Chapter 2
chapter two
Denali
"Your rent is past due. Again."
I stare at my phone over my shoulder, lying on the counter in the middle of my shitty studio apartment, and roll my eyes.
My landlord, Steve, is a pain in the ass when he wants to be. Mostly, I see that side when my rent is past due.
The first time I was late on rent, it wasn't a problem. He was sweet about it, gave me time, let me work out a payment plan. But now, I'm two months behind, and I've got nothing for him. And he's got no patience left for me.
I understand it. I don't like it.
"Yeah, Steve, I know," I huff, rinsing off my silverware in the sink. "I'm trying hard, man, I am, but it's just—"
"Listen," he says calmly, because you don't get to be as old as he is without developing some endless patience, "I can give you two more weeks, okay? But you're gonna have to at least pay half by mid-month, and the rest at the end. We can't keep slipping further behind, Denali."
I know it's just business to him, and he's already extending a huge help my direction that he's not obligated to extend.
But I can't help thinking he's being a bit unreasonable.
"Steve, how the hell am I supposed to come up with half of what I owe you in two weeks?
Most jobs withhold for at least three weeks—"
"Take out a loan, pawn something, borrow against your check, I don't care, Denali. There are avenues." His voice is tired; he's probably ready to be done dealing with me. "I've gotta go. You can text me with an update when you figure things out."
He ends the call, and my music starts to come through the speaker again as it reconnects to my bluetooth speaker across the room. Unfortunately for me, the music does nothing to improve my mood now.
No amount of girlypop hits can soothe the stress broiling inside me right now.
"What the fuck am I gonna do?" I ask the room at large, staring at the ceiling as I rinse off the spoon I'm using to stir my eggs. "Like seriously?"
The room has no answers for me.
I almost don't even want to bother scraping the eggs out of the pan, since it's just me—I can just eat them from there and save on dishes tonight.
But that's lazy, and I'm not a barbarian.
Plus, that's a good way to get burned. So instead, I shovel it onto the smallest plate I can find, coat it in cheese, and throw the skillet in the sink.
And sit down in the center of the kitchen on the floor to have a little menty b.
It's not my finest moment, I'll give it that. But like, we all have our moments, right? And right now, life is really kicking my ass. Not only am I three steps away from eviction, but my job hunt is still at an all time low.
I'm slowly losing my mind here. I don't know what else I can do. Hell, I'd even be happy to take one of those shitty jobs that I turned down a month ago, but they're not interested in me. Nobody's hiring out-of-work women who reek of desperation.
And that scent clings to me like glue.
My cat, Taco, who thinks this house is his and he just allows me to inhabit it, trots across the floor in search of the thing that smells so delicious.
Or, in other words, my dinner. He's got wet cat food in a bowl just to my left, but in true Taco fashion, he refuses to eat what I've sacrificed my weekly boba tea to give him.
No, the wet food isn't good enough for him.
He's a prince. He deserves only the best.
I eat maybe half of the scrambled eggs on my plate before his cute face and sassy insistence has me putting the rest on the floor for him.
Never let it be said I don't treat my cat like royalty.
His meows of complacency echo in my mostly-empty apartment as he rounds every corner looking for something new to get into trouble with, and that leaves me sitting on the old, sagging couch alone, half-starved still, frustrated, and tired.
And so very, very desperate.
I pick up the newspaper that I five-finger-discounted off the corner magazine rack and flip to the help wanted ads.
Nothing.
Or, at least, nothing I haven't already applied to.
I flip open my phone and hit all the usual websites for employment opportunities. Nothing. My resumé is up to date, my profile is sharp and attractive, my rates reasonable.
Yet nobody clicks on me. Nobody hires me, or even inquires about my services.
I'm slowly losing my damn mind.
I can't let this happen. Taco isn't made for the streets. I can survive them, but he's a gentle little indoor bean who's never been on a leash or outside in his life. He's too soft to handle life homeless.
I need something fast.
In my wallet, I've got the business card of a hiring agency that helps even the most desperate of cases, and though I promised myself I wouldn't stoop to cleaning toilets in some dingy dive bar or scrubbing puke off the high school cafeteria floor, the situation is dire. Too dire for pride.
But I don't make it that far.
The moment I pick the damn thing up, out falls a card I forgot I even had. It's like the world is sending me a sign, and my hand shakes as I lift the card off the floor and frown.
Arista Simmons, kNight Entertainment.
I remember this lady. She and I met in a bar on ladies' night. She bought my first drink.
And she offered me a job.
At the time, I thought there was no point in calling her, because there's no way I'll get into any sort of agency, even with connections. Now, though, I pick up my laptop and search them up, curious.
They're legit.
Ten minutes of surface-level research tells me they specialize in hiring the unhireable—at the international superstar level, that is. But that doesn't mean they won't hire a little fish like me who needs a second chance.
Only one way to find out, right?
It's not too late to dial them up. It's only six. So with shaking hands and unsteady fingers, I dial the number on the front of the card and hold my breath.
Someone picks up on the third ring, just as I'm about to hang up and face the music.
"Thank you for calling kNight Entertainment. How can I help you?"
I frown at the card and flip it over, taking a deep breath. "I'm trying to reach a Miss Simmons—"
"Ah, yes, Miss Simmons is still here, you're very lucky. Can I tell her who's calling?"
What do I say? Hey, it's me, the girl from the bar two months ago with the sad look of defeat on her face? "Ah, my name is Denali. She—we met at the Four Cities Ladies' Night—"
"Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am, but Miss Simmons doesn't take personal calls on this line—"
"No, no wait, it's not a personal call—she told me she might have a job for me."
Smooth, Denali. Now, she knows you're desperate, and she thinks you're a whore.
The woman sighs, her fingers clacking on some random keyboard in the background. "Oh, alright, then, I'll put you through. Hold, please."
I wait patiently, listening to the world's most pleasing hold music, while she no doubt puts me through the links and then prepares to hang up on me. But then, I'm surprised, because a familiar voice answers, and I nearly sob with relief.
"Hello. Arista here; can I help you?"
I slump forward and suck in a huge breath, trying not to panic. "Ah, yeah, hi—you probably don't remember me, but we met at the ladies' night event a couple months back, at the bar. You gave me your card and said if I was ever looking for work—"
"Oh, right, yeah! I do remember you. But I don't remember your name." She pauses, and I realize she's waiting for me to fill her in.
"Denali," I breathe, crossing my fingers and my toes and any part of my body I can cross in the hopes that it'll help. "Denali Stone."
"So, Denali Stone," she says, and I can practically picture her leaning back in an oversized office chair, crossing her legs, twirling a lock of hair as she grins through her voice. "I take it you're in the market for a job."
"I—yeah. I think I am."
She sighs, and then, without missing a beat, her voice rings out clear, the first good news I've gotten in a long time.
"I think I have something for you."
Whatever it is, I'll take it. "When do I start?"
Her laughter is almost contagious. "Be at the address on the card tomorrow at six sharp. And dress professionally. My client can be a bit . . . much."
I've dealt with a bit much before, and then some. "I'll see you tomorrow."
I'll be there so early, I'll beat her to her own office. Watch me.
When we hang up, I hunt down Taco and toss him into the air, whooping as he comes back down and I catch him, just like he likes. "Taco, mommy's got a job!"
It's not official, but it's a start.
And I can sure use a break right about now.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, you're a bit early, so you'll have to wait—"
I recognize the woman at the receptionist desk as the girl who answered the phone last night, and smile at her, hoping to get in her good graces. Though if the look she's giving me is any indication, she's not liking what she sees.
She's looked me up and down at least twice now, her gaze full of disdain for my choice in clothes, I guess.
She's wearing expensive brand-name luxury accessories, her blouse is silk, and the skirt she's got wrapped around her legs screams money.
In comparison, my attire is much like me—rough, cheap, and well-worn.
It's not by any means grungy or unprofessional, but it's certainly not what they're used to seeing around here, clearly.
I'm in a pair of black, flowing slacks that hide my heels when I stand still, a white blouse that itches in the heat that I've tucked in somewhat, leaving one side of the front untucked like has been stylish for a few months now.
My top two buttons are undone to allow for air, but they don't bare my breasts, like her top does, and all in all, I feel like I've achieved a certain level of professional style that most people in my situation can only hope for.
I'll have to thank my neighbor for letting me raid her wardrobe later.