Chapter 4
4
M aeve
The asshole is here. What the hell is he doing here?
Is he a building inspector or something? I mean, I know he’s been coming here for the past two months, but so do a lot of people. And yes, Jerome kisses his ass more than others, but I thought it’s because Mr. King is rich. But Jerome tends to kiss a lot of rich asses, so I never paid much attention to how special Mr. King might be. Except, his ass. It’s very special, but since it belongs to such a jerk, I stopped admiring it at some point.
Oh, fuck. Is he a cop? I quickly disregard this thought. His suit is too expensive to be anything other than some dude working on one of the top floors here.
His eyes narrow at me, and I squint mine right back. He nods to something a cop is saying and then moves toward me. To my table. To where I’m actually sitting, trying to catch my breath after what has happened .
I didn’t mean to fall asleep, I really didn’t. I just wanted to close my eyes for a second because I had a double shift today. Or was it triple? I’m just trying to make enough so I can rent a room or a couch or something. My coworker kicked me out of her place three days ago because her boyfriend moved in with her, and he was looking at me ‘funny.’ Quite frankly, not paying the rent might have been the reason too—I’ve been out of luck for the past month. Or six.
Needless to say, I didn’t get the job I was interviewing for two months ago. Neither did I get any other office jobs I’ve tried for in the past few months. All my interviews ended up with a note that they were looking for someone with a more ‘typical appearance’ and that they’d consider me if I was willing to ‘change the hair color and remove my brow piercing and reconsider my clothing choices.’ So, pretty much, they were asking me to change back into the person I escaped years ago. And this is precisely why, currently, I’m homeless and likely jobless after this fiasco.
Besides being out of luck with interviews, I was also robbed. Twice. All of my money—gone. The room in a cheap apartment I was renting—flooded a month ago. Not by me, surprisingly. My laptop and phone and everything else I owned—ruined. I found a flip phone for twenty bucks, and that’s what gets me by these days.
And this job was getting me by too.
All I wanted was a break. A tiny break.
I guess I’ll be getting it very soon , I think to myself as I glance around. The place is a mess, and I’m definitely out of a job. And out of a place to sleep too. I can’t even imagine how the fire caught in the first place. I mean, I didn’t put anything extra in the oven like paper or something, and the alarm hadn’t even gone off when I woke up from the heat on my face and something itchy in my nose. I even have a few burnt hairs on my head .
And on top of that, I had to pay for this asshole’s coffee out of my pocket. Nine bucks for this overpriced shit. The coffee isn’t even that good. The beans are always over-roasted, the syrups always too sweet or tangy. And I had to pay nine dollars for it. I hope the douchebag enjoyed the extra spices I put in this morning specially for him.
He is currently standing next to me with arms crossed over his cashmere sweater. It’s past midnight, and he still looks like he just stepped out of a billboard. Life is unfair.
The cop is right next to him, and they both are staring at me with stern faces.
“Yes?” I mumble.
“Mr. King here,” the cop points his notepad at Mr. King , “has decided to press charges against you.”
“What?” I jump in my seat, instantly feeling energized. “Why?”
“Someone has to answer for the damage,” the billboard dude grits out. “Someone responsible for it.”
“I called the fire department and saved everyone,” I cry out. “And I didn’t start the fire.”
“If you weren’t here sleeping ,” the asshole accentuates, “the fire wouldn’t have happened.”
“How do you know?” I squint my eyes. “And why are you even here?”
His hard eyes are focused on my face while the ‘nice’ cop explains, “Mr. King owns the building.” He points his index finger on the top, cueing me on the name of the building. King Enterprise. Of freaking course. I nearly roll my eyes.
“I didn’t start the fire,” I repeat stubbornly.
The cop clears his throat and opens his notepad. “On the call, you said that the oven was burning.” He keeps relaying what I said while I glance between the two of them. The jerk looks to be dead set on pressing charges. Which could be a good thing so at least I can spend the night somewhere. Then I remember the movies I’ve seen about jails and what sort of people can be in there. I don’t think I’ll survive in there with my big mouth.
Think quickly, Maeve.
The female paramedic who was treating me before and offering oxygen I kept refusing, is getting her bag together to leave. Her curious eyes roam between our unfortunate trio.
Here we go.
“I can’t breathe!” I cough, clutching my chest. “Breathe,” I sigh, dramatically losing ability to keep my eyes open.
The paramedic pauses and looks at me with a raised brow. I make my eyes as pathetic as possible, trying to silently communicate my cry for help. Her quick assessment of the situation makes me believe in humanity again because she barrels toward me with her bag in her hand.
“Move away,” she orders to the coffee douche. “I need to get to the patient.”
“She was fine a second ago,” he grits out, crossing his arms over his chest.
She regards him with squinted eyes. “It’s a delayed response. Happens with trauma patients all the time.”
“Let’s move away and let her work,” the cop urges the douche, who obeys while shooting daggers my way.
When they both are out of earshot, the paramedic presses the oxygen mask to my face.
“Do you know him?”
I nod.
“Is he abusing you?” Her face turns hard.
“No!” I cry out—quietly—right into the mask and then pull away. “No, he’s not my boyfriend or anything,” I explain quieter. “Just a rude customer who comes here to get his coffee. Very rude,” I add with a trembling lip .
The paramedic quickly glances at him. “He looks angry.”
I sigh. “It’s his building apparently. And now it’s burnt, but it’s not my fault.”
“Yeah, they’ll shut it down for sure for now.” Her dark, watchful eyes move to mine. “Are you afraid of him?”
“No,” I sigh again, thinking if I should explain to her what’s really going on. “He wants to press charges. For the fire.” I sniffle. “And I can’t pay for a lawyer now. Or even a phone call to one to get out of jail.” I look at her. “Will they put me in jail now?” I quickly grab the mask from her hands and start breathing into it, feeling all air being sucked away from my lungs. “I can’t go to jail.”
I start breathing rapidly, my fingers digging into the mask. My heart rate accelerates, trying to break my ribcage from the inside.
“Relax,” she starts with a calm tone. “I don’t think the fire was your fault. I heard the guys talk, and they think it’s a wiring problem. You just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
I pause. “Really?”
“Yeah.” She nods.
“But they won’t know that now, right? So I go to jail either way.” I side-eye the douche who’s watching me without blinking.
“No, they won’t,” she confirms. “There will be an investigation.”
I feel it’s the second time for the past hour that my soul is about to leave my body. I am going to jail.
“Do you want to be admitted to the hospital?” she suddenly asks, bringing hope back into my life.
“No,” I reply weakly. “I don’t have insurance.”
“I think you should be admitted to the hospital.” Her firm voice makes me look at her eyes. “You have elevated blood pressure, and you might have suffered from too much smoke inhalation.”
If she isn’t giving me a break right here, I don’t know what it is.
“Yes!” I nod rapidly, coughing loudly on the way. “I think I’m having palpitations.”
“That you are.” She smiles.