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I fumble with the key, managing to drop it not once but twice before finally managing to get the door open, glancing over to find him watching me in the corridor as I usher my friends in, closing the door behind me.
“God hates me,” I decide as my back hits the door.
“Holy shit, is that the man you juiced?” exclaims Yoshi, taking his light cream jacket off.
“The very same,” sings Fran.
I plonk my bag onto the floor and head to the plastic tub inside the sink in which is languishing the remnants of what was once a very refined piece of cotton.
“Is Rami here?” asks Yoshi.
“No. She’s on a date with some dancer chick from her self-defense class. I don’t think she’s coming back tonight.”
I begin to rinse, pulling the shirt out and locating the front. “Fuuccckkk. The stain’s still urine yellow. And I scrubbed it for about half an hour today.”
“Oh well, you’ll just have to go explain it to him tomorrow,” suggests Fran, her tone very naughty indeed.
“Yeah, you owe him a shirt, girl,” adds Yoshi.
“God, don’t say it,” I grumble. “I made the mistake of looking up the cost of this brand of shirt. It’s literally half a month’s fucking rent for me.”
“Maybe he’ll take alternative payment methods?” sniggers Yoshi.
“Yesss,” hisses Fran.
“Shut up, you two,” I moan. “Oh God, I feel like I owe him now. I hate that.”
* * *
The next morning, I stare at the shirt as I ready myself to give it to him, hoping he’s not at home so I can leave him a note.
Twenty dollars’ worth of stain-removal products and half an hour of scrubbing it with bicarbonate of soda upon my soul mom Marilla’s recommendation and all I’ve got to show for it is a very sore arm and the cotton now fraying slightly around the jaundicey splotches on what once passed for a shirt.
“Listen, do you want to pay him five hundred dollars?” Fran chides as she snatches my T-shirt from me for the third time.
She’s refusing to let me put on a T-shirt over my long floral maxi dress with its swooping low-cut neckline which does magical things to the female body including making my tits look like two honeydew melons, according to my friend.
“I’d rather pay him the cash than debase myself like this. Anyway, Carrie’s giving me her full salary for replacing her at work while she’s gone. Three grand for just one week. If I have to give up five hundred of it just to hold onto my dignity, that’s fine by me.”
Fran cocks an eyebrow. “Who are you kidding? That man’s most highly experienced dick knows full well it’s not gonna get any if he makes you pay. He won’t take your money.”
“Jesus, you need to stop working at that fucking sports bar,” I moan. “You sound just like the drunken hard-ons I've seen in there.”
“I’m telling you,” she grins.
“Okay, then why theFuck-medress?”
She grabs his freshly washed, dried and pointlessly ironed shirt which I neatly folded after multiple attempts and shoves it into my hand.
“Get your little ass out there and give the man his shirt.”
She unlocks the door and practically throws me out, poking her head out of the door as I walk over to Greyson’s apartment with his defiled shirt in my hand, hoping he’s not at home so I can leave a note.
As I approach, I notice three cameras—one attached to the corner where the ceiling meets the walls, another just above the doorframe above a tiny doorbell camera to my right.
Why the hell does he have three cameras? Paranoid, much?
I glance over at Fran whose hazel eyes are widening from ridiculous levels of glee as she watches the show. I shoo her back inside, a plea she ignores as goosebumps prickle up the bare skin of my arm and upper back under the sudden sensation that I’m being watched.
