You Own Me (Owned 1)

The voices were on a recording loop.

“Three, four—”

I smashed the box against the wall.

This was too fucking much. Dean had placed a recording of terrifying children outside of my door. A threat, no less. Dean knew my history with mental illness and was using it against me.

Cocksucker.

Brilliant, evil, cocksucker.

What kind of game was he playing? And how many lives did I have left?

I hadn't seen Carl and Eileen since they'd tried to extort me. I'd talked with them over phone and email to make sure everything was going according to plan, but I hadn't actually seen them. I hadn't had time. The deal was that they would get paid, and the mansion would remain intact for the party. There would be no major renovations, no sales, nothing. I assumed everything would go smoothly.

I had forgotten what complete and utter fuckheads Carl and Eileen are.

The day before the party, I arrived at the mansion to help set up. My mouth dropped open and a fly flew in.

The place was completely trashed; I'm talking 1980s Johnny Depp trashed. There was graffiti on the walls, trash all over the floors, weird looking stains on the carpet, and a funky smell that permeated every room. There was no time to deal with the Hammershits because I had to deal with their mess.

I could get rubber gloves and trash bags and get rid of the garbage. But that smell, the smell had to go. What even made that kind of noxious smell? It was like spoiled meat mixed with old Mexican food and greasy french fries.

If I wasn't so peeved off and terrified of losing my job, I might have laughed at the way all the vendors just stood around looking. It was clear no one was expecting this. Or, maybe they were. I don't know what other venues these people have worked at.

Lissie came up to my side. “I didn't know you were here today,” I said to her.

She shrugged. “What the hell is this place? And what is that smell?” Lissie wrinkled her nose.

It was my turn to shrug. “I didn't choose it like this. The assholes who own the place did this.”

“Bethany will have a conniption if she sees it like this,” Lissie said.

Bethany can go fuck herself, is what I wanted to say. She gave me a very important client and a nearly Mission Impossible-style job, yet she didn't offer any advice or help. What kind of boss does that? Not to mention her skeevy behavior lately. “Yeah, well, let's make sure she doesn't see it then,” is what I said instead.

“How do you propose to do that?” Lissie asked, concern lacing her voice.

I bit the inside of my cheek, mulling over her question. I had no idea. I'd already used all the tricks up my sleeve. I couldn't pull a cleaning crew out like a rabbit out of a hat. Suddenly, I wanted to cry. I hadn’t cried in years, but right now I wanted to full on, ugly cry. I wanted to be young again and able to cry without consequences. I wanted to feel like crying would solve something. It wouldn't solve anything, though. It would simply ruin the little bit of makeup I was wearing.

I kicked a piece of trash. “This is so stupid,” I muttered to myself like a petulant child. Lissie patted my back lightly, and that was all it took to completely unravel. I didn’t cry because I don’t cry anymore, but I felt myself spinning out of control.

“Excuse me!” I sniffed, running in to another room. I couldn’t take it anymore. It seemed like since being handed this stupid job nothing ever went right. Was it so much to ask that one thing went according to plan? I crouched down in the bathroom, trying to keep quiet as I hyperventilated.

I only had a day to clean this up. Actually, strike that, I had less than a day because I had to clean up and also set up. It would take some kind off miracle to pull this off.

I was fucked.

So it didn’t take a miracle, just a clearer head.

After running in to the bathroom yesterday and proceeding to hyperventilate until I nearly passed out, it became much easier to clean up Carl and Eileen's mess.

I called them and threatened them with a lawsuit. They profusely denied any involvement, or tried at least. I ha

dn’t been fazed. There was a clause in our agreement that protected Simply Santa Barbara against this kind of thing. I should have checked the contract first but, being the stone-cold genius I am, waited until the last minute to do that.

With their backs against the wall, Carl and Eileen magically had a solution.

They showed up with a cleaning crew and had the place spotless within the hour. Naturally, they wanted to know when they were being paid. In full, of course. I felt violent toward them. Violence. So much violence. In lieu of a chainsaw massacre, I kindly pointed them toward the clause which said that any delay in our event due to their actions or inactions would result in a significantly reduced fee. The look on their faces was almost as nice as a blood bath.