Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
“They’re on the counter!”
I glare at the kitchen counter piled high with coffee tins, empty grocery bags, a bucket, and a wrench.
I’m fairly certain the protein shakes aren’t there, but I’ll look again.
I hesitantly hover my hands over the items to make sure I haven’t missed them.
As I do, something darts out with a clatter, and I leap back a step.
The multicolored blur darts into the living room and disappears. For a moment, adrenaline sharpens my senses, and I’m hit with the overwhelming scent of cat urine.
A cat. Just a cat.
I suck in a breath. I haven’t seen that one before. I’ve seen the orange, gray, and black one, but that one looked like a tabby.
Fuck. Heart racing, I walk back to my client’s room, and as I do, my shoes stick to the floor.
Ah shit, I forgot to look where I was stepping.
The cats pee everywhere, despite having clean litter boxes.
I keep telling my client they probably need to go to the vet, but he doesn’t listen.
Which makes me unreasonably angry. The rage that bubbles in my chest makes me want to shove Mr. Parker’s door hard enough that it slams against the wall.
Makes me want to demand that he take care of his animals since he has all the money in the world to do so.
And yet, I don’t. Because I need this fucking job.
“They aren’t there, Mr. Parker.” As soon as I walk into the room, I’m surrounded by the distinct stale smell of someone mouth breathing all night in a closed room.
“I put them there yesterday.”
Marvin Parker is on his bed, trying to get up on his own.
“Let me help you.” I rush to grab his walker. Mr. Parker just had open heart surgery and has been dealing with congestive heart failure for years. His family pays for home health care, his mortgage, and everything else he could possibly want.
Like vet bills.
“I don’t need your help,” he snaps, waving a papery hand at me, then reaching for the handle. Only he doesn't put his hand out far enough, and his entire body starts falling when there’s nothing to support it.
I dart in, catching him under the arms. Mr. Parker isn’t frail by any means, but I still keep him up. One of the only good things being big ever did for me.
“I had it,” he splutters.
I help him to the bathroom, where his grumpy mood only increases. He gripes at me all the way till I count out his meds, which I place in his hand. Mr. Parker’s hand shakes, the blue tint under his nails still there despite surgery.
“I don’t need this, I’m going to call my son and have him cancel.”
The pills rattle in the little cup, and he looks down at them. In the process, his hand shakes so badly that a pill slides from the cup to the floor.
“Let me help.”
“You filled it up too much! I’ve told you only one at a time!” Mr. Parker spits the words, and I feel a splatter of spittle on my arm.
For a second, my lip curls. Then all I can smell is nose-burning cat urine.
With great effort, I conceal my reaction. “Here.” I place a new pill back in Mr. Parker’s hand.
“If you can’t do your job, why are you even here?” Mr. Parker continues ranting, and the more he does, the farther away his voice sounds.
I’m hungry. I have a microwave lasagna in my freezer waiting for me. It’s nothing like what I can make from scratch, but it’s cheaper. Plus, I figured out a way to make the edges of the cheese crispy. So in the end, it’s not actually half bad.
By the time my shift is over, Mr. Parker has threatened my job repeatedly.
The more he does, the more my head spins away from reality, like a maple seed dropping off the tree.
Like he plucked me from the branch and now I’m helicoptering down down down into a puddle of fuzziness where I can’t hear the bullshit anymore.
When I pull into my apartment complex, my car still hasn’t stopped that rattling sound it picked up last week.
Awesome.
Getting up to my door, I leave my shoes outside. If someone wants to steal urine-caked sneakers, well then, maybe they’re in a worse spot than I am.
As soon as I get the door unlocked and step inside, I notice it’s quiet in my apartment. Very quiet. And dark.
Moving to the wall, I flick the lights on.
Nothing.
What the hell?
I try another light before I realize the green numbers on my microwave are out. The power is out.
My breaker.
I check it, but none of them are flipped.
Fuck. What the hell is happening?
I run my hand down my face. And that’s when I feel it. It’s warm in here. Like the AC hasn’t been on in a while.
Wait! My food.
It’s not far to my fridge. It’s not far to anything in my one-bedroom apartment.
When I open the fridge, it’s silent, and the light doesn’t come on.
Fuck. Fucking fuck. Dread builds in my stomach.
Is everyone out? I move to the front door and open it. The neighbor’s porch light is on.
My stomach clenches. I’m behind on a bill, but I’m only a few weeks late. Did they turn off my power?
My stomach growls, and I crack the freezer open. A cool breeze hits me in the face, and I let out a tiny sigh of relief. I grab my lasagna, shut the door, then freeze. How am I going to heat it up with no microwave?
Fucking Christ on a stick. I feel my pulse ramping up, but I stamp it back down.
No. I’m just going to pretend like this isn’t happening. If you don’t pay attention to the bad thing, it can’t be real. This is like when you’re falling asleep, and the pile of laundry on your chair looks like a weird ass person. The more you look, the scarier it gets.
I set the frozen meal down on the counter with a clink. I’m sure I have something else. I root around in my cupboard till I find exactly what I was looking for–a half-eaten pack of family-size M&Ms.
As soon as I pop the sweet chocolate into my mouth, I feel my shoulders loosen.
Then my phone buzzes.
Then it buzzes again.
It takes me a second to decide if looking will make the laundry chair scarier, but I end up flipping the phone over anyway.
CUPCAKELOVER: You know skunks??
CUPCAKELOVER: Sweet succotash, do YOU have a skunk?
I stare at the screen for a full twenty seconds. What in the ever-loving fuck?
That’s when I notice the app sending the message. Oh, that’s right. I messaged someone on the pet app. Honestly, I thought he was a scam, though. No way in hell someone’s offering multiple figures for pet sitting.
And no, I don’t have a skunk. I’ve never had a skunk, specifically.
My parents had all kinds of reptiles, snakes, fish, guinea pigs, sugar gliders, and even a mini pig.
But the goddamn money tag on this job sure beats a dog walk or sit.
I mean fuck, I might pay for gas and groceries and maybe my bills. If it’s even real.
Me: I can help.
Me: What are you looking for?
CUPCAKELOVER: Flip yeah! That’s amazing! I haven’t found anyone with experience.
CUPCAKELOVER: I need a sitter for when I’m working.
CUPCAKELOVER: I have odd hours, mostly evenings. But I can be flexible!
That works, given that most of my other job is in the morning. Something feels floaty in my chest. This could work. As soon as I think that, I stamp it back down. I can’t afford to get my hopes up.
It’s warm in here, and I have to wipe the sweat from my fingers before I type.
Me: That should work. I also have odd hours, mostly mornings.
Then, because I feel I have to sweeten the deal, I say:
Me: My parents used to have a skunk. All kinds of exotic animals, really.
Do I feel good about lying? No. It makes the back of my neck prickle like someone’s watching me. But the messages keep coming in.
CUPCAKELOVER: COOL. So cool!
CUPCAKELOVER: Would you be able to start soon?
Me: Sure.
CUPCAKELOVER: Amazing!!!
CUCPAKELOVER: Tonight?
Tonight?? Jesus. I blow out a breath. Before I can think, my phone buzzes again.
CUPCAKELOVER: You can meet Princess.
CUPCAKELOVER: Can show you the ropes.
CUPCAKELOVER: Of course I’ll compensate you for your time.
I glance down at my melting microwave meal with its now-wet cardboard.
Fuck it. Fine.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab my keys and start my car.
It makes a high-pitched whining sound, but still starts, and I head to the address ‘CUPCAKELOVER’ provided.
It’s in a rich area of town. Which both makes me relieved and wary at the same time.
Rich people are bored. Bored enough to mess with you just to get their rocks off.
I better not be about to get murdered and made into a lamp or some shit.
No, no scary thoughts. This isn’t real. None of it is real, I’m just…just…
Fuck. On the off chance that CUPCAKELOVER isn’t trying to turn me into a cupcake meat suit, I suppose I should Google skunks.
What the fuck am I even doing?