10. PAIGE
TEN
PAIGE
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Buffy, fuck. What is that?
I feel the vibration rattling in my head. My eyes peel open but immediately shut again when the heavy stream of light blinds me from the window.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Oh my God. I’m going to diiie.
Ugh. I could only be so lucky. My brain feels like it’s bobbing in a pool of champagne and tears, and holy fuck I am not a fan.
It’s then that I notice my temple is pressing against a hard surface, and I roll to my back.
Oh, holy shit.
A sharp twinge between my shoulder blades shoots a reminder of how monumentally stupid I am—up my spine and into my brain.
A whiney groan pushes past my lips. The aftereffects of getting shitfaced and sleeping on the floor.
And crying. Don’t forget about the massive amounts of crying.
Buffy fucking bless.
The buzzing finally stops. I now recognize it’s my phone vibrating, but I think it’s over on the counter and . . . I think I need to live on the floor.
I have the displeasure of not only feeling every tug and pinch in my back—but thanks to the full length mirror leaning on the wall across from me—I get to watch for a full minute while I flop and push my way to a standing position.
When I’m finally, kind of, upright, I stare at my bare legs, seeing a bruise on my calf from swinging it too hard around the pole. Improper weight placement, as Rio would say.
That catches my eye first, then my gaze drifts up to my black booty shorts and white tank top, covered by Gram’s oversized cardigan from my dreams. Visions.
I’m going fucking mad.
My eyes are puffy and bloodshot, and the silverish-blue nest on my head falls a bit when I cradle my face in my palms, flinching when my neck spasms.
I tut through another whine at the pain—at the forty bucks I spent yesterday, after learning I’d be unexpectedly out of work for three days.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“ Have to be young and stupid to become old and wise, ” I hear Gram’s voice distantly, and it does the smallest bit to ease my aching body—my heart.
I moan and groan through my few steps to the small kitchenette, just beside my front door, deciding I need water and coffee immediately.
Between starting the coffee and grabbing the water pitcher out of my fridge, I pick up my phone from the counter and see that it’s just after noon.
Yay for small victories, I guess. My little breakdown at least managed to get me a solid eight hours of sleep.
But then I see that the source of the buzzing was a missed call from Jackson.
He didn’t leave a message but then texted—
Jackson:
Call me.
Immediately, I want to ignore the message. Why he felt the need to text me something that’s made pretty fucking clear by a missed call is beyond me—but this is Jackson Thorough Hardass III .
Maybe he’s calling to see if I want to pick up a floor shift. The cocktail waitresses make next to nothing compared to the dancers—but I guess beggars can’t be choosers.
I click on his name, calling him back as the coffee pot starts to bubble, the smell igniting a small excitement at the promise of its magical wakey-wakey powers.
On the third ring, he answers, “Jackson.”
I snort. “God, you and the Hollywood sign.”
“What?” he says back quickly.
I shake my head, wincing at the pinching pain between my shoulders. My teeth clench before I say, “Forget it. What’s up?”
“Heard you were out the rest of the week.”
I shake my head, wincing. “No, I’m okay,” I lie. “I can come in.”
I hear him blow a “psh” noise through the phone. He’s probably having a cigarette, but says, “And risk the wrath of Rio? No thank you.”
My mouth quirks at the corner. I don’t know their history—just that they seem to have one. I don’t think it’s romantic, but there’s a deep respect —a fondness— between them, that suggests they know each other outside The Window.
He clears his throat, ironing out his measured tone before he says, “Well, this might help. I just wanted to let you know that you have a Veranda gig on Saturday.”
My eyes squint, studying the statement like I can see it in front of me—rearranging the letters and trying to make sense of it.
“Blue?” he says.
I nod, but then realize he can’t see me and say, “Yeah. Um . . . who requested me ?”
It wasn’t a vanity question. I had only heard about Veranda gigs through “someone, who knows someone, who knows someone.” But I knew enough to know that the “entertainment” was chosen by the patron booking the room.
“You know I can’t tell you that. You’ll get the information at the debriefing on Saturday, so be here by six at the absolute latest.”
He puts such a hard emphasis on the time that it quite literally shoves me into the decision to be purposefully late.
That, and the fact that he’s telling me, not asking me, is twisting its way through my nerves, tightening my limbs and reawakening the soreness.
Veranda events aren’t “required.” They’re more, “You can say no, but you definitely shouldn’t say no.” Wink wink.
I mean, there were rumors that the gig was a guaranteed five grand paycheck, plus tip—but no one can ever confirm anything because the engagements are tightly wound in nondisclosures.
That kind of money wouldn’t cost nothing.
“Blue,” Jackson barks through the phone.
“Huh?”
“I knew you weren’t listening.”
I was not.
I clear my throat, trying to shake the unease, muttering, “Got it. Be there by seven. Don’t be late.”
“If you’re a minute after six—”
“Yeah, yeah. You’ll huff and puff and blow my job away. Don’t you think it’d be more fun to find something else to blow, Sergeant Hardass?”
I can practically feel the smoke coming out of his ears through the phone, and a blip of satisfaction finds its way to my chest, tilting the corner of my mouth up.
He’s so fucking serious all the time that I can’t help but push his buttons. It’s my own measly form of entertainment—misery loves company and all that—but I’m nearly certain the enjoyment is one-sided.
“Get some rest,” he says, tightly. “I’ll see you Saturday.”
“Wait—” I stop him and hear his impatient sigh through the phone.
I want to ask him for a bit more clarification. The expectations of the Veranda, but I can practically hear him tapping his metaphorical watch through the phone.
“Nevermind,” I mutter. “Thanks.”
His salutation is a grunt before he hangs up, and my mouth flattens.
Dick.
I lose the day, slipping in and out of painful consciousness. So by ten o’clock at night, I lay in bed, nowhere near sleep.
My mind is tossing when my body turns, then twisting and tumbling down my throat, rattling me like a raging river through a gorge.
“ Vibrating at a very high frequency, ” I hear Gram say.
I take a deep breath and twist toward my nightstand, grateful the movement is a little less painful—after my stretching session with Cheeto on my shoulder, between naps, my muscles still feel strained, but less actively irritated.
I pick up my phone and see that Rio texted me back. I had messaged her earlier, asking if she knew anything about the Veranda gigs.
Rio:
They’re just private shows. Good $$. And since it’s kink night, the costume I’m making you is basically leather dental floss lol.
I huff. Great. Still, my mouth ticks up, before I slide the phone back on the nightstand, staying curled on my side.
I guess if Rio isn’t concerned, then it really isn’t a big deal. And if Veranda events are as good of a payout as they’re rumored to be, it’ll help offset my little injury hiatus.
Gram’s chuckle weaves its way through my chest. It feels as real as her cardigan I’m currently wrapped in. I hear her again, “ Such loud thoughts for a little thing. ”
A heavy sigh pushes past my lips. “Just a bad feeling,” I mumble out loud, responding to the voice in my head, but . . . I know I’m alone. Except for Cheeto, of course.
When I don’t get a response, it’s confirmed. This isn’t a real conversation. I know the difference.
In the many times I’ve questioned my sanity in the last seven years—my imaginary conversations with her since her death have been the front-runner.
But every time I wonder if I’ve actually snapped, I’m faced with the unfortunate reality that I’m entirely aware these conversations with her are not real.
A heavy yawn stretches my mouth before I release it with an exhale. And really, is that any better?
God, I need to focus on something else.
My eyes drift just past my nightstand, just to the other side of it where the doorway to my small walk-in closet sits open.
Closing my eyes, I visualize my laptop, sitting on top of the small, three-drawer dresser, just inside the archway. The top drawer that holds . . .
I think about it. My eyes open, and I even sit up with the idea. I could open the drawer, take out the box—I could turn on the laptop.
But fear stops me. It keeps me in the bed.
It forces me to lie back down.
“ Sleep now, my girl. ”