Chapter 5
LOREN
MOM
There are tornadoes in Tennessee!
TORNADOES, LOREN!
Money isn’t tight.
It’s non-existent.
All it took was a month to drain my poor account drier than the Sahara.
A few months ago I had money, but then I decided to be fiscally responsible and pay off my student loans.
Silly me.
My current woes began with the new mattress followed by the selfish desire for pots and pans with actual handles.
I wasn’t the biggest fan of the taste of rust either, so I bought disposable forks and spoons, but those kept breaking so I bit the bullet and got new silverware.
No one tells you ahead of time how much freaking forks and spoons cost. Highway robbery, that’s what it is.
No wonder disgruntled servants in period novels stole the cutlery.
Don’t even get me started on the ridiculous price of toilet paper. I’ve resorted to rationing single-ply. Sometimes I find myself sitting on the toilet, dreaming of the good old days when I didn’t count unquilted squares.
Sadly, those days are no more.
My current situation is—I don’t want to say dire, but that’s the word that keeps popping into my mind. Every time I open my wallet, it’s like one of those loud, creaking doors in a horror movie, only way more terrifying.
As I sit at the drive-thru counting the change in my car’s cup holder so I can eat dinner tonight, I realize I might have to do the one thing I swore I wouldn’t: Call Mom and ask for a loan.
This will lead to a lecture about responsibility and how I should come home and work for them again.
The one and only time I let my financial troubles slip, they promised me a raise if I came home.
The idea of having a bank account with actual money in it again and a free place to live that isn’t infested with mold is almost too tempting to pass up.
My head falls forward against the steering wheel. I really don’t want to give up and go back, but if life doesn’t start going my way soon, I might not have a choice.
Something silver flashes between the seat and the center console.
No way.
My hope builds as I wedge my fingers into the tight gap, straining and wiggling until I manage to snag the stray coin.
Not just any coin. A whole freaking quarter!
I’ve never been so happy to see George Washington’s powdered wig.
Now I have enough for nuggets and fries. The Hallelujah Chorus erupts like a symphony in my mind.
My luck is finally turning around.
The pickup in front of me pulls ahead, and I ease off the brake pedal.
My car rolls forward to the backlit menu where an androgynous voice crackles through the tinny speaker, asking for my order.
When I drive around to the first window and hand the sour-faced teen a ball of change, she looks like she wants to throw it right back.
Instead, she takes her sweet time counting every penny.
That’s right. I’m desperate enough to use everyone’s least favorite coin to pay for fast food.
As concerned as I am for my arteries, when you’re literally pinching pennies, you can’t be picky about what you put in your stomach. Meg, my only friend at work, brings healthy, elegant lunches like exotic salads and sushi while I mainline peanut butter and jelly.
The joys of being a temp.
None of the benefits of working at a multi-national advertising firm apply to me since I’m not technically their employee, but a lackey for the head-hunters who hired me. I’m lucky to have gotten my foot in the door considering my lack of “relevant” experience.
That’s something I’ll never understand about the world of employment. Everyone wants you to have experience, but how do you get experience if no one will hire you?
That will all change in six months, when my contract ends, and my boss gets to choose whether to bring me on board as a permanent employee or send me on my merry way to whatever the next opening might be.
That’s why I’ve been busting my ass since I started three weeks ago. We’re talking first to arrive and last to leave, proving myself as a valuable asset.
Hopefully, someone notices soon because I’d like to have a social life at some point.
By the time I pull into my apartment complex, my hunger is sufficiently sated. Nearly. I would’ve loved one of those hot apple pies, but penny-pinchers don’t get pie.
I swing my legs out of the car and tug down my pencil skirt to keep from flashing my underwear at the guy leaning against a black BMW, puffing on a cigarette.
“Hey, Tony,” I say with a wave.
He lifts his hand in response, dispersing the cloud of smoke floating around his head like that cartoon donkey’s raincloud.
I grab my purse and click the button on my key to lock my car before heading into the main office where Tony’s scarier brother Toby leans back in his black leather chair, his bushy black mustache hiding his entire upper lip.
I don’t need to see his mouth to know he’s frowning. Toby always frowns.
His thick fingers drum against a stack of papers riddled with coffee-mug stains as he scowls across the desk. “Ah, Ms. Piper, Apartment 5136. Your rent is late.”
“Sorry. It totally slipped my mind to come by yesterday.” Pretty sure he knows it’s a lie, but it’s not my fault the first of the month fell on a freaking Wednesday.
Payday isn’t till Friday, so if he tried to cash my check before that, it would’ve bounced like one of those rubber balls you get from grocery store vending machines.
Since the banks are now closed for the night, Toby won’t be able to cash the check until tomorrow, when my account will be a little less depressing.
I withdraw my checkbook and fill out the missing information. Tearing along the perforated edge sounds a lot like my soul being ripped in two. With a few careful swipes of the pen, I’m four-hundred dollars poorer.
Toby grimaces at the check like its covered in the mold I’ve complained about for the last few weeks. I’ve tried bleach, vinegar and baking soda, and just about every bathroom cleaner I’ve come across, but nothing kills that stuff.
“You know, you can always do the direct debit,” he says in a thick accent that’s impossible to place.
Man, I’d love to pay by direct debit and avoid him altogether—except that would require actual funds. “Maybe next month.”
I leave before he can say anything else, my feet aching in my heels as I dart down the sidewalk. If I don’t get out of this skirt and button-down in the next five minutes, I might turn into an actual puddle.
We had two weeks of crisp autumn and then reverted to scorching summer. Even the locals say it’s never this hot in December.
The air is so thick, my lungs can barely take it in. It’s like soup.
Hot, wet, thick, soup.
Don’t even get me started on the fact that there isn’t so much as a breeze to flutter the hair plastered to my neck. By the time I make it up the stairs, there’s an actual river running down my spine, and my quads are starting to wobble.
Then I catch sight of broad shoulders encased in a black T-shirt and a tapered waist disappearing into a pair of low-slung jeans and my legs just about give out.
My neighbor, mattress guy, also known as Elliott.
How do I know his name when he’s never properly introduced himself?
Because I hear a different girl screaming it every other night.
Is he hotter than Hades? You bet. He also has a brunette pressed up against his door.
More often than not, this is how we meet. On the rare occasion when he doesn’t have a woman with him, I try not to stare directly into his beautiful blue eyes for too long, lest I fall under his hypnotic spell.
He drags a key from his pocket, fumbling as he tries to fit it into the lock.
I really hope they make it inside before he sticks his “key” in her “lock,” if you catch my drift.
He comes up for air long enough to glance down at the doorknob while she slurps at his neck so hard, he’ll definitely end up with a hickey. When I see the mark, I will absolutely be making fun of him for it. It’s the least I can do considering he never misses a chance to give me crap.
After the pissy-mattress incident was the mis-delivered menstrual cup. Most recently, we had the Thanksgiving debacle.
Don’t ask. You don’t want to know.
Those deep-sea eyes catch on me and the corner of his mouth hitches. “Loren.”
I fold my arms over my chest, waiting for him to move out of the way so I can get past. “Elliot.”
His last name is Grant—something I discovered via a phone bill delivered to my mailbox instead of his. If only it had been for something embarrassing like a subscription to “Grannies Quarterly” or a penis enlarger.
His keys land on the concrete floor.
Sighing, I bend down to pick them up and unlock the door for him.
He mutters his thanks, then he and his latest conquest stumble into the dark apartment. His hand emerges to swipe the keys, and then the door slams shut.
Unfortunately, our shared wall is paper-thin, so I get a front-row seat to every loud moan and rhythmic slam of what I assume is a headboard until I find the perfect song on my phone and turn up the Bluetooth speaker in the kitchen as loud as it’ll go.