7. Sienna
7
SIENNA
A nd it’s a challenge that gets harder and harder to decline, but I know that nothing good can come from working for this maniac. It will be better to just get another job working for some slightly less insane maniac.
“You already said $3000 earlier. I think your next offer should be $4000.”
“Alright,” he answers. “$4000.”
I look at his stupid face, with his stupid stubble, and stupid eyes, and let my brain run wild for a moment. I imagine what it would be like to repeat what we did at the airport, what it would feel like to scratch not only his back but every other part of his body, what it would do to me to let him take charge for a little while, to let him rip apart those panties that he was staring at earlier.
Then I pull the ripcord and get up. “Yep, that’s my cue. Another beer or two and I might start doing things I’d regret later. Like continue talking to you, or accepting all that billionaire-blood-money.” Or making out with those stupid lips.
Ryker huffs through his nose once, then gets up from the bar stool too. “Very well, Miss de la Vega.” His oversized frame positioned in my way, he leans over, lets one finger slowly trace down my cheek, and growls in my ear, “You can run for now, but don’t think you’re getting away that easily. I will get what I want eventually.”
His hand drops as I walk away and his words send shivers up my back, all the way to my burning ears. Leave it to Ryker F.(ucking) Grayson to make a threat sound so seductive. Since my plane back home is departing tomorrow, I doubt he’ll have much time for his revenge, but I appreciate the thought nonetheless. It’s something that would cross my mind as well, so I can hardly fault him for it.
Maybe it’s the fact that my best friend is doing all these grown-up things, like getting married and running her own publishing company, while I am eternally single and have to look for a new job again, or maybe it’s the fact that I am not entirely certain what I am doing with my life in general, but that evening, I go to bed feeling as if something is about to change. As if I am on the brink of something new, something… odd. Something that I am not sure I am ready for.
Maybe that is why I have the hardest time falling asleep. Usually, all it takes for me to go off to slumberland is a pillow and closed eyes, but now that pillow is teasing me from underneath, reminding me of Pillow Fight Club and his grouchy face.
Stupid pillow with its stupidly pretty, stupidly rugged edges.
And when I wake the next day, I feel like those pillow fight fantasies weren’t fantasies at all. It’s as if I was beaten around all night long… in a surprisingly arousing way. Nonetheless, my body aches.
Reluctantly, I drag myself out of bed, to the bathroom, and down to breakfast. Afterwards, I pack my suitcase, stop by at the (possibly even more trashed) presidential suite (in which Olivia and Phoenix must have had a wild night), and then head to the airport. Everyone else is staying a couple of days longer. I was booked on a commercial flight back home, because my —now former— boss wouldn’t give me more days off. I guess I can use that time to look for a new job. The only good thing this morning is that I don’t run into Mr. Handsome Who Won’t Let Me Get Away That Easily. He is probably still lying in bed with whomever he managed to hypnotize last night after I left. Nausea spreads through my belly as the corresponding images appear before my eyes. That poor woman.
Two stop-overs, three fairly uneventful plane rides, and countless hours later, I find myself standing outside the huge building that I’ve been calling home for the last three years, give or take.
Once a towering monument to the glory of industry, the old factory building today houses a —at least at first glance— much more gentle population: senior citizens. The only thing that’s manufactured here now is gossip, STDs and delicious cookies; and the only smoke that’s rising up is the occasional cigar, forgotten candle, or burning cookies. The sound of hammers and drills has been replaced by the rustling of shuffleboard pucks and the clacking of mahjong tiles. Unfortunately, much like the inhabitants themselves, the building, too, has seen better days. At some point, the company that owns the complex had figured out that cutting costs by all means leads to higher revenue, which is why the walls inside are now a shade of beige that, instead of ‘eggshell white’, might as well be called ‘I give up on life’.
When Olivia, with whom I used to share an apartment, moved in with Phoenix, I moved into an apartment next to my grandma, who lived here until her death. Officially named Haven Lifespace Community, it was designed as a senior co-housing project by Harmony Incorporated. While it was nice living here to take care of my grandma in her old-age, costs were cut wherever possible and staff was let go whenever it suited them. Really, the only good thing the managing company did was to turn it from a senior co-housing project to an intergenerational co-housing project, which meant that a few of the apartments were reserved for younger inhabitants, which in turn was supposed to lead to a livelier community (and, for Harmony Inc., to more money due to a higher occupation rate).
“Welcome to the Hotel California,” a familiar old voice sings when I finally walk into the lobby.
Where other senior residencies, or retirement homes, might have a helpful receptionist, we have Mr. Paul Bearer, the soul and watchdog of Haven. Although, after his third hip surgery, he’s really more of a watchsloth. He helps out at reception in return for a reduced rent.
“Evening, Paul,” I say and stop at the counter. “Did you take your meds yet, and, more importantly, did you miss me?”
“I just did and that very much depends on what you brought me from your trip, my dear.” He smiles as wide as possible without running the danger of having his teeth fall out.
“I brought you my delightful presence…”
Paul looks at me stoically and slowly shakes his head.
“Aaand these authentic Polynesian peanuts.” I slide a bag of peanuts that they handed out on the plane over the counter.
“That’s the stuff,” he answers, quickly palms the little bag and looks around, I assume to make sure he isn’t surrounded by a hungry hoard of squirrels. “Guy told me to tell you to come and find him once you’re back. He didn’t say, but I think it’s about the secret stake-out that no one is supposed to know about.”
“Then how come you know about that, Mr. Bearer?” I twist the desk lamp to shine it in his face.
Paul laughs. “I have my eyes and ears, and artificial ears,” he taps his hearing aid, “everywhere. No one can keep a secret from me. You should know that, darling.” With the help of a handle that he screwed onto the desk for just this purpose, he pulls himself up from his chair, grabs his cane, and circles around the counter. “In fact, I believe there is something you’d like to share with me right now, isn’t there?”
In another life, Paul would have made a great Late Night Talk Show host. He has a knack for prying things out of people by being persistent, almost on the verge of being intrusive. He grabs hold of my arm and accompanies me to the elevator. “So?”
“Well,” I start, because I know I’ll have to give him something. The first thing that pops into my mind is a thought that I push away immediately, very far. No matter how good-looking of a thought it might be. I mentally cycle through the past three or four days. “Oh,” I exclaim when I think of something that doesn’t have a deceptively intriguing smile. “I got fired! Well, I quit. Same difference though.”
“Oh, boy.” The old man squeezes my hand, partly in sympathy, partly to steady himself. “I’m glad you sound this chipper at the prospect of not earning any money for the time being. I guess our society does care way too much about that sort of thing.”
Yeah… of course, that’s easier said when you don’t have to worry about money all that much.
“Well,” I answer, “the universe might not provide, but I will take care of it myself. Always have.”
“That’s the spirit!” Paul presses the elevator button. “Now you go recover from your trip, remember your stake-out, and we can talk about your other secret next time, alright?”
The elevator dings. Paul rolls my suitcase inside and waits to press the button to my floor. He grins as he watches me disappear in the stairwell to the right.
“The elevator can’t hurt you, you know?” he yells after me.
“Tell that to the twenty-seven people who get killed by elevators every year, Paul!” I shout back and take two stairs at once to get to my suitcase before it can go to a different floor.
My one-room apartment looks just the way I left it. Upon entering, the first thing one usually notices is the abundance of brightly colored throw pillows, covering every available surface. It's as if half the room is in a constant state of molting, shedding a rainbow of fluffy textures all over the place. There’s no other way to put it: it’s hideous. But the pillows are remnants of my late grandma who made all of them herself.
I added the life-sized cardboard cutout of Gordon Ramsey that I stole from an event once upon a time. There’s just something about that scowling face of his. He stands in the corner, silently judging my taste in decor, and, from time to time, my questionable cooking skills.
The bed takes up most of the space, but it's nestled in a corner with string lights draped overhead, creating a cozy ambiance that makes it really hard to get out of bed. A pile of books and a laptop sit on the nightstand, hinting at my insatiable thirst for knowledge and/or inability to say no to second-hand books at the flea-market (at least back when I still had money to spend).
It’s not organized, but it is clean. It’s also slightly too small, which really just makes it cozier. I put my suitcase in the corner to unpack later and take a quick shower. Then I consider taking a nap, but decide against it to swing by Paige and Guy Turner’s place. They live across the hall, and I really need to check up on them and my cat. The door flies open just when I’m about to knock.
“Sienna! So good to have you back, and impeccable timing too,” Guy says with excitement, and then hands me Chairman Meow, the cat Olivia and I have shared custody over. “We were just about to head out.”
“We’ve got some good intel that our mark is about to meet his mistress. You coming along, dear?” Paige echoes from inside the apartment, where keys and canes are clanking.
“What mark? What intel? What mistress?” I ask and greet my beloved cat, who seems woefully uninterested in my returning. “I told you not to do anything without me. You could get yourself in trouble. Remember the alpacas?”
Guy shakes his head with a little frown and puts a leash on the Chairman as I hold him. “We’re just going on a stake-out, and the only thing that’s dangerous about stake-outs is the risk of obesity.” He kicks the bag next to him, which, from the sound of it, is filled to the brim with snacks and candy and cans of lemonade.
“Plus, we do plenty of physical exercise ,” Paige adds with a wink as she appears behind her ex-husband and current roommate. “For preventative reasons. It’s good to stay active in old age, you know.”
The Chairman and I share a quick glance, and, after we have established that my 80-something-year-old neighbors are getting more action than I do, I quickly slip into my apartment, throw a few useful things in a bag, put on some thermal underwear and sweatpants, and head down to the garage where Earnest and Robyn are already waiting for us.
Over the last few days the weather has considerably improved, and it looks like winter is all but over. Summer may not be quite around the corner yet, but at least the snow seems to be done for now. Earnest dressed appropriately in a thick coat and deerstalker hat, while Robyn looks like the femme fatale that she, despite her somewhat advanced age, still is. Everything about her screams leading role in a thriller. It’s just not entirely clear whether she is the villain or the heroine.
All six of us, Paige and Guy, Robyn and Earnest, the Chairman and I, climb into the van that is usually used to drive people to and from the doctor, and we head out into the chill evening air.
My grandma and the four of them were inseparable when she was still alive, and they helped me a great deal following her death two years ago. Afterwards, it just sort of happened that I took over my grandma’s role in their little senior squad, though us having ‘intel’ about ‘marks’ is a somewhat recent development that I don’t fully agree with. I’d prefer for them to stick to baking cookies and losing at bingo, but that’s something those four are usually not all that interested in.
“So, can someone please tell me who ‘the mark’ is and why we have ‘intel’ about some ‘mistress’?” I ask, still more clueless than I’d like to be.
“Guy Ulysses Turner! Slow down! The streets could be slippery,” Paige berates our driver, who is probably going 10 mph under the speed limit with no actual chance of icy roads. She turns on the heater and swivels in the passenger seat to face the rest of us. “Earnest intercepted Dome’s messages. You know, the CEO of Harmony Inc., Dicky Dome? We are fairly certain he’s about to meet his mistress at some place called Whiskey Business. Hopefully, for some frisky time, which might give us the opportunity to take photographic evidence of their affair.”
So they’re planning on blackmailing the CEO of the company that owns our apartments?
“Do tell, Earny, how were you able to accomplish such a feat?” Robyn addresses Earnest, and pulls a small gun out of her bag, shakes it once, then stuffs it back.
“Data leak,” he answers matter of fact while keeping a straight face, as if pulling guns out of your purse is a perfectly normal thing to do. “The mistress uses the same password for everything. Took less than ten minutes to gain access.”
“Robyn,” I interject, “what the hell was that?”
“Oh, gosh, yes. Scary, isn’t it?” She turns to me with a sly gleam in her eyes. “Here, I got one for you too. It’s not loaded though.” She pulls out another gun and tosses it in my lap.
I shriek, carefully reach for the weapon, and, only after thorough inspection, realize that it’s a strikingly authentic-looking water gun. I take a deep breath and relax again. Usually, I’m not easily startled but I’m no fan of guns, though, I guess, I would have been even more freaked out by a big knife.
“Nifty, don’t you think?” Robyn asks excitedly. “I got a guy…”
“What was that?” Guy shouts from the front and adjusts the volume on his hearing aid.
“Not you!” Robyn answers. “I got a gun guy. Gun! Anyway,” she turns back to me, “you can use Earnest’s latrine bottle for ammunition.”
“Oh, thanks,” I answer and inspect the toy weapon in my hand. “I wasn’t really planning on, uh, pissing anyone off today, though.”
“It’s merely a safety precaution,” Robyn explains sagely. “You always say we’re being too reckless.”
It’s true, I do say that. And considering that they once planned on abducting the owner of an alpaca farm when they found out he was mistreating the animals, I am inclined to say that I am right. It’s like old people at some point in their life just lose the ability of self-preservation, which makes it my job to look out for them.
Brandishing authentic looking guns certainly does not help that impression. Neither does their plan of secretly photographing a cheating CEO. With normal seniors, you might be worried about them hurting themselves by tripping or slipping, but with my friends here, I am more worried about them making someone else slip.
It is dark outside by now. The city is illuminated by thousands of streetlights and an exceptionally bright moon above, which might come in handy if we have to take pictures outside, I think to myself.
I guess I am already on board with their plan.
It might just work. Canceling an eviction would be a small price for him to pay in order to save his marriage.
We pull into a parking spot somewhere downtown. Despite it still being a chilly night, there seems to be a decent amount of people out and about. Whiskey Business is an upscale bar in an even more upscale area. The patrons that come and go are all dressed in suits and expensive-looking evening wear, kind of like what Ryker Grayson would probably wear.
I don’t know. I try not to think about it.
“So, I was mulling over our name again,” Guy says after he puts the car in park. “How do you like The Cool Kids Club? People will think we’re just silly kids. No one will suspect a bunch of geezers. It’s subterfuge, a ruse, a red herring.” He sounds thoroughly excited by his idea.
“Why would we need a name?” Paige shakes her head and pats her silver curls into place.
“Well, once we take down this rapscallion, the newspapers will want to know who is responsible and I think we should take control of the narrative from the get go. You know that. You used to be the best journalist this city has ever seen.”
Paige shoots him an annoyed glance. “We’re not taking down anyone. There will be no news involved. All we are going to do is make the evictions go away, and that’s it.”
Oh boy, I think to myself and scratch my little fur ball behind his ears. This was certainly not what I had imagined when I got up this morning. Then again, you hardly ever expect your 80-something-year-old friends to blackmail the rich CEO of the building complex you’re all living in.
Guy tries again. “What about 005 1/2? You know, like James Bond, but instead of seven, it’s the five of us plus Meow Meow.”
No one answers. Paige rolls her eyes while the rest of us are waiting for the crickets to chirp and our mark to arrive.
“Alright, alright,” he says, determined to maintain his good mood, as the perpetual optimist that he is. “Maybe it’s a little wordy. How about the O-Team? It’s like the A-Team, but instead of an A it’s an O, because we are: Oh, so awesome.”
Robyn laughs. “Old, you mean old, surely?”
“And a little odd,” I add.
Earnest nods, and, in familiar efficiency, calls for a vote. “All in favor of The O-Team?”
Guy slams his hand against the roof of the van.
Paige sighs and lifts her hand too. Earnest’s hand is up already. Robyn takes the Chairman’s paw and lifts it into the air as well. Then everyone stares at me.
“I guess the motion passes,” I relent and put my hand up. It doesn’t really matter. This will be the O-Team’s last case anyway. I can’t justify allowing my friends to put themselves in danger like this. “But,” I speak up so Guy can hear me as well, “Paige is right. We can tell no one about this, okay? We cannot speak to the press or anyone apart from the five and a half of us. Otherwise, we might get into some serious trouble.”
Back in their day, all of them had been active in one way or another. Paige Turner used to be an investigative journalist; Guy Turner, Paige’s ex-husband, was the spokesperson for a well-known animal’s rights group; Earnest Turner, or rather his alter-ego Angry-Amish-Man, was known for hacking right-wing websites and replacing all their content with cat pictures; and Robyn Banks… well, I am not entirely sure, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Robyn had been a con-woman in an earlier life.
Despite all of their expertise and skills, planning to blackmail one of the richest people in this city is not something any of them should be involved in.
“So, Sienna, with whom did you engage in amorous activities during the wedding celebration?” Robyn asks out of the blue and tilts her head at me.