1. Callie
1
CALLIE
It’s close to two by the time I drag myself up the four flights of stairs to my apartment.
The elevator is finally working, but I no longer trust it. Not after last time. The last thing I want is to get stuck in that rickety metal box again. Especially not when I have to be up in five hours. Though, at this point, I’m so exhausted I’d probably just curl up on the dirty floor and fall fast asleep.
I unlock the deadbolt and slip in, kicking off my shoes at the door with a relieved sigh. My feet ache, I smell like bleach and Windex, and my hands are sporting a nice rash from my standard-issue rubber gloves, but I tell myself it’s worth it as I drop my bag on the kitchen table next to our neatly stacked pile of bills.
At least the pile is getting smaller. I think.
In the fridge, I find a plate of food wrapped in plastic with a napkin note on top. In messy capital letters, my sister has scrawled EAT ME . I smile to myself. She loves me even when she acts like she doesn’t. I pull the plate from the fridge along with the plastic containers containing the rest of the dinner leftovers and ignore the soft rumbling of my stomach as I scrape the contents of my plate back into the containers.
Broccoli with broccoli. Rice with rice. Chicken with chicken.
It’s a much more balanced meal than we were eating a few months ago . It’s actual food now that I’ve picked up another job, but there’s still a paltry amount of it. Once I replace my portion, there’s at least enough for both Mom and Glory to have lunch tomorrow. I’ll grab a sandwich from the store after my morning shift.
I snag a pen off the counter and write Yum! on the napkin before sticking it to the fridge with a magnet, then I tiptoe into the bathroom to wash the stench of cleaning supplies off my body. By the time I throw myself onto the bed in the room I share with Glory, I’m so exhausted that I don’t move an inch until my alarm goes off four hours later.
“Girl. You pick up another shift at the motel last night?”
I glance up at the other register where Quinton is scanning someone out and shrug. I opened today, and he got to come in at ten. Lucky dick.
“Yeah, I did.”
He quirks a dark brow. “You look like death.”
I narrow my eyes at him. I’ve known Quinton since high school, and five years later, he’s still just as obnoxious as ever.
“Gee, thanks Quin. I love you too.”
He winks and makes a kissy face at me. “At least I’m easy to look at.”
I roll my eyes and flip him off before going back to my crossword puzzle. With any luck, we’ll be slow today, and I’ll be able to make it until the end of my shift without passing out.
I’m filling in a ten-letter word for “anything that unduly exhilarates or excites”— intoxicant —when the song on the radio switches to something familiar and wholly unwelcome.
“Nooo,” I groan, tipping my head to the ceiling to glare at the speaker. “Turn it off, Dwayne!”
I shout the words, hoping my boss will hear me from his office. I know he does because instead of doing what I ask, he turns the song up louder.
The opening bass line creates a sinking feeling in my stomach and an ache in my chest. You’d think by now I’d have grown desensitized to The Hometown Heartless, but nope. They still make me sick.
I manage to avoid every fucking magazine cover, have even conditioned myself to ignore the giant poster Glory has pinned to our bedroom wall, but the music is another story. It hits harder, and it’s nearly impossible to escape. Especially living so close to LA. Here, everyone has a strong opinion about The Hometown Heartless. You’re either obsessed with them, or you loathe their very existence.
I’m of the latter camp.
Planted my flag here four years ago, and it’s still standing tall, waving proudly in the wake of my simmering grudge.
I hate their sound. I hate their style. I hate the arrogant hold they have on the music industry, lording over everything like gods.
But what I hate most is their bassist, Torren Fucking King.
I cringe involuntarily when the first verse starts. His deep voice harmonizes with the lead singer, and before I can stop it, a carousel of pictures flashes through my mind. Full plush lips. Dark messy hair. Mysterious green eyes. Talented calloused fingers.
They just serve to stoke the embers of my irritation.
I step out from behind my register and march toward Dwayne’s office. It’s a small store—two registers and ten aisles of basic food and household items—so I make it to the cheap plastic door in a matter of seconds. I swing it wide and close the distance between myself and the stereo system.
Dwayne, because he’s an asshole, laughs.
I swear, if I didn’t get a 15 percent employee discount on everything in this place, I’d quit. This job is the only reason we have an almost-stocked pantry at home.
Jabbing my finger at the power button, the music cuts out immediately, leaving only Quinton’s voice as he continues to sing the song.
“I haven’t slept, Dwayne. I have a headache. I’m not in the mood for this uninspired, watered-down, poor excuse for rock and roll.”
Dwayne grunts another laugh and shakes his head as I storm back out of his office, letting the door slam behind me.
“One of these days you’re going to tell me the story behind your rage,” Quinton says from beside me.
I don’t acknowledge him. I’m not telling him shit. Instead, I grab my crossword and stare at it for the next hour. That’s how long it takes to calm the vortex of memories swirling violently in my head.