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I shook my head at a crude drawing of a shot glass nestled between breasts. “Doesn’t that sound awful?” The only answer was an echo of my voice. Even the rain pattering against the window lessened.
Thick clouds layered the apartment in dark shadows so I turned on a light before sliding out my laptop.
I read through an email my mom sent me, and looked over her application to work as a nurse in a retirement home. After sending it back to her with a few minor suggestions, I began choosing my top three articles from last year for the BCA competition.
The article I knew had to be submitted centered on the importance of student activism on campus. “By far my best work,” I said, shifting my feet over the cool hardwood floors.
I really needed to get a rug, warm the place up some more.
I hesitated before composing an email to my father. I wasn’t sure what his reaction would be when I wrote to him that I didn’t land the features editor position. We didn’t talk often, and the last time we saw each other face-to-face, while I was visiting New York, he calmly sat me at his desk, shaking his head.
“Everyone has different abilities. I’m sure you’ll find something you’re good at, but you don’t have the right . . . personality to work as a journalist here.”
I leaned forward, steepled my fingers together and rested my elbows on his desk. “I want a apprenticeship at this company. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
My father leaned back in his chair, frowning. “When I was at university, I held the student newspaper’s features editor position for two years. A tough feat, the competition was stiff. Do the same, and you have a apprenticeship.” He scribbled something in his diary. “But, Liam, there will be other things for you out there if you fail.”
“I won’t fail.”
I shut down my laptop. I wouldn’t tell him anything just yet. There had to be a way for me to land the features editor position.
I picked up the flyers once more. Carrying them around the narrow kitchen island, I popped a slice of bread into the toaster. It sparked.
Zing! A small shock shot up my arm.
I jerked my hand back and dropped the flyers on the bench. Shaking my hand, I glared at the toaster. I ought to write a report on the dangers of second-hand electrical appliances!
Jill’s snigger came to mind, and it stopped my chuckle short. Why did his words niggle at me so much? True, I didn’t have any friends outside my professional circle. My life consisted of writing, reading, editing, and studying. I was lucky if I remembered to eat. But sacrifices had to be made if I was going to land my dream job. I didn’t have time to waste on getting drunk and making friends at Booze Bangers.
My toast popped, and I carefully plucked it out of the death trap.
A shiver rolled over me. Who would know if I suddenly died? No one would be there to miss me. My mom maybe, but her calls were irregular at best—who knew when she’d figure it out? Most likely it’d be Chief Benedict who noticed something was wrong.
Except . . . if I died today, he might think I didn’t want the party page, that I quit.
No one would know!
I didn’t even own a cat that would meow until the neighbors were annoyed enough to investigate. How long before they found me? Longer than a week? Would only the smell of my decaying flesh tip them off?
I shook my head and, drawing in a steadying breath, unplugged the toaster.
It hardly solved the issue, but it’d do for now.
My gaze dropped to the bright orange flyer on the bench, now covered in crumbs from the toast I gripped too hard. Nightmare on Shady Avenue party. Maybe I should go. Maybe it’d calm me and make me see how good I have it.
Make me see that worse nightmares exist.
Along with deafening music, multiple kegs overflowed.
One didn’t need to see them to know it, either. The run-down Victorian house reeked of beer and something more acidic. I prayed it was vodka and not the regurgitated remains of someone’s dinner, but I wasn’t about to investigate. No, I planned to find my angle for the column, write my notes, and get out of here.
I steered around a large crowd chugging beer from jugs, vases—even a watering can—and perched myself on a carpeted step at the bottom of the staircase in the foyer. Here would have to do; there wasn’t anywhere else to sit. That, and I wanted to avoid banging into Jack and Jill, who I’d briefly encountered fist-bumping each other in the kitchen.
A couple making out against the wall shared the lower steps with me, and their suppressed moans harmonized with the vocalized pleasure of other couples. Seemed the foyer was the place for hooking up.
