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Seven
KAYLEEN
The whole week was a big fat blur.
I made rent thank God, just in time for Jerry to come knocking at my door. He seemed overly surprised when I handed him all eight-hundred dollars. Like I’d performed some strange fucking magic trick, like pulling a hat out of a rabbit’s asshole.
Each day, I occupied myself with cooking and prepping and driving from client to client. More and more I realized I was just spinning my wheels. Not making nearly enough for my enterprise to be considered a successful business model.
But each night…
Each night I lay in bed thinking about Friday.
For the first half of the week, I convinced myself that they hadn’t been serious. That I would show up there on Friday night, and they wouldn’t even be expecting me. It would be awkward as hell. I’d look like a total, desperate asshole. Even worse, they might feel obligated to invite me in. One or more of them would be writing. In the zone…
By Wednesday night I was convinced I wasn’t going. And that’s when the text came through:
A photograph of a single bottle of red wine.
Chase sent it, which made me feel a little better. It was good wine, actually. A nice Merlot, and not from the $10 rack as I might’ve expected.
Not to begin another back-and-forth text-message saga, I replied with a single text of my own:
Better be more than one bottle of that.
By Thursday I was freaking out. I wasn’t even sure why. I hadn’t committed to anything, and the whole thing could still be a put-on. An excuse to hang out. Maybe drink a little wine.
Besides, I’d known these guys for months now. It’s not like they were strangers. Yet for some reason I was totally nervous, as if I were going out blind, on a first date.
Friday came, and I had to talk myself down off a ledge. I eventually convinced myself that the whole thing was nothing more
than a casual, post-work meet-up with clients. The kind of thing I sometimes did to keep up good relations.
Only in this case I was going to meet three gorgeous young guys in their sprawling, beautifully-decorated villa. On a Friday night. To drink wine.
Oh yeah, and to talk about potentially becoming their shared girlfriend.
I laughed on the way up the driveway, hoping they weren’t watching me through the in-house camera system. I would’ve looked pretty damned maniacal. Maybe they’d even lock the doors and use the intercom to tell me to fuck off.
If only you’d be so lucky.
No, I’d got myself into this and apparently there was no way I was getting out. Not without major embarrassment. So I decided to do the one thing I was always best at: taking things head-on.
If they wanted to interview me, I’d embrace it.
I reached the front door, wondering if I should ring the bell or just use my key. Both options seemed awkward. Traditionally I’d always just let myself in, but right now I wasn’t working for them. And it was a Friday night, not a Monday.
“Kayleen!” The voice that came through the digital intercom was bright and cheerful. I recognized it as Nathan’s. “Come on in!”
He buzzed me in, and I made my way through the flagstone foyer. White stucco walls blended smoothly into the sweeping archways, warmly lit by wrought iron sconces. Green plants stood sentinel, strategically placed for color and effect, while more vines hung from the planters, giving the inside of the house an outdoor feel.
Damn, I’d been here dozens of times, but I never actually realized how beautiful everything was.
“Come on in, we’re in the kitchen!’
I knew where that was, of course. My cute little skirt flowed about my knees, my shoes clacking against the tile with every step. It occurred to me I’d never worn shoes in here before. It had always been my work flats.
All three of them were in the kitchen, already sharing a bottle of wine. Chase and Nathan were seated, but stood to greet me. Burke was already standing, leaning casually against one of the poured cement countertops.
