I looked up at the sky.
When had my life become this tragedy?
I checked my wallet. I had twenty-seven dollars to my name. That was it. At the apartment, there was some ramen, the empty box of wine, some crackers, and a jar of instant coffee. Trish had taken the coffeemaker.
I spent the day wandering around, applying for jobs, finally giving up when I ran out of resumes and smiles. I went to the store and bought a loaf of bread and the cheapest jar of peanut butter they had. At least I could eat sandwiches for a few days. Back at the apartment, I opened the fridge door to put the bread inside and froze. Sitting there on the empty shelf was a bottle of beer.
I didn’t drink beer.
Terry did. I recognized the brand from the bottles I had seen dangling often from his hand.
Terry had been in here. He had left the bottle as a reminder he could get in whenever he wanted.
Terrified, I grabbed the knife and searched the apartment to make sure he wasn’t still there. Once satisfied, I slipped the knives into the door trim and sat on the old sofa, drawing my knees up to my chest.
I wasn’t safe here, and I had to go.
The question was, where?
I picked up my laptop, scanning the sites I had been on, hoping maybe there would be a message waiting, but there was nothing. I checked all my stats, but there had been zero new views anywhere. I had hoped for a call to fill in at a waitressing job, do some bartending, a temp job, but I had nothing.
I wondered if I would qualify for welfare. Then I shook my head. I needed to find a job.
Any job.
My gaze fell to the tab I had open for Solutions for You, and I reread the posting I had made fun of last night. I chewed on my fingernail, staring at it. After last night, I was certain whoever posted this was a grumpy old curmudgeon.
Girl Friday. Cycleman. How ridiculous.
Something caught my eye, and glancing toward the door, I could see the shadows of feet outside the door at the bottom, and the handle was turning. Slowly. Silently. I watched, scared, as my lock turned, the metal glinting in the hall light. The door moved a fraction and stopped, the metal of the knives I had slid in stopping it. It moved again, then once more. The lock reversed back into place, the handle spinning back. There was a low curse, and the feet disappeared.
But I knew he’d be back.
My gaze went back to the screen. A grumpy curmudgeon was far preferable to a would-be rapist.
Recalling what he’d said about my attitude, I was certain he wouldn’t even accept my chat request.
Swallowing my pride, I clicked on the post and opened a chat window.
Charly: Is the job still available?
Chapter 3
MAXX
I sat at the old desk, running a hand through my hair. It had been another busy day—another day of falling behind on all the things that needed to be done. I grabbed a bottle of water and drained it, tossing it into the recycle bin.
I clicked the mouse, checking the computer. I needed to order some parts and get to the bank. I needed to do a lot of things that I never seemed to have the time or energy for these days.
I clicked on the job site, scanning through the messages. I’d had a dozen replies to the ad, all of which I dismissed quickly. Four were bogus, and one shared far too much personal information. A few wanted way more money than I offered. A couple frightened me, the women responding too old to be working. They were looking for a place to live, not a job. I didn’t have time to look after anyone. The others weren’t serious, which pissed me off. I didn’t have time to deal with idiots. The guy who had sent me a message last night had been a bit of a surprise. He certainly had an attitude and told me what he thought of my posting. He’d made me laugh, to be honest. It was a little sexist when I reread it, but I hadn’t had time to change it today. I disliked technology, mostly because I didn’t understand most of it. When I was younger, I was far more interested in the mechanics of an engine and spent all my time in the garage with my dad. I could use technology I was trained on for mechanics—the rest I found overwhelming and, frankly, annoying. Facebook, Instagram, websites—all of it. I used what I had to, but I also knew I needed someone with more experience to help me figure it out.
I was surprised to see a new message from Charly. Even more surprised when I saw he was asking if the job was available. At least, I thought that was his question—part of me wondered if he just wanted to spar again. Before responding, I checked his profile, seeing it gave little information, except he had experience in office management and was seeking a job immediately. Both of those pieces of information were welcome. Otherwise, it was set to private with no picture or other personal details.
Cycleman: Is this a general inquiry so you can criticize or a real question?
Charly: It’s a real question. It is a job, right? I need to be clear on that.
Cycleman: What else would it be?
Charly: Your post makes it sound like you’re looking for a spouse. If so I’m not the right one for you. I mean, Girl Friday—a little outdated.
He was right. It was outdated. But I didn’t want to waste any more time since I already knew his opinion.
Cycleman: You made that clear last night. My first time posting. I need someone to look after my shop and the house. The title was something I was familiar with.
Charly: Maid/Go-fer might be the best description.
Cycleman: Okay, fine. I am not looking for a spouse. At all. How about Assistant? Can you work with that description? Are you interested? I’m a busy man.
Charly: Busy—so you’ve said before. Keep your shirt on. I’m interested. I have a lot of experience in running an office and keeping a house clean. Been on my own for years. I can do both. Not a fancy cook, but you won’t starve. And I can bake a pie. How big is your dog?
I pursed my lips. At least he was asking questions now. I replied.
Cycleman: He’s a Golden Lab. Big but friendly.
Charly: Okay. I like Labs.
Cycleman: Do you have a resume?
Charly: attached
I opened and scanned it. It told me very little about the person, although I could see he had been working for over five years. The name on the top said C.L. Hooper and a phone number, but there was no address. The date of birth gave me pause. He was only twenty-five—twelve years younger than me. I rubbed my chin, deciding that didn’t matter. As long as he worked hard, I didn’t care. He was going to be an employee, not a friend. I was pleased to see a mechanic shop listed under past employment. I hated to admit it, but so far, he was the only viable candidate.
Cycleman: You worked in a garage? You know engines?
Charly: I get by. Not an expert. I was in the office more than under the hood.
I grunted in satisfaction. I didn’t want a mechanic, but someone who understood what I did was a bonus.
Charly: There is a reference from my last boss attached.
I scanned the document from Peter Phelps. Loyal, hardworking, honest, bondable were the keywords I picked up on. Those were important traits to me—especially now. The fact that he stated he would hire C.L. Hooper again in a heartbeat spoke well. There was a phone number to call for further details, so I could check that this was legitimate. As soon as I had time.