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If he was, this changed everything.
Chapter 3
Gabby
TWO WEEKS LATER
You knew you’d hit rock bottom when you were desperate enough to accept a date with a man for money.
Actually, I had no interest in money per se. But medicine, chicken noodle soup, saltines, maybe a bottle of Sprite, and a box of Kleenexes. Now that would be heaven right about now. And since a person typically needed money to procure such things, I was prepared to do what I had to do for the cash that could get them for me. So here I was, approaching the ritzy side of town on foot after nine on a Saturday night. During Halloween.
“Hey, lady! You got any candy?”
Slowing to a stop as two pint-sized humans raced up to me—one dressed as Iron Man, the other Captain America—I deflated, realizing Miguel was totally missing out on trick-or-treating tonight. Not that we’d made him the best costume, though it had taken forever to cut up cardboard boxes, then tape them back together, and cover them in aluminum foil to make the robot he had planned to be. I just hated that having the flu was making him miss out on the opportunity to get out and be a kid. He didn’t deserve that. Poor guy already had enough on his plate.
What’s more, the boys gazing up at me expectantly didn’t need any candy; the buckets they were toting were already overflowing. But telling them to get lost felt a little rude, even for my taste. So I sighed impatiently and paused to open the purse I had dangling over my shoulder.
“Just a sec. Let me check my stash—Aha.” I found an open pack of gum with three pieces left. Extracting two, I held out one in each hand to disperse them equally. “And they’re orange flavored, huh,” I said, wiggling my eyebrows to make my gift look more appealing than we all knew it was. “The best.”
The two boys exchanged incredulous glances, then turned back to me. “Gee, thanks, ya lousy cheapskate,” one said, before they both reached out, snagged their one piece of gum each and tossed their booty into their crowded buckets before they took off, racing away from me, already intent to harass—er, find—another willing sucker to give them stuff.
I stared after them and shook my head sadly. They were going to grow up to be such male chauvinist little assholes, I could already tell. It was a shame, really. They’d been total cuties, too.
“Hey, happy Halloween, you guys,” I called, unable to help myself when I snidely added, “Don’t choke on a Kit Kat and die or anything.”
They didn’t even bother to turn around as they flipped me off over their shoulders.
Yep, I’d totally called it. Assholes in training.
“Well, bless their hearts,” I murmured, turning away and starting back up the sidewalk.
That had become my go-to expression lately because this new girl at the café, Mary Louellen, who’d started last month bussing tables on many of the same shifts that I waitressed, said it so often. She came from the South and had a thick-ass accent to prove it. It hadn’t taken me long to realize her “bless your heart” phrase was really secret code for “go fuck yourself.” Adoring that, I had adopted the saying for myself as a way to clean up my own language a little. Plus it was kind of fun to toss around, especially because so many people in these parts actually thought I was being nice to them when I said it.
Yeah, I was wicked; it was awesome.
And now I was about to turn into a hooker, selling my body for a couple bottles of pain relievers. Or did that make a girl a crack whore? Sex for drugs?
Oh well. It was worth it to help Miguel.
Not that I was actually going to sleep with Diego, mind you, because eww, gag me.
But he’d been begging nonstop for a date for going on four weeks now. I figured it wouldn’t kill me to finally accept, once, then try to be present and amiable during my time with him, then maybe allow him a goodnight kiss. Maybe. But that was it; definitely no second-base action. From my limited knowledge of him, he seemed a bit too slimy and grope-y and totally not respectable-to-women enough to go too far with. Honestly, I didn’t want to go anywhere with him, but to help relieve my little brother through his flu symptoms, I’d deal.
I’d already tried to beg my neighbors for a small loan or Tylenol, knocking on door after door in my building. But being Halloween, they were closed up tighter than Fort Knox tonight. Even bleeding-heart Kaitlynn up on the fourth floor hadn’t answered my call. I guess people expected more tricks than treats in our neighborhood on All Saints’ Eve.
It was just as well Miguel hadn’t been well enough to go out in his costume. He wouldn’t have gotten shit for candy. And he wouldn’t have been able to eat most of it either, what with his diabetes. But it had been the principle of the matter. I hadn’t wanted him to feel left out or not normal.
I checked the street numbers as I approached an intersection and had to wait at a red light. Four blocks left to come up with a smooth way to ask Diego for money, you know, after accepting that date with him. Not a lot of cash, just a small loan I planned to pay back with interest as soon as I got paid next Friday. Maybe forty, fifty bucks tops, would get me what I needed. That was all.
He’d never miss it. I mean, the guy had to pay twice that amount for each bouquet of flowers he constantly brought to the café and gave me. This would be nothing for him.
That wouldn’t make me too awful, would it? I mean, it was for my sick brother, which I wasn’t going to tell him about. Who would agree to date a chick who’d been exposed to the flu? And I mean exposed, as in Miguel had coughed on me, sneezed on me, and cuddled up in his bed flush against me while he’d had the chills. I was very likely a walking time bomb of sick right about now. I mean, probably not. My immune system was actually awesome. But still, probably best not to mention any kind of sickness to Diego.
None of this really helped ease my conscience, however, even though the dude could obviously afford to part with a bit of cash, because seriously, those roses he bought at least once a week to give me were first class. And he was constantly bragging about the posh condo he lived in, as well as how pleased he was about his exploding filmmaking career.
It was kind of eye-roll worthy how thick he laid it on to impress me. I’d never had any plans to actually fall for his lame advances, but here I was, a block from the Preston Estates building, to finally say yes, I would choke up my pride and [love to] go out with you.
Preston Estates loomed above the other condos around it, newer and grander, like some kind of modern, pompous highbrow. If I were in any other frame of mind, I would’ve snorted over the white-stoned opulence with gold-framed windows and doors, and I would’ve muttered compensating much? As it were, a little jump of anxiety leapt in my stomach. Nerves, I realized. I was freaking, fracking nervous. About talking to that ass.
