t. When I went to the police to file a report, I discovered I had been scammed. There was no such person as Trish Gordon. She was good. The numbers I had called to check out her references no longer existed. The names on her application were all fake. She was a pro, and I had fallen for her friendly, helpful act—hook, line, and sinker.
The same week, I lost my job. The industrial company I worked for simply closed their doors with no warning. I hadn’t been able to find another full-time job, and the part-time ones I could find barely covered basic necessities, never mind rent. I had been further horrified when I found out the money I had put aside for this month’s rent, Trish took along with everything else.
And now I found she had taken the other rent money and traded it off for blow jobs and sex.
I was screwed. Completely screwed.
Kelly looked at me over her glass. “What can I do, Char?”
I sipped my wine. Kelly was almost as broke as I was, so there was no point in asking her for a loan. “Nothing. I have to move and find a job in a week. Easy peasy, right?”
“You can sleep on my couch,” she offered halfheartedly.
I patted her hand. “You sleep on your couch already.” Kelly’s apartment was tiny—one room in a boarding house. She loved it, but the one time we had tried to live together, it almost destroyed our friendship. We were two very different people.
“We could figure it out.”
“Thanks.” I hated to think it might come down to that, but the truth was, it might.
“Where have you applied?”
“Everywhere. Coffee shops, temp services, businesses. I’ve put my resume online on a bunch of those job sites. Nothing.”
“Let me see.”
I handed her my laptop and filled up my wine. It was one of the few things Trish had left behind—the box too awkward to carry, I supposed. That and ramen made a great dinner. The first time. By the tenth, it was barely palatable. Now, the wine was almost gone, and so was the ramen.
“You’ve covered a lot.”
“I know.”
“What is Solutions for You?” she asked with a frown.
“Oh, it’s like Craigslist—a little less formal than some other job sites,” I explained. “You can find a job or a new dresser if you want. It’s sort of a catchall of ads. I heard about it and figured nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
“I suppose.” She scanned the screen. “Oh look, here’s a new listing.” She snickered. “It looks…interesting.”
I peered over her shoulder, squinting a little to see the screen. Between the wine, and not knowing where my glasses were, it was hard to concentrate.
Wanted: Girl Friday
Duties:
Housekeeping, Grocery shopping, Laundry, Cooking meals
Must also be proficient at bookkeeping, invoicing, banking, inventory control,
and website upkeep for business.
Must be able to drive, be highly organized, and able to work without supervision.
Must like living in the country, with limited access to major towns.
Must like dogs.
Ability to make pies an asset.
Work – Monday to Friday 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. Saturday 8 a.m. to 12 p.m.
Saturday afternoons and Sundays are free
Room with private bath. Board plus salary.
Only serious applicants need apply.
I started to laugh. “Seriously? Girl Friday? Who uses that expression these days? Old farts?”
Kelly snickered. “That’s quite a list.”
“Wow, it certainly is,” I muttered, reading.
“You are a great baker. You make an awesome lemon pie. Your blueberry is pretty stellar too,” she joked.
I giggled and nudged her with my elbow. “Definitely an old guy. They like pies.”
I skimmed it again, looking at his user name and snorted. “Cycleman has a lot of ‘musts.’ The guy must be a control freak. Is he looking for an employee or a wife? Holy moly, the only thing not listed is bearing children and missionary sex.”
She winked. “Maybe he likes anal. No babies that way.”
I snorted in amusement. “I can’t believe anyone would post something like that.” I looked at the stats. “It has four replies! Oh my god!”
“People.” She shook her head. “They are weird.”
I shut the laptop and drained my glass. “That they are.”
Chapter 2
CHARLYNN
Kelly left, and I locked the door, staring at the mainly empty apartment. The old sofa and a battered table were all that remained. Anything Trish had been able to lift and carry was gone. In the bedroom, my bed sat on the floor since she’d dismantled the frame and took that. The dresser that held my clothes was still there—no doubt she thought it was too old and ugly to bother with. She’d taken everything from the room she had stayed in.
I was grateful that we weren’t the same size. Otherwise, I was certain all my clothes would be gone as well. Luckily, she hadn’t touched my closet, which meant the photo albums that belonged to my parents were safe. At least I still had those. I’d had my laptop with me that day. If I hadn’t, I knew it, too, would have been gone.