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I wiped at the sweat on my brow, my pitiful box of belongings between my feet on the subway. I caught a few knowing glances, but no one engaged or asked questions. Too many people knew the walk of shame when it came to losing their jobs.
Times were hard for everyone.
Except Donato.
Yeah, it was fucking roses for the trust-fund boy.
God, I was turning into a bitter bitch.
Better to focus on the real issue—getting a new job.
I couldn’t spend energy on conspiracy theories (as Patrice called them) because I needed to rebound. Fast.
If push came to shove, I could waitress. I held a master’s degree in journalism, but waiting tables might be where I ended up.
Money well spent. I should’ve gone into finance. Except I hated math, and being surrounded by numbers all day made me want to jump from a window.
So, that brought me back to waitressing. Or stripping.
Fuck me. I buried my head in my hands and ugly cried.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Nico
PATIENCE WAS A virtue I didn’t have, but I managed to wait three days before putting my plan into action.
I knew Lauren was probably heading into the panic zone by now, which would make the conditions perfect for my offer. I felt a little guilty for causing that panic, but I’d be remedying it soon.
It was distressingly easy to find her address—even if I hadn’t had every resource available to me, a crazed lunatic could’ve found her address without breaking a sweat. I walked up to the older brownstone.
The neighborhood was on the decline but at one time might’ve been quite adorable. The buildings were in need of repair, but lazy landlords with nothing but greed on their minds had taken a toll. I hated to see formerly grand architecture disintegrate, but there were more instances of this kind of urban decay than could be fixed by one family, even one as wealthy as mine.
I pushed the buzzer and waited.
“Hello?” Lauren sounded from the intercom. “Can I help you?”
“It’s me, Nico. May I come in?”
A long pause followed before Lauren said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
I cut to the chase. “I know about your circumstances. I’ve come to offer you a job. Are you interested?”
“How do you know about my circumstances?” she asked, suspicion in her tone. I had to tread cautiously. Lauren was smart. I had one chance to make this work.
“Look, I’m not having this conversation on the street. If you’ve had better offers, then I’ll go, but I thought you might be at least open to hearing me out.”
There was a long enough pause that I thought perhaps she was ignoring me, but finally the buzzer sounded and the interior door popped open.
I barely kept the triumph from my expression as I entered the building.
The brownstone had been converted to a duplex, and Lauren’s apartment was the downstairs unit. The place wasn’t awful, but I didn’t like the idea of Lauren and Grady living there alone. Evidence of poor management was everywhere. The weather stripping on the interior door was rotting, which meant during the winter, the cold air probably whistled through the open crack and it wouldn’t take much to kick open the street-side door if someone were of a mind to gain entry.
Muted sounds of another family living in the upstairs unit filtered down, and I shifted against the discomfort of knowing that Lauren and Grady lived in such close quarters with strangers.
I was seized by the irrational urge to tell Lauren to pack her shit—she was moving—but I knew that idea was bound to blow up like the Fourth of July when I tired of her company.
Her door opened and my heart stuttered with uncharacteristic excitement. “Nico? What’s this about?” she asked, her gaze wary. Her hair was pulled back in a loose braid that draped over her shoulder. She was wearing black yoga pants with an iconic rock T-shirt. And it was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen on a woman.
That ass... I bit back a tortured groan.
“May I come in, please?” I asked. Just then Grady popped his head around his mom’s thigh and grinned broadly, prompting a smile on my part, too. “Hey there, little man. Have you been taking good care of your mama?”
“Of course. Except, we’re probably gonna be ’victed soon ’cause Mama can’t pay Mr. Tubbins.”
Lauren’s cheeks flared and she practically wilted with shame and embarrassment at her son’s loose lips. She threw her hands up and walked away, gesturing for me to come in as she flopped onto the sofa with a defeated expression. My conscience pinched knowing I’d put her in this position, but once she accepted my offer, all would be well—better, in fact, because I would pay her far more than that magazine ever had.
So, in a way, I was a hero. Kinda like a secret Santa.
I closed the door and took a moment to survey her small apartment. No screens on the windows. Anyone could climb the fire escape and slip into her apartment during the hot, humid summer. The aged kitchen made my eyes bleed. The carpet, worn and mashed and probably crawling with bacteria... Good God, this is like living in communist Russia.
I gestured to the paperwork strewn everywhere with an arched brow. “Hurricane or art project?” I asked.
“I’ve been going through my portfolio, looking for the best articles to include in my job proposals. I submit electronically but I tend to think better when I have something in my hands, so I’ve always had paper copies of my work. But it seems no one is hiring right now. I’ve sent out countless résumés and offers for spec work, but I haven’t had one nibble. Patrice promised me she’d give me a good reference but...I haven’t had a single callback.”
“I already know you’re a good writer and I don’t need references. I want to hire you.”
“How do you know I’m a good writer?” she asked.
“Patrice let me read the copy you wrote for the feature. Very good,” I lied smoothly. “Impressive. And she was the one who recommended you for the job. Seems she felt bad about having to let you go.”
Lauren’s surprise was colored by a touch of confusion, but she accepted my answer, immediately curious. “What do you want to hire me to do?” Before I could answer, she turned to Grady, saying, “Why don’t you go watch TV in your room while I talk with Mr. Donato? We have some adult stuff to work out.”
Grady rolled his eyes. “Like I don’t know what adult stuff means. You can kiss him and I won’t care, Mama. Like Uncle Ronnie says—”
“Grady! I’m not kissing Mr. Donato,” Lauren cut in with a nervous laugh before Grady could spill more “Uncle Ronnie” gems. “We just have business to discuss and it’s going to be very boring.”
Grady didn’t buy it, but he had
enough respect for his mother to stop arguing. He disappeared into his room, but he left the door open. The more I knew about this kid, the more I liked. I didn’t even try to hide my grin. “He’s pretty smart.”
“Too smart sometimes,” Lauren grumbled, shooting me a warning look. “What kind of job are you offering?”
Instead of answering right away, I gestured to the windows. “Does your landlord know that this is a safety hazard?”
“I rarely open them, and Grady knows to stay away when they are.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s a landlord’s responsibility to ensure that all safety laws are being upheld on his property. The weather stripping is rotten and you have cockroaches.” I’d seen one on the stairs as I passed. “My guess is that if the housing authority came to inspect this property, the list of violations would be epic.”
“Did you come to criticize my home or offer me a job?” she asked with a subtle scowl.
The longer I stood in this place, the surer I was I didn’t want Lauren and her son living there, but one problem at a time. “I was impressed with your professionalism,” I said. “I know I didn’t make it easy for you, and yet, you handled yourself well. A pet project that I’ve been sitting on for a while returned with a vengeance, and I knew I’d finally found the person I wanted to work with.”
“What project?”
“My autobiography.”
She barked a short laugh. “You haven’t lived long enough to be interesting enough to warrant a book about your life.”
I cut her a pointed look. “You have a funny way of putting your best foot forward for a job interview.”
“Is that what this is?” she asked. “Because even if you were serious...I don’t think I would take the job.”
“And why is that?”
“Because in all fairness, I don’t know that I’m the right person for the job. I’m a journalist, not a ghostwriter. I mean, you should go with someone with more experience. If I were a different sort of person I would take your money without thinking twice, even though I’ve never ghostwritten anything in my life, but I’m not that kind of person.”
