“I always wait up for you.”
The couch in our living room was my dad’s bed. There were only two bedrooms in our tiny house, and he refused to sleep in the same room with Dylan. My brother snored like a freight train.
“Don’t forget to turn off the TV. Don’t you dare wash the dishes. It’s Dylan’s turn. Flo is coming by to pick up the couch I refurbished. She owes me two fifty for that. Make sure you count, Dad. I’ve been working on that for two months during my spare time.”
“I’ll write it on my body so I don’t forget. Anything else, ma’am? I think I still have room on my back to write on.”
I laughed. “Don’t forget to call Mrs. Chung.”
“Will do. Have fun tonight. Love you, sweetheart.”
“Love you, Dad.”
* * *
T: Wanna Netflix and chill?
I laughed as I read Tala’s text.
K: As long as you keep your hands to yourself, we won’t have a problem.
T: Why? You do know I only want you for your body, right?
K: Yeah, but you never pay tho. This shit’s not for free yo.
K: P.S. I’m a block away. Get the milkshakes ready!
T: You’re such a gold digger. See you soon xoxo
I tucked my phone in my parka, pushed the door open, and stepped out of the coffee shop.
I’d just finished my four-hour shift and was seriously thinking of walking to her house instead of driving there to save gas money.
It was three blocks away.
I disliked any form of exercise that didn’t involve earning money by the hour.
Well, there were always exceptions.
Although I wished I could get paid for breathing.
Wouldn’t that make things easier?
I needed to double super save now—more than ever before—just in case my blackmailer proved to be a diva and asked me to drive him all the way to Timbuk-fucking-tu.
It was necessary to talk to him about his terms—and mine—and get all of it in writing. You can’t fully trust people nowadays. Especially someone as slick as he was.
I gripped my phone in my pocket.
There had been no text, no call—nothing, nada, zilch—from him.
I’d been looking at my phone on and off at work to the point of getting the stink eye from my manager, Ramandeep. Couldn’t blame her, really.
It was driving me batshit crazy.
When did he want me to pick him up? How often? Where?
I’ll let you know.