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“When have you been about money, Angie? This doesn’t make any sense.”
He’s right. Money is just for survival. I am not an extravagant person. “And it’s about potentially lining myself up with someone who might be able to further my career. Whether it be connections or research. I am grasping at straws, I know. But this is my last chance to be an investigative journalist. And not settle. I’m desperate.”
“Will you show me the texts? Maybe I can try to trace the phone numbers.”
“I’ll email you the screenshots of the texts and the phone numbers. But I think the sender is using burner phones.”
“Or they may be setting up a proxy or using an offshore IP address to conceal their location.”
“Based on the actual messages, the person is local.”
“Well, I’ll see what I can do. But in the meantime, I’m worried about you. What are you going to do?”
I stare down at my need-to-be-polished fingernails. “Keep doing what I always do. Keep on keeping on.”
Zander gives me a sad smile.
When I arrive back at home, I run up the stairs and change into sweats. For dinner, I pull out a frozen single-person entrée from the bottom back of the freezer. If Claire was home to witness this, I would hear about sodium content and the harmful effects of high fructose corn syrup. If her research on microwaving plastic—regardless of whether it’s bpa free or not—is completed, I would probably be hearing about that as well. I still count to three before opening the door. Just for superstition’s sake. Apparently having a plastic tray and cardboard box that can be recycled is not sufficient enough to keep me from exposing my food, unprotected, in our shared freezer. After the soy incident, I tread—and hide—carefully.
How does the saying go? Scold me once, shame on me…scold me twice…then, I’m an idiot.
Regardless, I miss her lurking around the townhouse, ready to pounce.
After dinner, I pull open my recorded video from lunch and get to work at trying to decode the conversation Mark was trying desperately to hide. From my memory of certain recognizable Spanish words, I am able to discover that Mark and his associates have a product to move. And that Paul is helping. The part of the conversation that has me the most intrigued is the part where Mark talked about ears.
* * *
It’s funny how the mind works. Just when I think I am drifting off to a peaceful slumber, my thoughts pull at me, anchoring my conscious mind back to stable grounds of reality. All I really want to do is fall. I roll on my bed, pulling my legs up and to the side in a fetal position. I wrap my arms around the comforter, pulling it up and under, preventing air from getting under it.
I think about the past few weeks and all of the changes I have had to endure. Despite the new added levels of stress pressing on my shoulders—keeping me from much-needed rest—I have a renewed strength that I didn’t have before. Tomorrow, I plan to show Graham that I am an independent woman that he cannot push around with his demands and attempts at control.
Just thinking about the different layers of Graham is enough overload to cause any brain to act wayward. The man can turn on the sex appeal like no one else I have ever met. He can be soft and tender at the right times. What irks me the most is when he calls me sweetheart—an endearment that no one has used on me before—and melts the ice from my heart and my panties right off my behind. He makes me feel things with just his words alone. That is something I never felt before, even when the physical stimulation was done. With Graham, it is just…
Easy.
The bad thing about the whole situation is that I want him. I do. But I can’t have him the way he wants me. He is a roadblock keeping me from what I need to do. I just can’t figure him out. Why is he the way he is with his possessiveness, strong opinions, and overpowering personality? He makes it his mission to be secretive, and I find myself wanting to do the same. I catch him bringing out the best and the worst in me, often at the same time. That’s what truly scares me and the main reason why I need to put my foot down when it comes to tampering with my job. I need to solve my own problems because in the end, I can only rely on myself.
25
I wake up the next morning with a wet pillow, wet hair, and a wet shirt. I roll out of bed and hobble to the bathroom to see the bloodshot eyes staring back at me with confusion and pity. I do my morning routine and get dressed.
I make my way downstairs to force myself to eat a granola bar and drink a mug of tea to keep my nerves at bay. Today, I meet with Entice Escort Agency’s Human Resources department and go head-to-head with Graham. I have no idea what to expect as far as his reaction and behavior and can’t help but feel guilty with mixed emotions of my own. I need daters to have access to my profile. I need to continue to see Mark so I can see what he is hiding. I need Mark to choose me to escort him—even if his motivation is just to piss off Graham. If he doesn’t want me, then I cannot easily uncover what he is trying to hide. My future career depends on it, and I put the only eggs I have in that basket. I need to find out who keeps texting me. Maybe if I date enough people, I will be able to find out who he is. But at what cost?
So Graham and I are at an impasse.
I finish my granola bar and debate whether or not to spike my tea.
I distract myself by organizing the stack of mail that rests on the island. Claire must have brought it in before leaving for her trip, taking all of hers out. I order the pile from least-important-looking to most-important-looking and start opening. I scoff at how much paper is wasted in sending out garbage to residents. Apparently, the whole Go Green initiative only applies to some businesses, while others still find that postal mail is their best way of advertising.
I blindly throw away three real estate fliers. I actually receive four credit card applications—which I find hilarious that I would even be offered them in the first place with my credit score. Nope, having three almost maxed-out cards is enough for me to attempt to manage. I slow down through the rest of the weeding, opening an official envelope with an embossed logo informing me that they got my application and are grateful for my interest in their Los Angeles facility. I scan the rest of the document and then settle my eyes on the expected recipient’s name. Claire Nettles.
I stare in confusion at the words, like a mental patient. It takes me several seconds to comprehend that Claire must have missed this envelope while she was taking her mail out of the stack. I spend the next few minutes reading the entire document—overcoming the feeling of guilt for violating her privacy—to understand that she applied for the same internship that she has in the past. Only this time, it appears to be a more permanent position, not just a summer thing. I quickly unclench my fingers, before I completely destroy the piece of paper.
Calm down, Angie. It’s not like she got accepted or like she has made up her mind either way. I can’t help but feel like someone has pulled the rug out from under me. The oxygen in the room feels thicker. Claire never mentioned having a desire to go back to California to work. I mean, I knew she had a great experience and did a great job there, but I thought she was happy here.
My fears are irrational. We are both going to graduate. We can’t stay roommates forever. Not everything can stay the same.
I scoot down from the stool and make a beeline for the fridge to grab my emergency stash of pastries I picked up from the coffee shop. I select a cinnamon roll and a danish. I feel like making bad decisions, when inevitably I will experience bad outcomes. Seems fitting. I lick the icing off the cinnamon roll and then chow down on the rest. The sugar rush will make things temporarily better—despite being short-lived.
