“Shit! Motherfucker!” I throw the blanket onto the floor and bolt off the sofa, snagging one of the shopping bags of clothes on my way to the bathroom. I’m royally screwed and probably going to jail.
Less than a minute later, I throw open the door, grab my phone and charging cord from the coffee table, and hightail it out of the apartment with the echo of Naomi’s annoying cackle and the aroma of her vanilla coffee behind me.
My piece of shit brown Ford Taurus gives me fits when I try to start it, but after banging the palm of my hand against the steering wheel and the dash, it rattles to life. The AC doesn’t work, so I crack the windows.
The Rawlings are twenty minutes from my apartment, and that’s with no traffic. I’m hitting rush hour.
Thirty minutes later, I jog toward the house from my crappy parking job across the street; I tuck in my shirt and run my hands through my hair. There’s a slight minty taste left in my mouth from the toothpaste I squirted into it while taking the world’s fastest piss earlier.
“Please be in a good mood. Please …” I mutter while ringing the doorbell.
The solid wood raised-panel door opens slowly. Rupert eyes me with a blank expression as he tightens the sash of his maroon robe over his navy pajamas.
I open my mouth to spew my excuse, and he slams the door shut.
Gulp.
“I’m an idiot,” I say, scrubbing my hands over my face. Idesperatelydon’t want to go back to jail.
The door clicks open again, and I quickly drop my hands and compose myself.
“Make it swift, honest, and good if you don’t want me to call the police,” Rupert says.
Swift, honest, and good?
“Uh …”
He closes his eyes and shakes his head half a dozen times. “Your reason for being late,” he says impatiently.
“My phone is my alarm, and it was dead because I thought the cord was plugged into the wall. It wasn’t. I’m sorry.”
“Are you drunk?”
“What? No.” I blow in my hand and smell my breath. Why does he think I’m drunk?
“High?”
“No.”
“Were you with a woman last night?”
“No. Why? Want some tips?” As soon as those words leave my mouth, I internally cringe. As if I’m not on thin ice already, why did I say that?
“Is that all you offer? Just the tip?” he asks.
“It’s usually all they can accommodate,” I say because I’m incapable of not saying stupid stuff.
Rupert lifts his chin and scratches his neck, and he does so with a grin. “You’re an arrogant little shit.”
“Why are you so certain my dick is small?” I step inside without waiting for a formal invitation. “Yesterday, you suggested I keep it in my ‘trousers’ so I don’t embarrass myself. I’m not embarrassed. And I’ve received nothing but compliments. If you know what I mean?”
He closes the door and slides his hands into his robe pockets. “What do you have going on here?” He nods at me, eyes focused on my clothes.
I glance down. “Uh …” I smooth my hand along the button-down shirt. “Mrs. Rawlings bought these for me.”
Rupert steps closer, trapping the jeans tag between his fingers and giving it a yank.
“Stop!” I say a half second too late.
