CHAPTER ONE — STEPHANIE
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
I'm woken up by the harsh sound of someone banging on my door. I sit up in bed, startled, as the malaise sets in. The hangover hits me almost immediately. The headache is the first thing I notice, followed by my parched mouth.
I look down. I'm in my pink thong and matching bra that I passed out in last night. I scramble and grab the closest thing to me, a shirt, and throw it on.
I stumble to the door and fling it open. My stomach drops. It's David.
Just as I register the fact that he's standing in my doorframe, the sun hits me.
It's blinding. And then all of a sudden, a wave of nausea hits me.
As my stomach revolts, I throw up right there in the doorway.
David steps back and narrowly misses my vomit hitting him.
I watch as it lands right outside the door.
I look at David, shame enveloping me like a thick cloud.
"Oh my God," I say.
I look down at the mess I've made. Not only have I thrown up on his property, but some of my vomit has landed in the flower beds and on a small garden statue.
"Clean that up," David says, his voice deep and chilling. "Now."
"Can I just—"
I look down, realizing for the first time exactly what I threw on in a panic.
I'm wearing a thin white T-shirt, Brayden's white T-shirt, and I look down and realize, with horror, that my practically neon pink bra is visible through it. Not to mention the fact that the shirt barely skims the top of my ass cheeks.
I guess I didn't give Brayden all of his clothes in my rush to kick him out last night.
"Now," David repeats.
He strides past me into my unit and rustles around in the cupboards, grabbing some paper towels.
"Hey, you can't just—"
My voice falters as he comes back and thrusts the paper towels towards me.
"Clean up your vomit right now, Stephanie," he says, "or I'll evict you sooner than you can say the word homeless."
Fuck.
I look at him and I can tell he's not joking. I've never felt so small in my entire life. I notice his eyes just dip very briefly down my body. It only happens for a split second though, and then he's looking back up at my face.
I quickly drop to my knees and start scooping up the vomit with the paper towels. David strides past me again, and I feel his pants — the same gray sweatpants I saw him in last night — brush against my hip.
As he steps forward, his leg brushes up against the white T-shirt I'm wearing, pushing it slightly up my leg. I grab the hem of my shirt and pull it down. My cheeks are blazing hot. David doesn't seem to notice and continues walking past me as if I'm not even here.
I stare at him as he disappears inside. What is he doing?
I try to focus on cleaning up the vomit, but I'm distracted. I keep waiting for him to come back.
He comes back a minute later and puts a trash can right in front of me. He stares down at me with such intensity that I immediately go back to mopping up the vomit. I feel like a puppy who's had an accident and is being scrutinized. I've never felt so childish.
"I want you to clean up every last drop, young lady," he says.
I glance back up at him and I feel nervous. His eyes dip down to my body again, and I suddenly feel like I'm under a microscope. I try to forget that he's watching, but it's impossible.
I find myself getting more and more nervous as I clean up. It feels like an eternity, but after a few more minutes, I'm finally done.
"There. Okay," I say. "You can go now. You don't have to keep supervising me."
David looks at me and laughs. I cross my arms. I look down and realize my shirt has ridden up again.
I quickly drop my arms to my sides and pull the hem of my shirt down.
As I pull the shirt flush against my body, I realize my pink bra is more visible now, since the shirt is so tight against me.
I release the hem of the shirt, and it rides up a bit again.
It seems like I have to choose between covering my ass or my bra.
I clamp one hand across my chest and use the other to tug desperately at the hem of my shirt. It doesn't really work.
David looks at me and smirks.
I want to die.
"I haven't even told you why I'm here," David says.
I'm confused for half a second. What does he mean, why he's here? He's watching me clean up my vomit.
But after a few seconds, it clicks. I only threw up after opening the door for him. And that's because he was banging on my door for some reason this morning.
That's unusual for him, too.
I can count on one hand the number of times it's happened since I've lived here. If he needs to come into the unit for some reason, like to do maintenance or repairs, he always texts or emails me first. It's rare that he needs to do something.
And we're not on friendly terms to the point where he'll just stop by casually to hang out or something. The more I think about it, the more perplexing his early morning visit becomes.
I close my eyes for a split second and nod. I'll wait for him to speak first.
"So, I came down this morning to discuss your behavior last night. What happened was unacceptable," he says.
"I'm sorry. I—"
David raises his hand in the air.
"Let me finish," he says.
My chest flushes.
"Sorry," I whisper.
"Between last night and the vaping, not to mention the countless late rent payments, unfortunately, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
"Wait," I say, my heart stopping. "You're evicting me?"
"Yes," he says, sighing. "I'm evicting you, princess."
"But you can't."
"I absolutely can," he says.
"Please," I say. "I'll do anything."
"Well," he says, stroking his chin. "You could give me a month's extra rent to make up for it."
"I don't have the money for that," I say, thinking back to my recent declined credit card fiasco.
"Well, I guess that's settled then," he says. "Consider this your one-month notice."
He turns to leave, and I panic.
"No, wait. Please," I whine. "I can't afford to lose my place right now. I'm in the middle of finals. I'll fail out of school."
David just looks at me.
"There has to be something else I can do," I say, opening my eyes as wide as I can, hoping he'll have mercy on me.
As I wait for him to say something, I frantically scan my brain for ideas. What can I offer him? Not money, obviously. Could I cook? I'm not a very good cook. What else? Then it hits me.
"Wait, let me clean your place," I blurt out.
He cocks his head to the side, his blue eyes boring into me. I shiver.
"My mom was a hotel maid when she was younger," I say.
"She taught me all her tricks. I'm really good.
A good maid goes for what, a hundred bucks an hour?
Let me clean your place. Please. It'll probably take me a good five hours or so, and I can do it next month too.
I'll make sure it's spotless, I promise.
And then we can call it even. What do you think? "
He sighs.
"Please, David," I say. "Just give me one more chance."
"All right," he says.
"Thank you," I squeal.
Before I know what I'm doing, my arms are wrapped tight around him in a bear hug. Which is difficult, given he's about twice my size. But still, there's something comforting about him. Even though he just tried to evict me.
He's stiff for a second. After a few breaths, I feel his body relax into mine. I sigh, surprised by how comfortable I feel. David feels sturdy, like a rock. I breathe in deeply once more, feeling calm despite the chaos that has become my life.
I rest my nose against his chest and breathe in again.
He smells like sea salt and leather. His abs are hard; I can feel them through his cotton T-shirt.
As I exhale, it feels like he tightens his grip and wraps his arms tighter around me.
A wave of warmth washes over me. I take another breath.
I don't want to let go, although I know I need to.
This is reaching the time limit of an appropriate hug. Still, I don't want to let go first.
A few seconds later, David releases me. I see his eyes immediately flit down to the bottom of my shirt.
I glance down. It rode up while we were hugging, to the point where the lower half of my ass is exposed.
He can't see that, though. All he can see is how the hem of my shirt barely skims the crease in my upper thighs, where my underwear hits my skin.
If my T-shirt rode up any higher, my bright pink thong would be on full display.
I imagine that happening, and I feel butterflies in my stomach.
I flush red as I pull my shirt down again.
As soon as I do, David averts his eyes. I study his face and notice a cheeky look of guilt written all over it.
He reminds me of a boy who was just caught sneaking sweets before dinner.
The expression is only on his face for a split second, though, before it melts away.
In fact, his guilty expression disappears so quickly that I start wondering whether I imagined the whole thing, or if it was even there at all.