That poor housekeeper. I didn’t know her name because she was the third one we’d had in the past month. They rarely lasted more than a week, two tops. My mother would find some reason to belittle them and then fire them. Another would come along, and I’d feel sorry for them because they were going to work ten times harder than they were getting paid for.
That was why Monica didn’t have house staff, although she claimed she valued her privacy. Probably the biggest lie she’d ever told. My mother preferred people waiting on her hand and foot. When I was little, there was more staff in this house than they employed at the STAPLES Center, or whatever they were calling it now, before a Lakers game. But over the years, the services she looked to for hiring had refused to keep sending people, claiming she was verbally abusive. Which she was. She was also a spoiled, surly, rebellious brat.
Again, I hated that I still lived here.
Looked like the housekeeper’s efforts had been in vain. A glance in the front parlor told me my mother had brought the party in there when she got home. The small throw pillows were on the floor, the coffee table was crooked, and the rug beneath shifted. There were two empty wine bottles, one lying on its side on the floor alongside a half-empty bottle of gin. There were stray pieces of clothing—a leopard print bra, a pair of men’s pants, and two and a half pairs of shoes—beige Valentino rockstud heels, brown Ferragamo loafers, and the other Dior pump.
That put the headcount at three upstairs.
Believe it or not, that wasn’t the record number of people my mother could fit in her bed at one time.
She liked to brag even though I tried to convince her that it made my ears bleed.
Beyond the stray clothing and reclining liquor bottles, there was an ashtray with half a dozen cigarette butts and a roach, along with some scattered papers and a bowl of marijuana. Not all the dried leaves, stems, and seeds were in the bowl. There was plenty of it dusting the tabletop.
Frustrated with my mother’s disregard, I decided to ignore it as I always did. Come morning, the housekeeper would scamper through, tidying up once more, erasing everything as though it hadn’t happened.
If only life were that easy.
With a sigh, I marched toward the stairs leading to the second-floor wings, sidestepping a red thong and a matching bra carelessly left behind.
Monica had one wing, I had the other, and neither of us used more than one room. My mother claimed that not only did she need it for social status, but the space was necessary so she didn’t feel claustrophobic. Telling her five thousand square feet would give her plenty of clout and more than enough breathing room was pointless. She was practically married to this monstrosity of a house.
I turned right at the top of the stairs, then came to a grinding halt when I heard a high-pitched cry coming from my mother’s bedroom.
Based on history, the sound could mean one of two things: either my mother was coming down from her last high, and she was sick, or she had some stranger in her bed. Those were the only two options, both of which I had experienced more times than I could count since I was ten years old and found her passed out on the bathroom floor shortly after some casting producer spent three days attempting to make her fall in love with him.
For the record, she got the part, but only because she blackmailed him with pictures of all the dirty things she’d insisted he do to her. That movie had reignited her career after several years of mediocre parts. Monica got what she wanted as usual, but I think it hurt her that she hadn’t gotten it because of her talent. She put on a brave front for the world, but her alcohol and drug abuse was directly related to her feelings of self-worth, of which she had very little. One might think she would’ve treated me better, considering I was the one person who truly loved her.
Based on the large number of shoes downstairs, not to mention the sounds following the first cry, I knew my mother would survive whatever was taking place behind her closed door. Her guests were obviously taking care of her.
I hurried down the hall to my bedroom, praying that Monica and her guests would not come out until morning. The last thing I wanted was to endure one of her drug-induced tirades or listen to her go on about the orgasms her nameless guests had given her.
I closed my bedroom door silently, flipping the lock for good measure, then went into the adjoining bathroom.
After going into the closet, stripping out of my jeans, T-shirt, and bra, then pulling on a pair of shorts and a tank top, I headed back to the bedroom. I considered washing my makeup off my face but decided I was too tired to bother. I could deal with it in the morning.
Right now, I just wanted to sleep.
A shrill sound jolted me out of a good dream, launching me right back into reality just as someone pounded on my bedroom door.
Sitting up, I tried to clear the cobwebs from my brain to decipher what was happening. A chill skated down my spine as I waited for the obnoxious clang of metal on metal to follow, reminding me I was in a cold, dark concrete box.
My gaze slid to the alarm clock on the nightstand, my brain attempting to determine whether it was really 3:57A.M. or if it was counting down to zero.
“Laikyn! Oh, God, Laikyn! Wake up!”
Monica.
Not a box.
Not a countdown timer.
She pounded on the door. So hard this time, the mirror on the wall rattled.
I bolted out of bed, unlocked the door, and pulled it open, nearly getting a fist in the face when my mother reached to knock again.
“What’s wrong?”
