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Cursing, I snatch it from the nightstand and look at the screen.
It’s Art, but why is he calling at such an obscenely early hour?
Begrudgingly, I accept the call. “Do you know what time it is?”
He chuckles. “10 a.m.?”
“Yeah. Exactly. Let me call you back after I wake up.” I hang up.
Someone knocks on the garage door that also serves as my wall.
What the fuck?
“Open up,” Art’s voice says through the door/wall. “I’ve got people with me who get paid by the hour.”
He what?
I leap off the bed and dress as quickly as I can.
Sticking my nose filters into place, I open my door/wall.
Outside is Art with a bunch of buff dudes.
Hold up. Is this some kind of orgy fantasy dream?
No. Dream Art doesn’t share me with anyone. This must be reality. But then what the—
“Sorry to barge in on you,” Art says. “I called several times.”
“What is going on?” I ask, making it a point to stay far away from everyone on account of not having brushed my teeth yet.
“I got us a place,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and not a bombshell of nuclear proportions. “These guys are the movers I hired.”
