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I grab onto the electrical conduit to stable myself as I climb off the “bed”. Who knew that my old hiding place in Loughton House would come in so handy? The storage closet is less closet and more dusty, forgotten storage room. Filled with furniture that hasn’t been used in decades, the only real purpose for it is being the main hub for the electrical system. There was extra space, so they stuffed old tables and chairs in it, all of which are forgotten about until an electrician needs to fix something.
It turns out that five hundred dollars does not actually buy a room and food for a week in New York City. Part of me wonders what my father expected me to do when I ran out of money. Did he want me to come crawling back in three days when I couldn’t get a hot meal? Or did he really want me sleeping on the street?
But it’s payday, and I’m ready for an actual bed tonight. Preferably one that I’m not paying for by the hour. This week has been a real eye-opener. Even though sleeping in a storage room isn’t the lifestyle of the rich and famous that I’m trying to escape, I could do with a bed. At least that’s what the knotted muscles in my back are screaming at me.
I’ve put a lot of thought into where I’ll move for the next three weeks, and the Atrium down the street is the only place that makes sense. I checked the prices on my phone, and it’s only two hundred a night for the cheapest room. That should be well within my budget. Their food is excellent, and not that expensive either.
My mouth waters as I think of having seared tuna on a bed of wild rice. Grilled asparagus on the side. A nice glass of Syrah since cheap Cab is terrible.
Good food and a real bed. That’s the dream right now. I look at my muddy reflection in the steel panel of the electrical box. I look rough. My shirt’s a disgrace with how many wrinkles cover it. My pants have survived a little better. My hair feels like I haven’t showered in a week even though it’s only been three days. Don’t even get me started on how badly I need to shave.
Truthfully, I don’t even care. I know I should. My father would be pissed if he saw me coming into the office looking like this. I can’t keep the grin off my face. Today’s payday. Today is when I get back to doing more than simply surviving.
I do my best to straighten my shirt and put on my tie. I signed up to be normal, and maybe by the end of the day, that’s the way I’ll feel. Normal. Not homeless and living in a storage room. That’s the price of an adventure, though, right? Sometimes, you have to walk through the mud to get to the destination.
And today’s destination will have a bed, a decent meal, and a glass of wine.
Twelve
ADDISON
It’s payday.My first paycheck from Loughton House. My first grownup paycheck ever. Granted, it barely covers the bills and food, but my budget is just about as perfected as anyone could do. Everything down to the penny is accounted for, and I’ll actually have extra.
Maybe I’ll take my new friends up on another karaoke night now that I’m building my savings up again. Or I could get that bookshelf. It’d be nice to see the worlds I’ve spent so much time in getting their fair share of my apartment space rather than relegated to a cardboard box like some kind of trash.
I glance back at Phillip again as he pulls his phone out of his pocket for the twenty-seventh time this morning. I’ve spent four days with that man in our cubicle, and other than the first day, I haven’t said a word to him.
Sera’s been a little more vocal around him, but I think it’s harder on her to be quiet than it is to blurt things out. I guess that’s the difference between an artist and an editor.
But I have been paying attention. It’d be impossible not to. That he’s obscenely gorgeous hasn’t changed. That jawline hasn’t gone away. The intensity of those eyes is still there.
At the same time, he’s different. He looks like someone threw a suit on a homeless guy who happens to have the body and face of a model. He looks… hungry? Is that a thing? That first day, he acted like he owned the place. His eyes took everything in like it belonged to him, like we were just borrowing it. But now he just stares blankly.
He hasn’t shaved, and the stubble has turned into a short beard. His hair is brushed, but not styled, and the difference between this and the night at the motel is drastic. His clothes are covered in wrinkles. Even the way he moves is wrong, like someone beat him up this morning.
What the hell has happened to him in the past three days?
Now, instead of paying attention to his work, one of the few things that hasn’t changed, he’s looking at his phone every five minutes.
Finally, it’s too much, and I turn all the way around to face him. “What are you doing on your phone? For the guy who expects everyone to sit down and work for eight hours a day, you sure seem distracted.”
Sera turns to me, eyes wide like I’m jabbing a bear with a stick. Maybe I am. Maybe I should just ignore the crazy boss and hope he doesn’t decide to eat me. But for all the survival instincts I’ve picked up over the years, the one that never stuck was ignoring things.
He glances at his phone again before turning to me, his chair bumping wildly as he moves it over the rough carpet. “When do we get paid?” he finally asks.
“I got paid before I got up this morning. Why? Worried you won’t be able to afford a new house this afternoon?”
He frowns and looks at his phone again. “We don’t get a second payment or something?”
I chuckle and shake my head. “Nope. Wait, when did the owner of the company start worrying about his paycheck? I didn’t think billionaires even got paychecks. Don’t you just have a vault like Scrooge McDuck? On that note, does it hurt diving into a pool filled with gold coins? I’ve always wondered that.”
He glares at me and looks down at his phone again. For a few seconds, Sera and I just watch as he shakes his head back and forth. Finally, he looks up, and it’s like all the color’s gone from him.
“I can’t sleep on tables anymore,” he whispers, his gaze not meeting mine or Sera’s. He’s looking past us like we aren’t even there. “How does anyone survive like this?”
Sleeping on tables?What? “Phillip,” I say a little louder than normal, and he snaps back. “What’s going on, Phillip? Why are you sleeping on tables?”
He shakes his head slowly again, and his mouth opens, but then it closes again. And then I recognize the look on his face. It’s the same one I saw on my mother’s face so many times as a child.
