Watching him die was nearly unbearable, and knowing he was scared of losing everything was gut-wrenching. When it came time for hospice care, one of the last lucid things he said to me was that he was glad he wasn’t dying poor. He’d said it in a darkly humorous way, but the underlying message had hit me hard. That the strong, incredible man who worked hard and took care of everyone wound up spending the final year of his life worried he wouldn’t have enough money to get through haunts me.
Forcing those painful memories away, I put a plastic lid on my hot chocolate and blow out a long breath. “I’m trapped until the right thing comes along. I keep submitting my resume, but you know how the job market is here.”
In LA, there’s always someone right behind you who is willing—desperate, even—to do your job for less money. Frowning, I pick up the hot chocolate and head toward the register. Along the way, I stop and pick up a pack of peanut butter cups, which turns my frown upside down. I can’t help it—my body is a temple primarily built on chocolate. There’s a very good chance that if someone were to tap me like a keg, chocolate syrup would flow out freely.
Rob makes a clucking sound with his tongue when I slide two one-dollar bills across the counter. “I really wish you’d just take the stuff,” he says.
“The day you raise my rent by about sixty-five dollars a month, I’ll stop giving you two dollars a day,” I answer.
“Never gonna happen,” he says as he rings up the purchase and opens the register.
“Which is why I’ll continue paying.”
Rob snickers. “You’re as stubborn as Uncle Lou was,” he teases.
A grin spreads across my face. That’s a compliment and he darn well knows it. We’ve had some version of this same conversation a lot over the last year. Rob’s my biggest cheerleader and my rock. I don’t know what I’d do without him.
I’m well aware that Rob could rent out my apartment for twice what I pay, but he doesn’t because we’re family, albeit not by blood. Because his dad and my grandfather were best friends, he’s been a staple in my life from the beginning.
Sadly, they’re both gone now—Uncle Charlie to a heart attack almost four years ago, my grandfather to cancer last year—but Rob and I are family. Always. In addition to renting to me at a below-market rate, Rob and his girlfriend Karen have a habit of inviting me over for dinner two or three nights a week. They’ve been a blessing to me in every way that matters. Hell will freeze over before I stop paying for what I buy in the store each day.
The sound of a door chime announcing a new arrival tells me it’s time to be on my way.
“All right, I’m off for a fun night of binge-watching Lucif—“
The look on Rob’s face alerts me to the fact that something is very, very wrong. I automatically turn toward the door and then immediately wish I hadn’t. Two men wearing black hoodies pulled up over black baseball caps and black bandanas covering their faces from the eyes down are holding guns. One is pointed at me, the other at Rob. I have approximately two seconds to take all of that in before the man closest to me grabs me by the arm, spins me around so that I’m facing Rob, and puts his gun to my head. The peanut butter cups and hot chocolate I was holding drop to the ground, but I barely feel the piping hot liquid that splashes against my legs.
“Open the register and the fucking safe under the counter and give us all your cash or you and this bitch are gonna die!” the man not holding a gun to my head thunders.
No. No. Oh hell no.
There’s a gun to my head, and the other guy waving the weapon in Rob’s face is not coming across as being cool or collected. This is so, so, so bad. I don’t know what it says about me that one of the first things my stupid brain does is conjure up a memory of my grandmother joking about how important it is to make sure to have on clean underwear when leaving the house, since you never can tell where the day will take you. I know I showered this morning so all my clothes are clean, but still, for a second, I panic that my underwear may not be.
“Stay calm, man,” Rob says in a subdued tone, his gaze flicking between me and the man with the gun trained on him. “You can have the money. I’m not going to put up a fight.”
“Then fuckin’ hurry!” the guy with the gun at the side of my head bellows.