1. Lennon
LENNON
If there was one thing being my mother’s daughter had taught me all too well, it was that every girl needed her own “fuck you” money.
No matter how rock solid you thought that job was, no matter how loyal you thought that man was, no matter how secure you thought that living situation was, the day would come when you were forced to choose between walking out or being walked all over.
For me, that day was today.
Again.
“Fuck you, Hector,” I hissed into the phone cradled between my shoulder and ear as I unlocked my mailbox. “Benny said I could have the apartment through the end of the year. It’s only May.”
“I know you’re angry, Lennon. Believe me, this wasn’t what Benny wanted.” His tone was as placating as ever.
Hector was Benny’s emotional fixer. Benny hated giving anyone bad news, so he paid Hector to deliver it for him and deal with the aftermath.
When Benny had to cancel my birthday weekend?
Hector was the one I heard from, and the one who picked out the diamond earrings to make up for it.
He reminded me of oil—he smoothed over all the unpleasantness so nothing stuck to Benny but left you a mess.
“Well, if this isn’t what Benny wanted, then maybe we should work together to find a way to give him what he does want,” I snapped.
“What Benny wants is to not find himself in jail. All his financial accounts are frozen, and he has been warned not to leave the city. Benny owns this apartment outright. It’s his only real estate in New York that the feds can’t seize—yet.”
Frowning, I scooped out my mail. I smelled the postcard before I saw it, a familiar comingling of sweet vanilla and bright orange blossom that had for years been my signature scent.
Now it turned my stomach. I wedged the stack of mail under my arm—out of sight, out of mind—and breathed through my mouth. One problem at a time.
“Maybe I could stay here with him?” I wheedled. “I won’t be any trouble at all.”
“It’s in everyone’s best interest for you to stay as far away from this mess as you can. They don’t know about you, and Benny wants to keep it that way.” He paused. “For your own sake, of course.”
I rolled my eyes so hard they nearly fell out the back of my head. “Of course.”
It wasn’t that Benny didn’t care about me, because he did.
And I cared about him, too. Sure, he was thirty years older than me and refused to part with his wispy comb-over no matter how often I told him I adored his bald head and he was fooling nobody, and yes, we both knew that if he didn’t provide me with a rent-free, prewar apartment with park views and the occasional cash gift I would suddenly be unavailable.
But that was the fine print of an unwritten agreement.
What mattered was that he made me smile, I made him laugh, and Wednesdays and Sundays—the days I saw him—were now my favorite days of the week.
Hector chose the apology diamonds, but Benny paid for my audiobook addiction.
That might not be fairytale love, but it was more than a girl from Chesapeake Trailer Park could reasonably expect from life.
I chewed my lip. “He’s going to be okay, right, Hector?”
“Don’t worry, honey,” he soothed. My lips flattened. The way he said it was more insult than endearment. Like I didn’t have two brain cells to rub together to create a spark of intelligent thought. “This will all blow over. The feds don’t have any real evidence of wrongdoing.”
He did not say that Benny hadn’t actually committed any wrongdoing.
And I had enough friends in low places to know that the FBI couldn’t freeze your accounts without getting a warrant, and warrants required reasonable suspicion of criminal behavior.
Hector didn’t have to say any of that, though, because Benny had said a lot.
Unfortunately, I was a good listener.
The same realization must have hit Hector, because he said, “You need to make yourself scarce for the next couple of months. The feds aren’t the only ones who have questions. Benny has friends who would hate for certain information to fall into the wrong hands.”
The back of my neck prickled. “Am I in danger?”
“This is an investigation. People are going to be poking into his business and his personal life, asking questions. Benny would appreciate it if you weren’t available to answer those questions.”
“Right.” I slapped the mailbox shut. That wasn’t exactly a straight answer to the am I in danger question. “But where am I supposed to go?”
Hector chuckled. “You’re a resourceful girl, Lennon. You’ll figure something out. The further away from this life, the better.”
I blinked at my mailbox. Brass, with pretty filigree swirls around the apartment number.
People didn’t make shit like that anymore.
I had worked so hard to build this life for myself, this life with a safe place to sleep and pretty mailboxes, and now I was being forced out of it because a goddamn man made a mistake?
Okay, not just any man, this was Benny and he was a sweetheart, but still—
He owed me something for the inconvenience.
Hector had one thing right, anyway. I was resourceful.
I had a good emergency fund stashed away, but that would only go so far.
I didn’t have a typical nine-to-six job.
My livelihood was cobbled together through cam streams, catalogue and fit modeling when I could get it, and whatever Benny left on my nightstand.
I had enough money to walk, but I didn’t have enough money to hide.
“You can’t tell me Benny doesn’t have cash on hand because I know that’s not true.” Benny kept money everywhere he could. I also knew he kept gold and silver bars and coins in a safe behind the mirror that faced the bed.
There was a pause. I held my breath, my hand clenching my keys so tightly that my freshly done nails dug into my palms, only releasing it when Hector heaved a deep sigh of resignation.
“Be at the café on Sixth Avenue at nine tomorrow. I’ll bring an envelope and a burner phone. You turn on the phone only once a day to check for an update from me. Understood?”
“Understood.”
Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.
Entertaining men was the last thing I felt like doing, but Hector had made it clear that my cam girl activities did not fit his definition of lying low.
This would be my last stream until Benny was in the clear—which could be months from now.
I needed to say goodbye and pause the monthly payments from my subscribers.
I dumped my mail and snacks on the kitchen table before heading to my bedroom to get ready. There was a certain kind of man who got off on watching a woman do wholesome things in a supremely slutty way. Generally, that man was older, worked fourteen-hour days, and lonely.
Benny, in other words.
He was my top supporter by a long shot, but not all my subs were middle-aged men. A handful of straight women subscribed because they found my topless cooking videos and flower arrangements strangely soothing and informative.
I donned a blue 1950s style dress, red lipstick, and my black lace mask, and pulled my wavy brown hair into a high ponytail.
Flesh-toned fishnet stockings and round-toed blue heels completed the look.
Welcome to the Donna Reed Strip Tease. Benny would be thrilled.
I blew a kiss to my reflection and took my camera to the kitchen.
After setting the camera up to record, I got to work on dinner while I waited for subs to join the livestream. Bone-in chicken thighs with crispy skin, carrots roasted in thyme and oregano, and mashed potatoes with plenty of cream and butter. I was cooking for two.
While I prepped the chicken, I broke the news that I wouldn’t be livestreaming for the next couple months, but hoped to be back in the fall. Subscriptions would be paused but not cancelled—unless they wanted to, of course.
Tips poured in along with lamentations that I would be missed. My phone dinged—the first tier had been reached. “Eek,” I squealed, wiggling my fingers to show they were coated in olive oil and garlic. “Let me wash my hands first. I don’t want to get salmonella on my dress.”
After thoroughly washing my hands and drying them, I turned my back to the camera and slowly unzipped my dress. With a little shimmy, it fell to the floor, leaving me in my lacy black bra and thong, and the stockings held up by garters.
When I ended the livestream thirty minutes later, I was down to just the thong. My panties always stayed on for cooking shows. Call me a prude, but vaginas and food didn’t mix.
After changing into my comfiest sweats, I divided the dinner into two portions.
One went into the fridge for Benny. The other went to Mrs. Bianchi on the eighth floor.
At eighty-three years old, she’d been living all alone in her rent-controlled unit for three decades after her husband died of a heart attack.
Six months ago, I’d found her wandering the hallway, lost and confused.
I’d been making her dinner twice a week ever since.
What was she going to do without me? And what was I going to do without Benny?
I ripped open a package of Skittles, dumped the contents on a white porcelain plate, then popped open a can of Diet Coke and poured it into a fancy wine glass over ice, topped with a lime wedge and pretty green glass straw.
With my phone tucked into my bra, the stack of mail tucked into my armpit, and my wine glass balanced somewhat steadily on my plate, I took my dinner to the window, dragging a chair behind me. I dropped into it with a soul-weary sigh. Finally.
Tossing the mail aside, I kicked my wool-socked feet up on the windowsill.
God, this view. This was what rich old white man money got you.
Fourteen floors up, a deep bay window with three eight-foot-tall glass panes that looked out over the park.
It had never truly been mine, this view.
I had always been on borrowed time here.
My eyes burned hot enough that I almost wished I could summon up a tear or two to ease the sting, but unfortunately, I wasn’t much of a crier. I popped a lime Skittle into my mouth instead. Skittles and Diet Coke: dinner of scrappy trailer trash, if not actual champions.
Shit, shit, shit. I had to be out in forty-eight hours.
Not just out of the apartment—out of New York.
Hector might as well have told me to leave the fucking planet.
This city had been my home since my emancipation at sixteen, and I’d rarely stepped outside the city limits since.
Mom would probably let me stay with her if I kicked in some money, but as far as I knew she was still with Rob. I fucking hated that guy.
No. I was not going back to the trailer park with my tail tucked between my legs. No fucking way.
Anyway, if someone truly started looking for me, that was the first place they’d go.
I pulled my phone out of my bra to see if Benny or Hector had contacted me. Part of me was hoping this was all a misunderstanding. No such luck.
I tossed my phone aside, popped a red Skittle into my mouth to steel my nerves, and scooped up the mail.
Junk, mostly. The Memorial Day sales catalogues were in.
I’d posed for Lululemon and J. Crew months ago.
That was no guarantee I’d actually made the final pages—I was paid for my time regardless—but there I was.
I allowed myself a quick flip through. If I looked too long, flaws were all I’d see.
There was also a brochure for some wellness retreat-spa-ranch thing in Wyoming.
I’d gotten about three of these in the last nine months.
They must be desperate for customers. Come to Mercy River!
Indulge in massage and skin treatments. Book an appointment with our on-site physical trainer or relax in your private cabin.
The photos were breathtaking. Mountains and green pastures, a cozy cabin, horses.
I studied each one like I might actually go there someday. Stalling.
I didn’t want to look.
But I picked up the postcard anyway, pinching a tiny corner between my thumb and index finger like it could bite me if I wasn’t careful, and read the message.
Now we can be together.
Ha. No fucking thank you, Mr. Delusional Stalker.
I let the postcard fall from my fingers to the floor and stared out the window.
Autumn was the city’s best season, but there was something to be said for the lush green of Central Park in summer, too, and I couldn’t feel the humidity from up here.
Beyond the park was the skyline, high-rises gleaming in the soft glow of golden hour.
Goddamn, I loved this city, but I needed to disappear.
Hide out until this all blew over in some sheltered Podunk town where no one knew my name.
I studied the Mercy River brochure again.
The “About Us” page told the story of five military friends banding together to open the ranch.
The scenery truly was gorgeous. Mountains…
That would make a great backdrop in photos, right?
Horses…Sure, why not. A spa…Yes, I could definitely get on board with that.
And most importantly, two thousand miles away from this city and anyone who knew me.