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I hated to do it, felt bad about it, but me and Shane have been at Aiden’s apartment for the past three days.
My voicemails and texts are long and rambling, apologizing, and telling Aiden I’m stuck, I’m sorry, and I am in his condo, to please call me and please not have me arrested. Please let me know if there’s some work I can do in exchange for temporary shelter.
Today is Sunday, I’ve been here since Thursday night, and I have submitted two dozen resumes and now have worked this one gig, which means I have enough cash to get Shane his medications. And I have to replace some of the stuff in Aiden and Carly’s pantry and freezer we’ve eaten.
I sent a friend request to Carly on three social media sites, too, so I have definitely tried to get ahold of them.
I’m feeling sick about being here, but in three days I’ve had no other options. I’m super-stressed about it, but know that all I can do is wait to hear back from Aiden or Carly and then I’ll know my immediate fate.
How sad is my life that the only choice I’ve got beyond sleeping in a filthy and unsafe warehouse with no amenities is to stay at my former boss’s condo because he’s out of town and trusted me enough to let me keep his key?
Luck would have it that Shane knows the night watchman. I half-expected to get stopped by the security people and at least quizzed like I did last time, because the guy didn’t recognize me. This security guy and Shane used to work at the same bar, so no questions were asked. Just bro shakes and talks about vibing to some music later.
This is not sitting well with me at all. None of it. Not my financial situation, not where my stuff is being stored, not being homeless, and certainly not my brother’s state of mind - acting like there’s not a care in the world when we’re squatting at my ex-boss’s apartment temporarily.
He’s acting like everything is copasetic. He’s on some sort of ‘high’ right now where just before we were evicted, he was down in one of his ‘lows’.
When I get back from the disastrous magician’s assistant gig, there’s music blaring, so I rush inside and see wall-to-wall people. Not using coasters. Smoking in the apartment. Smoking dope in the apartment, too.
I can’t fucking believe Shane is having a party here!
“Where’s Shane?” I shout.
The night watchman guy, Kevin, jerks his thumb toward where the bedrooms and bathroom are. Shit. Damn. Please tell me he didn’t pass out again with a house full of people, in a place that’s not even his (or mine).
And the security guy is smoking a bong. A bong that’s about four feet tall.
“Jada!” He greets like we’re best pals.
“Party’s over. Sorry. Please get everyone out, Kevin,” I head for the bedrooms. The spare room, where Shane and I have been crashing has all sorts of coats in it and there are two people making out.
“Please go. Party’s over,” I call out again as I head into the master bedroom and find Shane in there, leaning against the window.
I’m snapping his name and approaching before I spot that a girl is on her knees in front of him.
Shit.
He looks like he’s in a daze as her head bobs.
“Shane,” I shriek. “What the fuck?”
He’s looking right at me but he’s expressionless.
“Is that your wife?” the girl turns around and asks over her shoulder.
I shield my eyes. “Shane, God!”
I hear the music halt. Are people leaving?
Good. Thank God.
Shane looks down. “I’m not even hard.”
I give my head a shake, unable to fathom this.
“My wife? Ha. That’s funny,” Shane says slowly. Too slowly. He’s on something. Something bad.
“Get out. Get out. Get out!” I shout at the girl.
I don’t know if I’ve ever shouted at a person like this before, but I’m livid.
She stares blankly at me.
“Jayjay?” My brother looks at me like he’s just waking up from a nap. His eyes are screwed up. He’s so pale. What on earth is he on?
“Shane, I can’t believe you. I can’t fucking believe you!” I screech.
“What the fuck!” I hear from behind me.
I spin and there’s a guy standing there, probably a neighbor, because he doesn’t look at all like any of the people that are here, other than the fact that he’s got a black eye.
He’s tall, mid-to-late twenties, athletic, five o’clock shadow, boy band-like undercut, and wearing chinos and a leather jacket with a button-down dress-shirt.
“I’ve got this under control,” I say, raising my hand. “I’m ending this party now, so you can go home. Sorry about the noise.”
The guy eyes me like I’m from outer space.
“Who the hell are you?” he demands, folding his arms over his chest. A suitcase falls over beside him.
