CALLAN (THE BARD DYNASTY #1)

Chapter 1

1

M ACKENZIE

“Take a look for yourself. Doesn’t it look nice?” I ask, walking around my studio apartment and holding the camera up for Kayla, my best friend, to check the Christmas decorations I spread around the walls, across the window sills, and over the furniture—wreaths, garlands, pinecones, fairy lights, candle glass holders, embroidered pillows, soft blankets, and red faux Eucalyptus stems.

“Oh… It looks pretty.”

“It better do. I spent my last paycheck on this and my time this weekend to make it look nice.”

A moment of silence drifts away before she speaks again.

“Don’t worry,” she says as if aware of my thoughts and the bleary uncertainty gripping my heart. “They’ll call you soon,” she goes on. “You’ll get a second interview. There’s no way they wouldn’t call you.” A short pause follows before she utters words again. “I see a job offer in your future, Kenzie. It will happen for sure at the beginning of January.”

Her last words beam with humor, a soft attempt to lighten the mood as the grayish afternoon blends into the early winter evening.

She truly wants to lift my spirits.

What can I say?

It’s never fun when you have no money left for your living expenses.

New York has never been cheap, and living paycheck to paycheck, as difficult as it can be, is nothing compared to trying to pay your bills when you don’t have a job.

I lost my last job overnight.

No one anticipated the layoffs.

Regardless of how much time we wasted chatting about stupid stuff around the water cooler, the topic never came up.

The hammer dropped on a rainy Monday morning.

We cleared off our desks and headed out with the promise that our last paychecks would be mailed to the last known address.

That happened a month ago.

My monthly bills have drained my bank account since then, and I’m hoping to get a job as quickly as possible to stay afloat.

Trying not to think about it, I spin around, hug my robe closer, and curl up on the sofa while setting the phone next to me so I can see her.

“At the beginning of January? Why can’t they do it now?” I ask, counting the days in my head.

I need a job right now.I know we’re in the middle of the holiday season, but people still need to eat and buy warm clothing.

I know I do.

“These people––the corporations, I mean––have no reason to hire in December. There’s no urgency to them, so it makes no sense.”

I give her a soft smile.

“It’d make a lot of sense to me, though,” I say, being the proud owner of two maxed-out credit cards.

“I know. I know…” she says, genuine sympathy flashing through her eyes.

I feel bad about discussing this with her every time she calls me, but it’s impossible not to think about it.

Let’s say this year hasn’t been my best.

It’s been exactly twelve months since I broke up with Quinn, and things have only gone downhill.

I changed jobs twice, lived off my unemployment benefits in the summer––which was the worst since I was stuck at home and worked the phones to get a job interview––and had to downsize from a nice two bedroom apartment in the Bronx to a roomy one bedroom apartment in a three story building here in Brooklyn.

It’s a recently remodeled building with a fancy access control system, balconies, and a well-kept park a few blocks away.

Having a car is optional, which is great.

I can walk to the store, and take the bus or subway to work in Manhattan if I ever get a job, and use a cab for everything else.

Little things, big steps.

This place costs less, and by not needing a car, I can save up some money when I start working.

Throughout the year, my finances have dwindled, and my self-worth has taken a hit, my personal life becoming a dumpster fire.

My love life hasn’t been any better.

It annoyed the hell out of me that Quinn cheated on me with a coworker at the Christmas party last year and then had the nerve to blame it on me.I didn’t ask him to chat her up and fuck her in the bathroom.

I also didn’t ask him to meet up with her several times before I finally caught them in the act and broke up with him.

The few times I went on dates this year ended in disaster.

A jock, a teacher, and a painter were the bane of my existence.

Yeah. That’s right.

We didn’t make it to bed for a variety of reasons.

Sex was everything the jock was talking about, yet it never happened.

And sex was the last thing on the teacher’s mind.

The painter had a few random thoughts about it but he got easily distracted by his canvas, easel and too many painting brushes.

So, I’m in debt up to my eyeballs.

I’ve had no man in my bed for almost a year.

And I’m waiting for some company to get back to me and let me know if I’ll be able to pay my bills next month.

“How are things with you?” I ask as she tips her eyes down as if peering at something.

She flicks her eyes up.

“Things are okay,” she says. “I’m hoping to receive a Christmas bonus this year.” She makes a face at me, amused. "What can I say? I’ve spent it already,” she says, a smile glinting briefly across her lips before her eyes evade mine again. “I ran into Quinn,” she adds, staring down again, a concerned look darkening her expression–– as if telling me about him is a hurdle for her.

“Quinn??” I blurt out.

She lifts her gaze and stares at me.

“Why is that even news?” I go on.

A faint smile tinged with resentment claims her lips.

“He got married,” she says dryly.

It’s good that I’m sitting on the sofa, or I’d probably need to take a seat just about now.

Why is that even important?

“Please don’t tell me it’s the same woman,” I say.

Unfortunately, she has her eyes on me for too long not to grasp that it’s the same woman.

“I’ll be damned,” I mutter. “I thought they broke up after I broke up with him.”

“I think they did,” she says, knowing more than I do.

She’s still drawing a paycheck from where I used to work.

I got canned because the marketing department shrunk. She stayed because everybody needs accountants.

I’m convinced she’s picked the better career path.

“Is she still working there?”

“She left in July. And I think she’s pregnant.”

The room is briefly quiet before I reply.

“Good for them,” I say, talking like I have a plum stuck in my throat. I ponder for a moment, not looking at her. “Yeah. Good for them. That wasn’t my plan–– or our plans , for that matter––anyway.”

It wasn’t.

I mean, I didn’t want to do it with him.It’s never crossed my mind.

We lived together for a while, and he was a mess to the point that I couldn’t trust him with anything.

“Maybe he’s changed,” I murmur, thinking out loud.

She knows our story, and there’s no point in retelling the same old, same old cringy tale.

He was the classic boyfriend I didn’t want to settle down with. And yet, him settling down with someone else rubs me the wrong way.

“You know what? I don’t want to talk about him. I think I need a cup of tea.”

Frankly, I need a double scotch, neat, and then the rest of the bottle, but that’s another story.

“Do you have any plans for Christmas?” I ask, picking up the phone and heading to the open layout kitchen where I turn the stove on, and fill the kettle before putting it on.

We keep talking while I wait for the water to come to a boil and slide a tea bag into one of the red mugs I bought for Christmas.

How ironic.

I wanted this to be the best time of the year for me despite being unemployed, having no money in my bank account, and not being very successful at dating.

It doesn’t take long before a peal of laughter from upstairs shatters our silence.

The ceiling quivers, threatening to split open, while a shiver races down my spine.

Kayla notices the direction of my gaze.

I bet she’s heard the thumping, the rushed feet, the shrill in the woman’s voice, and the troubling noise of slammed doors coming from upstairs.

“They’re fucking again,” I say under my breath before turning off the oven, picking up the kettle, and pouring hot water over the tea bag.

“Are they for real?”

“Yup.”

I put the kettle back on the stove, and set the mug, a plate of almond cookies, a honey jar, and a teaspoon on a tray before taking everything to the coffee table in the living room.

The noise continues, and it’s comical and annoying at the same time.

It’s like they’re doing acrobatics up there.

I say ‘they' because I’m convinced it’s my neighbor and her new man.

I may have seen her more than once these past few weeks since I’ve lived here.

A pretty brunette with a tiny waist, appetizing curves, and eyes made of fire. She could sell that shade of fiery crimson she’s wearing on her lips to a congress of nuns.

It looks good on her.

She has sass and wears skintight clothes and fuck me heels even when she strolls down the icy sidewalks.

She likes to fuck, and makes no secret about it.

I wouldn’t say no to some bedroom activities, but I try to control my needs by keeping myself busy with decorating my place.

“Are they really getting it on?” Kayla asks, her eyes wide with questions.

I study her expression from behind the rim of my mug.

“Do you think they’re doing something else?”

I sip and quickly wince as the hot liquid scalds my mouth.

“Fuck,” I murmur, putting my drink down and grabbing an almond cookie. “They’re getting it on like clockwork. He comes in the evenings. Sometimes later than that. At around midnight. Maybe he’s working late. Who knows? Or maybe she’s not available. I don’t know what their deal is.”

Sagging back, I chew pensively on my cookie.

“Are they living together?” she asks.

A smile tugs at my lips.

“You’d think, right? But no. They have sex. That’s it. They’ve been hooking up since I moved here. Sometimes it’s quiet in the evenings. Maybe she’s going to his place. I don’t know. Most of the time, they’re doing it here. Just wait,” I say, flicking my forefinger up.

It’s like witnessing a ceremony of sorts.

It doesn’t take long, and their playful foreplay is replaced by silence.

“He’s kissing her or peeling her clothes off,” I mumble while her mouth falls open, a crooked smile dangling from her lips.

“You’re good at this,” she says in admiration.

“I’m just an unemployed girl waiting for a phone call. I have nothing else to do. Listen…” I say, already hearing the woman’s moans ringing through the walls.

I hate this moment.

They barely register with Kayla before my neighbor starts singsonging, her crying moans louder and louder.

“She’s quick too,” she says, nodding in awe. “He must be some kind of wizard.”

“A wizard he is. Hopefully he’s insured his wand or he’ll end up with some worn out stale baguette.”

We both laugh, but our laughter is not loud enough to cover the noise booming upstairs.

And then… My finger goes up again.

“And here comes the banging,” I murmur and barely finish saying that, and the ominous thuds upstairs make the entire building shake––in my opinion, anyway, since I have a flair for dramatic narratives.

“Oh, my,” she says. “Color me impressed … That’s some real banging,” she adds while I nod in agreement.

It feels like an earthquake.

My tea trembles in the mug and the wall art print of a woman sitting in a poppy field tilts to the side, no longer hanging straight.

“Have you seen this man?”

“Nope. But I’ve heard plenty from him. I don’t know what he does to her, but she comes like it’s nobody’s business, and he plunges into her like he’s about to kill her.”

“Man, I’d love some of that action.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Hmm…” she pushes out, suddenly irritated. “What’s wrong with men these days?”

“Are you talking about someone in particular? Is this about my experience or yours?”

“Mine, yours, who cares? Have you had an experience like that?”

“In my dreams, maybe. Not even then.”

I pretend to sift through my memories as if there was a point in doing that.

“No. For sure, no,” I say seriously. “Although there have been some failed attempts on their part. No,” I say again in a clipped voice, changing my mind, and this time, gesturing. “We’ve never struggled with this kind of passion,” I joke.

“Do you think it’s about the passion?’

“What else?”

I start to wonder now myself.

My neighbor’s moans climb a steep slope before morphing into some kind of final triumphant screech as if he’s slid a dagger through her heart.

“That was impressive,” she says as I look at the view outside, searching for better entertainment.

Soft snowflakes fall from the sky while the night creeps in.

“It’s not over,” I announce, glancing at her and garnering a stunned look from her.

She gestures at me.

“I can’t take it anymore,” she says. “How can you put yourself through that kind of torture?”

“Do I have a choice? I live here.”

A flicker of compassion beams across her face while she quietly sighs.

“I’m sure he’s a nasty looking motherfucker,” she says to ease my pain.

I chuckle in response.

“You think?”

“Yeah. I’m sure of that,” she says with humor. “I bet he looks like our math teacher. Do you remember him?”

Oh, our math teacher.

Of course I do. Mathias Bong.He was a heartthrob.

Despite his average looks, no one could hold a candle to him.

He wasn’t only good at math.

He had a way of spinning words, and women his age dug that a lot while we, his female students, obsessed over bad boys who skipped classes and fucked older women, not giving us the time of day.

And we surely stayed away from the nerds, the boys who couldn’t hit a ball or kiss our breaths away to save their lives.

We had a type.

That was then.

And now it’s not much different.

But no one gives a shit about our type. It’s ' an all you can grab while it lasts’ kind of event now.

Look at me.

I didn’t pay attention, and someone moved—actually grabbed––my cheese, aka Quinn Scott.

Kayla pays more attention to these things, but her boyfriend of two years is not ready for a long-term relationship, so she’s stuck.

It is as if two years is not a long-term commitment already.

Sometimes, it’s them.

Sometimes, it’s us.

Either way, we’re not Olympians like the woman upstairs having sex like it’s an Olympic sport.

And neither are we shopping for nurseries or subscribing to wedding cake catalogs.

I’m not even in the game, being unemployed and all.

I mostly make love to my utility bills and hope for payment plans in return.

“Yeah, yeah. I remember Mr. Hit the Bullseye, ” I say.

He was short, bulky, and had a head of unruly hair.

Whenever he set his eyes on a lady, he scored points with her like it was a contest.

“He got married,” she says.

“Him too?”

“Everybody, it seems.”

She chuckles while the shuffling restarts upstairs.

Her smile drops, her mood changing.

“What are they actually doing?”

“I think they’re role playing.”

“Role playing? Is he the lion chasing the gazelle? What kind of role playing is that? It’s like they’re moving the furniture around.”

I shrug.

“They might be doing that, too,” I say absently, no longer paying attention to the noise, not even caring whether I’m the only person in the building concerned with their activities.

They are about to go through another round of sex when, unexpectedly, their dynamic changes.