SCARLETT
Eighty-six.
Eighty-seven.
Eighty-nine.
No matter how many times I count the bills in my wallet, they refuse to transform into five hundred dollars.
They won’t even show me any sympathy by stretching into one hundred.
As I flip through them one last time, I can now see why people print their own counterfeit.
It might be worth it…
Sighing, I slide them back into my wallet.
If I can make this money last until I get paid on Thursday, ace at least five auditions and land three paying roles between now and December, and ace my Drama final for a chance at an understudy program—I can…
I stop myself from finishing that thought.
I’ve officially crossed into the land of delusions, and I need to make a hard turn back into reality.
I’m standing in my final building of the night, a place that reads “Ate and Ass,” a supposed law firm that sits on the edge of the Hudson River.
“Hey, Cinderella!” My manager yells from down the hall.
“Yes, Mr. Brice?”
“How are you going to clean the floors without moving the fucking mop?” He gestures for me to push it. “You only get six hours per shift before the suits start trickling in!”
“Yes, sir.” I bite my tongue and stick the mop into fresh water before pressing it against the marble.
I’m still convinced the temp agency assigned me to janitorial work as a joke or a way to make me quit, but thirty bucks an hour to clean floors and empty trash is exactly the type of mind-numbing work I needed.
I turn up the volume on my earbuds and make my way down the east wing.
As I’m wiping down framed newspaper clippings, my phone vibrates against my pocket.
Unknown number.
I send it to voicemail.
Seconds later, it sounds again.
I ignore it once more.
When it buzzes the third time, I notice it’s not a phone call, but a new text message.
555-0978
It’s Jameson. Pick up your phone.
I’m working. I’ll pass.
Working to pay back Chanel for the shoes you stole or the loan company for the money you can’t pay back?
I gasp and immediately call him.
“Yes?” he answers before the line can even ring.
“You have no idea what the hell you’re talking about,” I say. “And I could’ve sworn you were the one saying we didn’t need to talk anymore.”
“I changed my mind,” he says. “It’s not every day I meet someone with such flawed judgment in life. I’m intrigued.”
I’m tempted to hang up and block this man forever, but I can’t deny that I’ve spent the past several nights wishing he would call. Wanting to see if I could get a second dose of feeling something other than hopelessness.
“Intrigued about what?” I ask.
“Well, for one, I’d like to know how someone who works in marketing and can afford to live in lower Manhattan would ever need to steal shoes... Why?”
“I was planning to return them at the end of this month…”
“That doesn’t really answer my question.”
“I needed a particular pair of shoes for an—” I choke before the word “audition” can leave my lips. “For an event. A potential life-changing event, and they cost about two thousand two hundred dollars more than what I had on my card, so I borrowed them.”
“That’s grand larceny in the fourth degree.”
“Are you planning to turn me in?”
“I should.”
Silence.
My chest tightens at the mere thought of him doing that—at the thought of my father getting a call, and before I can plead for him not to, his low laughter sifts over the line.
The sound of it eases me for a moment.
“Is that all you wanted to do to me?” I ask. “Judge me?”
“I’d like to do a lot more to you than that, Scarlett.”
“What did you just say?”
“I don’t judge anyone for their crimes,” he says. “That’s part of being a defense attorney.”
“That’s not what you said, Jameson.”
“Then I’m glad you heard me…” There’s a smile in his voice. “We should talk in person about your loan situation.”
“Why?” I swallow, unsure of how he even found out about that, why he even cares.
“I honestly don’t know,” he says. “But I can tell when someone’s in serious trouble, and in your case, I can’t seem to stop thinking about you—I mean ‘it,’ so…”
He doesn’t finish that sentence.
“So, you’re just willing to help me out of the kindness of your heart?”
“What’s left of it,” he says. “For something small in return, of course.”
Of course. “I’m not fucking you or sucking your dick in exchange for legal help.”
“I honestly think you’d do both of those things to me for free.” He sounds amused. “I have a few female clients who are in their late twenties, early thirties—around your age—and I may need you to answer some mock trial questions for me here and there.”
“That’s it?”
“Unless you want me to send you an invoice that’ll never get paid.”
“No, that’s okay. I appreciate the help. Thank you.”
“What day next week works for you?”
“I can’t do next week,” I say. “Or the week after. I have a lot of things on my schedule.”
“Well, text me when you have a date for that.”
“Okay.”
Tension lingers on the line, and I struggle for something to say.
“Hang up the phone, Scarlett,” he says. “This conversation is over.”
“You called me, Jameson.”
He hangs up, and I wipe down a few more frames before calling him back.
“Yes?” he answers.
“For the record, I wouldn’t fuck you for free.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says. “I’m not the paying-for-pussy type…”
“That’s—” My cheeks heat. “That’s not what I was trying to say.”
“Then elaborate.”
“In a perfect world, where I actually had my life together, I would sleep with you if we were in a relationship.”
“That’s a very nice way of saying ‘never,’ Scarlett.” His low laugh is infectious. “Very good to know. Anything else you need to elaborate on?”
“Not right now.”
“Good. I’d prefer it if you didn’t call me back again without a reason.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t like talking on the phone to people who aren’t my clients.”
“What about your friends?”
“I don’t have many of those, and I’m not attracted to them like I’m attracted to you.”
Oh… “Associates?”
“No, Scarlett,” he says. “I use my phone for my work, and I’ve already crossed the line with you in one too many ways.”
As if I’ve used all his allotted phone time, he hangs up without any warning.
I stare at my screen for several seconds, and the sound of Mr. Brice’s shoes echoing nearby makes me grab a rag.
Still, I can’t help sending Jameson a text.
What about texting? Can we do that?
Are you facing a legal issue anytime soon?
No...