Me: Yes.
Heather: Does this have anything to do with why you showed up at my house?
Don’t get her involved with this, I warn myself.
I would never forgive myself if something happened to Heather.
Me: . . .
Heather: That’s not an answer.
Me: I promise I’ll talk to you, but I can’t get into it yet.
Heather: Okay, just promise if you need me before class, you’ll call.
Me: Promise.
The moment I stop typing, the phone rings again.
Erin.
Jeez.
The girl doesn’t get a hint.
I sigh, answering because I know it won’t stop until I do. “Hello?”
“Where are you?”
In Hell.
“It’s a long story.”
“I went to your house, and it’s boarded up. What did you do?”
It’s such an Erin thing to say, so laced with a venomous accusation that I can’t help but laugh.
“God, Erin, why do you think it’s always me?”
“Things go to shit when you are around,” she answers, and I need to bite my tongue to stop myself from unleashing my beast on her.
As much as I want to tell her why that’s not true, I’m too tired to fight right now. That’s how it is with Erin. The victor in the argument is always the one left standing. Doesn’t matter how wrong or right the winner is. It’s about the stamina, and Trent Aldridge has just about drained me dry.
“Are you calling just to yell at me? Because I am busy.”
I’m not busy at all.
I mean, unless you consider pacing the length of my gilded cage important. At the very least, it’s more important than this conversation.
“Busy doing what?”
“If that’s all, Erin, I have to go.” My thumb hovers over the end button, my patience dwindling by the second. I can’t believe I didn’t want to live with her because SHE lives with a creeper. Irony at its best and all.
“Wait!” she shouts, and like a glutton for punishment, I do. “Just tell me you didn’t get evicted because you did something stupid and lost my money.”
“What kind of an idiot do you take me for?” I huff. I’m done with this right now. “I’ve got to run. I’ll call you back.”
Then, before she can dig into me some more, I’m hanging up, throwing myself on the bed, and closing my eyes. My day just started, and I’m already exhausted.
Two days have gone by since I’ve seen Trent. It’s now Monday, and I don’t know where I stand.
Do I go to school?
Class doesn’t start for about five hours.
Fuck it, I’m going.
I spent the weekend in my bedroom and only came out to grab food, sneaking into the kitchen and raiding the stocked fridge as silently as I could.
A part of me expected him to storm in with a mop and bucket and have me cleaning already.
But color me surprised when it’s completely radio silent where Trent Aldridge is concerned. There’s been nothing from him.
Not a damn thing.
He hasn’t even been here at the loft, I don’t think.
I should count myself lucky, but instead of feeling relief, I’m on edge. It’s a bit frightening. And perhaps by design. You never know with Trent. I’m starting to understand that. The hard way.
It’s like I know there’s another set of shoes about to drop soon, and now I’m waiting. It makes every second unbearable.
Way too many things are falling from the sky and landing on my head these days. I’m going to have to invest in a steel umbrella.
A knock on my door breaks me from my thoughts.
I’m already dressed and showered, so I get off the edge of the bed where I’m sitting and head over to open it.
A stout woman stands before me, dressed in a crisp pantsuit and pearls. She’s wearing an expressionless mask, talking into a headset looped around her earlobe. When she sees me, she pauses and clicks a button on the headset.
“Hello.” She nods her head in greeting. It’s formal and stiff, like everything else about her. “I’m Gail. I work for Mr. Aldridge. He informed me that you will be helping out around the house while Christina is away.”
The name tag pinned to her chest reads Gail Hanley, and below it, her title as house manager. It sinks in. She’s treating me like I am her employee. And given my deal with Trent, I guess I am.
“Yes.” I nod. “Did you need me now?”
If she finds my arrangement with Trent weird, she doesn’t show it. She steps to the side, making way for me. “I do.”
At her words, I follow her, closing the door behind me. “I have class in a few hours.”
“Yes, Mr. Aldridge has made us aware of your schedule. This morning, it will only be light work. Just helping to tidy the kitchen for Chef.”
We round the long hall, which spits us out in the living room.
“You call the chef, Chef?”
I feel like I’m in an alternate universe. A universe where there are house managers, private chefs, and maids. A universe . . . in the eighteenth century?