Chapter 4 #2
I pop one in, just one, because I’m not trying to end up on my kitchen floor having an existential crisis. Then I glance at Black Cat, who has followed me into the kitchen and is now sitting expectantly by his food bowl.
“Oh, you want some too?”
He meows, flashing his fangs. Demanding little gremlin.
I pull the catnip from the cabinet and sprinkle a modest amount over his untouched dry kibble that he’ll only tolerate if fish isn’t on the menu. The second the catnip touches down on his meal, he attacks it like I’ve given him the feline equivalent of a five-star meal.
“Just a little. You have to make this last,” I tell him, putting the container away. “We’re on a tight budget starting immediately.”
He ignores me, too busy drowning in his drug-laced dinner to acknowledge my financial concerns.
I return to my Hungry-Man tray, now all the way cold and even less appetizing.
But in about half an hour the cardboard-textured Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes with the consistency of wet cement will look gourmet.
The brownie, inexplicably, is solid. I enjoy that dessert even without any cannabis coercion.
My mom would be horrified.
She used to make the best katsu curry—crispy pork cutlet over rice, smothered in a sauce she’d simmer for hours. The apartment would smell like spices and home, and I’d come back from class to find her humming in the kitchen, an apron tied over her work clothes.
I haven’t had her cooking in three years. Not since she decided that putting an ocean between herself and the wreckage of our family was the only way to survive.
I try not to blame her. She stayed as long as she could, weathered the arrest and the trial and the public humiliation.
But everyone has a breaking point, and watching your husband get sentenced to federal prison while reporters shout questions about your complicity will test even the strongest marriage.
She begged me to come with her. Start fresh, she said. Leave the past in the past. But I couldn’t abandon my dad. Even after everything. Even knowing what he did.
So she left, and I stayed, and now I eat Hungry-Man dinners alone while my cat gets high on catnip beside me.
Living the dream.
I choke down the last edible bites of my meal, pitch the plastic tray in the trash, and sink back into the couch cushions.
My paperback waits where I left it. I smile at page 73 of my current read featuring the standard-issue grump who owns a failing bookshop and the relentlessly cheerful florist moving in next door.
Pure formulaic escapism at its finest. Absolute relief from the unpredictable mess of my actual existence.
I’m three chapters in, just getting to the part where the florist accidentally destroys the bookstore’s window display with an errant delivery truck, when my phone buzzes.
Then buzzes again.
I return to my book until I can no longer ignore the explosion of notifications.
Groaning, I pick it up. My phone screen is lit with notifications from the agency group chat named Off the Books, our sad attempt at witty subterfuge that fools exactly no one.
Group Chat: Off the Books
Rina
Emergency request. Anyone available tonight? 2K in cash. Client is a divorcee hosting a passion party. Needs a plus-one who can look pretty and pretend not to be intimidated by vibrators.
Saylor
Are vibrators supposed to be intimidating?
Cam
There’s one called The Detonator. Trust. It’s intimidating.
Saylor
Curiosity buffering.
Forrest
Why the hell am I still on this group chat?
Cam
The Detonator is two-prong. Perfect for DP. And the vibration is so powerful, it’s the closest thing you’ll get to the strength of a sybian.
Rina
Can we stay on track? Who’s available tonight? I need to tell the client a yes or no, NOW.
Theo
How much?
Rina
2K, Theo. Read up for God’s sake.
Theo
No, I meant for The Detonator.
Forrest
SERIOUSLY. How do I leave the group chat? I exited but the messages keep coming through.
I let out a laugh, imagining Forrest’s wide-eyed panic as these messages pop up on his phone while Sora, his girlfriend, peers over his shoulder. She’s a good sport. She’s probably giggling along at his embarrassment.
Saylor
Sorry, Rina. I’m out. Promised Mum some quality time.
Cam
I’m out. Literally on my way to a job.
Forrest
Since the messages won’t stop… I’m out. BECAUSE I’M IN A RELATIONSHIP AND NO LONGER DOING THIS SHIT.
Saylor
Forrest, can you ask Sora which one is the good Korean BBQ place? I have a hankering.
Rina
Theo? Taio?
Theo
I’m catching up on Game of Thrones and I have warm soup belly. I’m out.
Rina
I am thoroughly regretting all of your Christmas bonuses. Saylor, please?
Saylor
Sorry, boss. Priorities.
Cam
Mama’s boy.
Saylor
Proud of it, mate. And I’m a mama’s boy who knows your address and could pound you into a pulp.
Cam
…
Sorry, that was autocorrect. I meant “noble loving son.”
Saylor
Attaboy.
Rina
FOCUS. I need a warm body in a sports coat at the Elusive Hotel in two hours.
All right, that’s enough of that. I call Rina directly instead of responding to the group chat.
She picks up on the first ring. “Please tell me you’re saying yes.”
“I’m saying yes, conditionally.”
“Oh thank God.” She exhales through the phone. “You’re saving my ass, Taio. This client is a referral from one of my best customers.”
“Not for two thousand though. Four, minimum. And she can have me all night.”
She’s silent for a moment. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that because the job I have for you, from my very legitimate, law-abiding business, is just companionship for a party.
I would very much like to stay in the dark of your dirty off-the-books dealings.
But out of curiosity, why are you suddenly so greedy? ”
I take a breath. “From now on, I need you to call me directly with any jobs. All of them. Before they go to the group. I want first right of refusal on everything.”
Silence on the line. Then, “That’s a big ask.”
“I know.”
“The other guys won’t like it.”
“They don’t have to know.”
More silence. I can practically hear her calculating—weighing my value against the potential drama, running the numbers on my reliability versus the hassle of preferential treatment.
“What’s going on, Taio?” Her tone is softer now. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
“Then what? You’ve never been this hungry before.”
I think about Anne Carrington and her sad smile. Joy’s Stanford letter. The hundred thousand dollars I promised like a fool.
“I just need to make some money fast,” I say. “It’s…a family thing. I can’t really explain.”
“Your father?” Rina asks defeatedly.
She’s got an incredible legal mind, once a tenured professor at Columbia Law.
And while she likes to pretend she’s Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada, she’s wildly compassionate, and far more den mother than pimp.
We met when I approached her for help about my dad’s case.
She pored over the case for weeks trying to find anything that could help.
Unfortunately she said going to trial would be useless.
The case was open and shut. My dad did the crime and he would absolutely do the time. She recommended a plea deal.
His current lawyers disagreed. We went to trial. We lost, but they haven’t stopped working. Appeal after appeal, and it’s becoming clear they’re just hustling me. But everyone clings to hope—even false hope—when they are desperate enough.
“Not exactly,” I finally answer.
Rina is quiet for a moment. “You’re not doing anything stupid, are you? Gambling? Drugs?”
“No. I promise. It’s nothing illegal.”
“You know I’m here if you need—”
“I know, Rina. Thank you. I’m good. It’s just…I made a promise to someone. And I need to keep it.”
She sighs. The kind of sigh that says she knows she’s going to regret this. “Fine. First right of refusal. But please be discreet, or I’ll castrate you, so you have to keep it squeaky clean.”
“Fair enough.” But I shield my dick with an open palm as if her threat is imminent.
“I’m texting you the details now.”
Elusive Hotel. Wear a sports coat. “I can read. I got it,” I say too eagerly, already heading to my bathroom to take a record-fast shower.
Rina continues anyway. “The client’s name is Margaret. She’s forty-two, recently divorced, and according to my notes, ‘looking to sow her wild oats.’ Be charming. Be complimentary. And please don’t make fun of anything she may buy at the party.”
“I would never.”
“You absolutely would. I’ve seen you roast a woman’s shoe collection for twenty minutes.”
“In private. Not to her face. And those were Crocs, Rina. Rows of bedazzled Crocs. I stand by my choices.”
She laughs despite herself. “Go. Get ready. You have less than two hours. Oh and I forgot to mention, she’s a little shy and needs your help picking up her contribution for the party.”
She’s shy yet she’s hosting this party? Hmm. Okay.
“Contribution?” I ask Rina.
“Yes. From what I understand, this is one of those parties where everyone brings a toy and leaves with a different toy.”
“What kind of unhinged White Elephant is this?”
“Hell if I know. But pick up whatever item you please within a one-hundred-dollar budget. She’ll reimburse you when you arrive. There will be a key at the front desk waiting for you. Head right up to the penthouse.”
“The toys we’re bringing are all unused, right? Like new and still in the box?”
“Dear God I hope so.”
With that, she hangs up, effectively avoiding any more of my questions that she either does or does not have the answer to.
I look at Black Cat, who has finished his catnip-laced dinner and is now sprawled on his back in the middle of the kitchen floor, paws in the air, absolutely vibing.
“One of us is having a good night,” I tell him.