The problem is, I’m not the kind of person who can separate sex from a relationship. I don’t know how to date just for sex. I try to picture the guys I date in the vision of what I want my future life to be. It’s all very serious, and no one measures up, and I’m left using my fingers and vibrator instead of lowering my standards to have my needs met and then kicking the guy out the door in the morning.
“I will get them all arranged,” I promise Janette, who has stopped to lean her hip against my desk.
It’s a good sign. It means she’s winding down. When she pauses to actually make conversation I know she’ll be leaving soon.
“I have potential clients coming in from Madison next week. I need to wine and dine them—show them what’s special about Chicago. Any ideas on where to take them?”
“You could always do one of the skyrise restaurants overlooking the city.”
Janette wrinkles her nose. “Too stuffy. They’re young. It’s Skate 3—three Youtube skateboard stars who have monetized their popularity with an online store that’s grossing three hundred grand a month. So I need something more lively and hip. What’s new around Chicago for nightlife?”
I nibble the inside of my lip. “Let me think about it, and I’ll make you a list of possible options.”
Janette rewards me with a smile and a quick tap of her manicured fingers on my desk. “That would be great. I knew you’d have some ideas. You’re young and out on the scene more than I am.”
I don’t disabuse her of the notion that I actually have a social life. I mean, I would like to have a social life. I partied a little in college with my roommate Shanna. But after my dad’s suicide, I pretty much packed that side of me up and shoved her in a box.
These days my social life consists of going to happy hour on Wednesdays when Shanna works the bar and seeing my younger brother, Zane, once a week for dinner, except he’s flaked the last couple of weeks. I’m afraid he may be partying too much. His grades last semester were definitely down.
The thought of him ending up like my dad keeps me up at night.
I start straightening my desk, hoping I’ve read the signs right, and it’s okay to leave for the day.
Janette stands. “All right, I’m heading out. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I shut down my computer and follow her out of the building, already starting to assemble the list of possible places she could take the clients in my head. By the time I’ve ridden the train home, I have a half-dozen ideas. I text them to myself as I walk the couple blocks to the place I rent.
When I push open the door of my apartment, I catch sight of my brother’s long body crashed out on my couch. Relief at seeing him is quickly replaced by concern.
“Zane? What’s up? Are you sick?”
It’s not completely unusual for him to be here. He comes by sometimes to do his laundry, but something feels off about him being here on a Friday night.
I catch sight of his face in the fading light and shriek. It’s been beaten. It’s swollen, almost unrecognizable.
“Oh my God! What happened to you?”
He groans.
“Zane?” I rush to his side, my heart thundering. “Oh my God. Should I call an ambulance? Who did this?”
The sense of dread coursing through my veins tells me I already suspect what happened. He’s into something bad. Dammit. I feared something like this was coming but kept trying to talk myself out of the worry.
“I ran into a couple guys’ fists.” Zane attempts to sit up, gasping at the effort.
“What. Happened?” I demand. I want the whole story. Whatever it is he’s been hiding from me for the past few months.
My brother is all I have in the world, and he’s my responsibility. I may only be five years older, but after our dad’s death, I became my brother’s guardian and the trustee of his college fund. I’m supposed to be taking care of him, and I’ve obviously screwed up, royally.
Tears burn my eyes. “Zane, tell me what’s going on,” I beg.
He winces as he draws a breath. “I owe some guys money,” he admits.
“What guys? Drug dealers?”
“No.”
It’s a tiny relief. He’s been so off lately that I’ve suspected he’s been using drugs recreationally.
“Bratva.”
“What?”
“They’re Russian mafiya. I got behind on my gambling debts.”
“Fuck, Zane.”
Goddammit. I knew it! I freaking knew it.
I stand up and start pacing. “How much do you owe them?”
“Probably around forty grand now. They took the Mustang today and said they’d wipe the full value off what I owe.”
“I seriously doubt that.” Loan sharks give notoriously bad terms. They aren’t going to give him full value for his car. “Who are these guys?” I repeat, even though he already told me.