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“We come bearing gifts!” Resa holds up a container of bruschetta and a loaf of pre-sliced Italian bread. Behind her, Zander dips his head in greeting and raises a six-pack of Sierra Nevadas. His hand behind his back moves and reveals a bag of limited-edition flavored Skittles.
“Contraband!” I squeal like a hyper teen, but quickly cover my mouth, making my giggles sound demonic. “You show Claire and I’ll kick your ass!” I whisper-yell.
“You owe me.”
I move to the side to let them through the door, cradling the bag of Skittles to my chest.
“So glad you two could make it! We have just fifteen minutes until the drama starts!”
Zander glances around the living room; not much has changed since he was last here back in May. “Let me see your laptop, Ang,” he replies casually. “I’m sure the ad gave you absolutely no choice but to click on the words ‘click here to claim your prize.’” His even monotone is perfectly implemented with just the right timbre to be laughable. Zander is one of those people that you can’t help but feel good when you’re around him.
“Oh, come on!” I slap his arm. “I know better than to click on things. Give me some credit.”
Claire bursts through the living room, causing us to stop our teasing. “Show’s about to start! Everyone sit.” She turns on the flat-screen television, which was a gift from the ex-boyfriend. We often refer to it as collateral for fucking up.
Blake brings in a tray of fruity drinks, setting it down on the coffee table for us all to enjoy. The melon, strawberry, and pineapple garnish are details I definitely would have overlooked in the preparation.
Beside Zander’s feet, I slump down on the floor as he rests above me.
“Sit here instead,” he says, attempting to get up.
“No, it’s fine. I’m comfy here,” I say with a smile.
He finds my laptop on the end table and gets to work trying to decide whether I have a virus or not. Discreetly, he sneaks me a small handful of candies from the hidden bag that is stuck between the armrest and seat cushion.
The show starts, as we all settle into our Monday night ritual. It feels good to be back in a routine after the unpredictable day I’ve had. There’s something calming about hanging around people who can make you smile.
Once the show ends, everyone leaves. I put the last dish away, wipe the counters, and discard the Clorox wipe. The entire island is clean and back to its happy state. I make my way up to my bedroom. I need to sleep to be ready for my nine o’clock class. But I catch sight of the file on my bed.
Just read it.
I head into the bathroom and do the routine—wash face, tame hair, and brush teeth. There’s a joy to lounging around in sweats on a chilly night. Back in the bedroom, I flop down on the full-sized mattress and pull the quilt up to my chest.
My phone buzzes, causing me to jump. I unplug it from the charger and check to see the number is one I do not recognize. Hmm.
Unknown: Thinking about our meeting today. Would love for you to join the agency. No pressure. :) Dominic
I smile at the message and save his contact information into my phone. I close my eyes and quiet my brain, squeezing the unopened file to my chest. I visualize what working for the agency might entail, including the whole dynamic of having such an attractive boss.
From everything that Claire had expressed on the ride to and from the city, the money is good. The clientele seem to just want the arm candy. The hours are flexible.
Making slightly over minimum wage at the bakery for the past three years didn’t keep me from falling into debt. My priority is to find a job. However, if my job involves spreading my legs to the highest bidder, then I am not interested. I would rather have collectors come knocking at my door than to have to submit myself to a lifestyle where money can buy everything.
I am not for sale.
* * *
I wake with a start. Sweat beads on my forehead as my breath chants in a shaky rhythm. My throat is sore, and I wonder if I screamed the house down.
Again.
My shoulder throbs.
I need to do my stretches again.
I need to go back to the doctor.
The lamp is still on and the clock reads 2:36 a.m. I must have dozed off. I press my palms into my eyelids and rub. The flashes are becoming more frequent. They feel more real and less like a figment of my imagination. I glance around the room, trying to catch my mind up with reality.
