No, I am not your pretty lady, asshole. And no, I will not come over there. I don’t even bother to ask myself if anyone ever actually responded to this bullshit because the answer is, ofcourse not. Yet these jackals shout it every night likethisis the time some girl will peel off from her group of friends to scream, “Take me! I’m yours!”
The light’s out in the hallway again. I’d ask our landlady Mrs. Accardi if she could replace it, but her usual response to such requests is to blow smoke in my face and slam her door. She’s been renting out carved-up portions of her house for years and has no interest in whether one of her tenants trips and falls to their death on her splintery stairs, much less if they can see to walk up them.
If I’m lucky, my roommates - Jeanie, a student on a break year from Australia and Gabby, who sings on the second floor at Club Vice - will have left me a liter or two of hot water so I can take a decent shower. God, I hope they left me some water.
The thought that once I had half a dozen bathrooms to pick from when I wanted a shower seems laughable now. Did I really grow up in that mansion, spend my summers at horse camp and the rest of the year in boarding school?
I can’t seem to remember a time when I didn’t have to add up purchases on my phone at the checkout line to make sure I had enough money and didn’t embarrass myself.
“Thank you, to all the lesser gods of water-based implements,” I sigh gratefully, toweling my hair dry. There is enough hot water for a full five, glorious minutes and by the time I’m shaking out my blankets for the couch, the rest of the night’s clamoring has dulled to a buzz in the back of my head. This is a one-bedroom flat, so Jeanie and Gabby share the bedroom and I get the couch in the tiny living room. I’m tired enough these days that I can sleep through anything less than Jeanie’s attempts at Karaoke.
One last thing…
Pulling my burner phone out from the underside of the couch, I dial the only number in it.
“Sloan, are you all right?”
Relief sends an infuriating wave of moisture to my eyes. Carmella sounds calm, which means Nate had a good day.
“I’m good, everything’s fine. I’m just checking in on you two. How did Nate do with his chelation appointment?”
“He wasn’t happy,” I hear the wry humor in her tone, “he threatened to kill the doctor and feed him to the poor.”
“So, like always then.” I crawl out the kitchen window and huddle on the creaky fire escape. There’s club music echoing down the street and bursts of drunken laughter, but I can still smell the sweet scent of oregano from the herbalist shop and the tang of sea salt from the ocean. “Did Dr. Ramirez change his diet again?”
“No, he was pleased Nate was tolerating complex carbohydrates again.”
“Oh, good.” Resting my head against the windowsill, I struggle to keep my eyes open.
“There is something…” she says regretfully. I’m suddenly wide awake.
“What? Have you seen anyone hanging around? Or phone calls? Are you getting random calls?”
“No! No,” she hurries to calm me, “we’re safe, I’ve seen nothing that worries me. It’s about the clinic payments.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to stave off my oncoming headache. “Tell me.”
“They’re raising costs, I could tell Dr. Ramirez was genuinely regretful to have to tell me.”
“How much more?”
“Another $5,000 a month,” she says quietly.
Five thousand. It may as well be five hundred bazillion dollars.
“Okay… okay. Well, I…”
Don’t you dare cry!
“Sloan, I’m sorry,” she says miserably. “I can start researching clinics again.”
“We both know this is the best option,” I sigh, “maybe the only one. I’ll call the Broker and see if he’s sold my mother’s necklace yet. That would bring in at least twenty thousand.”
“What time is it there?” she scolds gently. “Get some sleep. We’ll figure this out, okay?”
“Yeah,” I’m nodding into the phone like an idiot. “I got this. Goodnight, C. Thank you, for everything.”
“Goodnight, you get some sleep, you hear me?”
