4

The maid appears in my mind’s eye, luscious, perfect. Sinfully sweet. I shake the image away. I don’t know where I went wrong with Joel, but I’m not like him. I’m not going to take advantage of someone who works under my protection.

I try to lose myself in a pet project for a local charity, providing paid internships and occupational training to people in underserved communities. I swear out loud when I realize I’ve read the same draft of a press release four times without comprehending any of it.

It’s that maid. I can’t get her out of my head. There’s something about her, and it’s not merely that I think she can do better than my asshole son.

I know it’s terrible to think of him that way, but when it comes to women, he’s never seemed to treat them quite right. I hope someday that’ll change. It might be time for me to have a word with him. Again.

A text appears on my phone, from Sebastian. If we don’t go to Vice, how are you going to find a date for the gala?

“I don’t need a date,” I growl to myself. And then I text that exact sentence to Bash.

Tomorrow, he writes back. We’re going to Vice. We don’t have to pick anyone up. Just come hang. Please. You know I won’t go by myself.

And he won’t. He could easily go by himself, but he’s too fucking scared of the past to do it.

Fine, I write back. Tomorrow. 10pm. I’ll meet you there.

I lean back in my chair, thinking maybe I should just forget working any longer tonight. I can go home, maybe jerk off and think about the hot little maid. No, not her. She’s seeing my son, or at least messing around with him. Fantasizing about her would be truly dirty.

But then again, dirty is just how I like to fuck.

Ella

The light in front of my apartment building is still broken. Over the past two weeks, I’ve left three messages for the landlord asking him to fix it, but apparently he has more pressing matters to attend to, like getting high and selling drugs.

The Bellefleur District of San Esteban isn’t really known for its nice streetlights and considerate landlords. I should be grateful that I have hot water most days.

I balance leftover Chinese food in one arm while I get my keys out to unlock the building’s main door. But as I move to fit the key into the lock, I realize I needn’t have bothered with the key; the last person through the door left it ajar. If people don’t make an effort to slam it closed, the thing doesn’t latch properly.

I slam it firmly behind me.

Once inside, I trek up the two flights of stairs necessary to reach my third-floor apartment. My feet hurt like crazy and I cannot wait to sit my ass down on the couch, gorge myself on leftover Chinese, and then haul my weary bones to bed.

My keyboard sits safely under its cover in the corner. The very sight of it makes me feel guilty. I haven’t played any music or tried coming up with a new song in ages. It’s hard to drum up the motivation when I’m so exhausted.

I don’t have a TV. Instead, I make do with an old laptop. The things I watch on VideYou are mostly videos made by independent singers and songwriters. That’s my tribe, even though they don’t know me and they probably never will.

The general’s chicken dish is so spicy, I have to guzzle water, which doesn’t really help. I miss Joel’s office—he always has a few bottles of beer in a minibar off to one side.

Mr. Tyler has a similar minibar. I can’t really imagine him using it. If he does get a drink, he’s probably pouring fine whiskey. Something distinguished. There’s an old-school vibe to the man, and I find myself wondering just how old he is.

He didn’t look too old for me, not when he stood in the supply closet doorway.

Fuck, what does he think of me? He nearly walked in on me giving head to his son.

Someone bangs on my door, and I jolt in surprise. The carton of general’s chicken topples. I catch it just in time and right it, propping it next to my laptop and sighing.

It’s after midnight. There’s only one person who would be coming to my apartment at this hour.

I make my way to the door just as he pounds on the surface again.

“Ella? Lemme in, it’s Tommy.”

His speech isn’t slurred, so he’s at least sober. He’s not an alcoholic, but he sometimes drinks, and then he’s mean.

“How’d you get into the building?” I ask as I unlock the deadbolt and the chain.

“Someone didn’t latch the door downstairs.” He spills into my tiny living room, taking up more space than his lanky, six-foot frame should need.

Someone must have come in after me, and they weren’t careful. I should ask the landlord to fix the door, but I know how much good that’ll do.

“Hey, sis,” Tommy says. “Ooh, Chinese food.”

He picks up my chopsticks and helps himself, taking my nice warm spot on the couch.

“Tommy,” I say. “We talked about this. You’re supposed to call first, remember?”

“It’s not like you’re entertaining anyone,” he says with a chuckle, then shoves more of my second dinner into his face.

“Do you mind?” I say. “I was eating that.”

He looks puzzled. Typical Tommy. Like, how could another person have been existing and living their own life before he walked into the room? He carefully sets the carton and chopsticks down.

“Go on, you can eat it,” I say.

“You sure?”

“Yes, just eat it, for fuck’s sake. What do you need, Tommy?”

“Just wanted to say hi,” he says.

He never just wants to say hi. I give him my most skeptical look.

“Okay, yeah, I could use a place to crash tonight,” he says. “My roommate’s pissed at me again.”

Gee, I wonder what he could possibly do to piss off another human being.

“Yeah, you can crash here,” I say. “But you take the couch this time.”