Everything grates my nerves lately.
We’ve tried to make this cramped apartment a home, but it remains a certified shithole. The wallpaper’s peeling, the floors are rising for some freaky reason, crap keeps breaking, and no amount of Target artwork or scented candles can disguise the fact that this apartment is two steps from condemned.
Home sweet home,La Maison du Leak.
Just last week, it was like Niagara Falls in my bedroom, thanks to the genius living upstairs. I’m pretty sure the building is haunted by a vengeful dead plumber. When I called the landlord, he was allStick a bucket under it until I get off my lazy ass. At least that’s what I heard. Any year now.
I must make some sound of frustration because Grace pauses her noisy fridge ransacking to glance over.
“You okay? Need a snack?” She offers me string cheese. “You’re looking kind of tense.”
“Just reviewing numbers,” I reply tightly, gloom radiating from the screen. “Mom’s payment is due.”
Overdue.
“Ah.” Grace spins around our sad little kitchen, avoiding the peeling floor like she’s in some dance routine. She perches on our wobbly stool. “It’s okay! I can pick up more hours at Stan’s. You want some of that nettle tea I got? It’s really soothing.”
Nettle tea, yeah right. I need a fucking IV drip of Xanax. Or tequila.
Grace only knows the tip of the iceberg when it comes to our money troubles. A few shifts at Stan’s Burger Pit aren’t going to put a dent in this mess. Besides, she already juggles college and twenty hours a week at that dive.
She missed backpacking Europe with her friends, and I hate that she made that sacrifice. Just because I never finished college doesn’t mean Gracie should miss out on life.
“Absolutely not,” I say, probably too sharply. “Your only job right now is focusing on classes and leaving the money stuff to me. I’ve got this.”
Except, I’ve “got this” in a way that twists my gut into knots.
My phone buzzes. The text is short:Outside.
Speak of the devil. Right on time.
Adrenaline spikes through me. Here we go again.
I grab my jacket and head for the door, bracing myself for another night of morally questionable choices.
“Where are you off to?” Grace asks through a mouthful of Lo Mein.
“Just a quick errand. Won’t be long.” I force a smile, feeling like the world’s worst liar.
“You and your ‘errands’ at weird hours . . .”
I shrug, patting her shoulder. “Boring work stuff. I’ll grab something fresh for dinner on the way back. You know that Chinese takeout is ancient, right?”
She smirks. “Bet it’s a secret boyfriend.”
If only she knew. My own personal demon, more like.
It’s better she dreams up romantic tales. The less Grace knows, the better.
???
I hop into Deano’s flashy BMW, hands slick with sweat. It smells like an ashtray in here—if there’s anything I despise more than Deano, it’s cigarettes. For obvious reasons, not to mention they reek like garbage marinated in urine.
He swivels toward me, muscles flexing. He’s the type of guy who gives pep talks to his biceps in the mirror. Just a nonstop parade of toxic masculinity and protein powder burps.
“Look who decided to grace me,” he says with a smirk, manspreading aggressively.
“Hey,” I mumble, only meeting his gaze fleetingly. Any longer and I might have to gouge my eyes out with a spoon.
