“What do you say, Emilia?” I ask, leaning into the mic.
But the sounds that are coming from Evan’s end of the line now are…well, frankly they’re the kind that we do have to bleep.
“Horny little shits,” I laugh. “That sounds like a yes, folks.”
I turn the volume up and let the music play them out.
By the time my shift is over, the sun is coming up. I’m fumbling around for the keys to my door when I find Rainier’s note again.
Gah. This shouldn’t still be bothering me, dammit!
Except that it is. It totally is.
I shove it back into my pocket and head for the elevator.
If Evan and Emilia are getting their happily ever after…
Then dammit, I’m going to set this right.
; Four
Rainier
She was on my mind for my entire shift.
It’s strange how a single, simple memory of a hot naked blonde waiting for her clothes to finish drying got me through twelve grueling hours of work…but it did.
It got me through the emergency appendectomy that we caught just in time.
Through the careful extraction of three quarters that a sobbing four-year-old decided to stash up his nose.
Through the five minutes I spent wrestling a loaded pistol from the hands of a Wall Street fat cat who had put all his money on the wrong company, and through the hour I spent talking him down afterward before they could find a bed for him in the psych ward.
It even got me through the awkward explanations of a man who accidentally sat on a 12-inch vibrating dildo, accidentally getting it stuck up his ass.
Poor fucker vibrated the entire way to the ER, too.
So, yeah. I thought of Sabrina’s tits for twelve hours straight.
Even I can admit that it wasn’t healthy, but even I can’t deny that it helped me get through the day, either.
By the time I get home, all I want to do is start knocking on doors. The Bradford is a tall building with a lot of apartments to cover, but I figure if I do a few every night, eventually I’ll either find her or come to regret it.
But even if I did find her…I don’t know what the fuck I would even say.
Hey, Sabrina, congrats on your pregnancy. I knocked on every door of this building because I’m in love with your cunt. Wanna leave your husband for me and hop on my dick?
Not fucking likely.
Instead, I slump down on my couch and consider my options.
She still has my lab coat.
And she’s got my apartment number.
It’s something. And I’m grasping at straws here—so something actually means a lot.