Shacking Up (Shacking Up (Shacking Up 1)

Dinner conversation usually starts with Bancroft asking about Francesca and Tiny, then I ask him how his day was, he tells me all about things his brother does to drive him insane and I point out he does a lot of the same things.

When he asks how the job hunt is going for me I tell him it’s great. I’ve managed to line up two auditions for next week, but both of the roles are small, and not likely to be enough for me to come up with a down payment for any kind of apartment, let alone allow me to start paying down my debts.

Two days ago I secured part-time employment in a bar serving drinks. I had reservations about the place, partly because the manager hired me on the spot with barely a glance at my résumé. Apparently my “bad plan” radar was accurate.

I lasted all of one shift. Not because I’m incapable of serving drinks and bar food, but because being propositioned by the manager during my first shift did not bode well for the long term. I pocketed the $120 in tips and walked.

I’m trying to stay positive. I have the auditions. I still have time. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

* * *

Over the next week, I take the job-hunting business seriously. When I’m not playing with Francesca, or letting Tiny crawl up and down my arm, I spend most of my days scouring the Internet for potential auditions and seeking agent representation or passing out my résumé at every damn place I can think of.

I bomb the first audition. Just choke. Like literally. I’m in the middle of my audition, singing my heart out when all of a sudden I’m choking on something. I double over coughing and spit out a giant housefly, covered in my saliva. It’s everything I can do not to throw up on stage again.

The night before my second audition I get nervous. For good reason. I feel like I’m jinxed. I’ve been practicing my dance routine all afternoon and I have it down perfectly. I know every step, every word to the song. I can perform it in my sleep. I don’t take any chances with food. I eat Cup-a-Soup and drink hot lemon water. Bancroft tells me to break a leg. It’s supposed to be good luck. But I go to sleep feeling uneasy anyway.

I wake up in the middle of night screaming bloody murder because I have a nightmare that I left the lid off Tiny’s terrarium and she escaped her habitat. In my dream I felt something crawling on me and I jumped out of bed stepping on something warm and squishy. In reality I do jump out of bed, but the warm and squishy thing is a wet washcloth I left on the floor after I’d given myself my nightly pre-bed Bancroft-inspired orgasm. In my haste to get away from the terrifying washcloth I slipped on the floor and landed on my ass.

I should’ve known from the lack of sleep, the bad dream, and the bruised bottom that the audition was going to be a failure.

The next day I nearly do break a leg, just like Bancroft told me to. The dance routine I know so well goes sideways when I faceplant on the stage in the middle the routine thanks to a rogue puddle of water. I go home—or back to the condo—feeling doomed. It’s as if karma is giving me the middle finger.

When I get home from my epically terrible day where I not only embarrass myself on stage, but also get turned down for not one, but three cashier positions—word to the wise: a Triple-Threat Award does not make one universally employable—all I want to do is curl up in bed and forget this day ever happened.

Bancroft will be back in little more than three weeks and I’m still minus a job. It’s not good. The envelope of cash—which contained the full five weeks’ worth of my stipend, well, double it, but it’s not my fault if his math is off—helps a lot, but I need to pay down my bills and save for an apartment. I have another audition lined up in two days, but with the way things are going, I’m worried I’ll bomb this one, too. The only thing I seem to be good at is taking care of Francesca and Tiny.

I almost caved when I spoke to my father earlier in the week. He asked how things were going and if I’d sorted out my apartment situation. I played dumb and asked him what he meant. Apparently, his brainless secretary told him I’d called about my bank account even though I’d said she didn’t need to. There was no way I was going to admit to not being able to take care of the situation on my own. I’m not at point critical quite yet. It’s close though.

I kick off my shoes and cross over to Francesca’s cage. A few days after Bane left I moved it to the main living area, which is where it stays for the most part. She’s already scaling the bars, jumping around and doing tricks for me.

“Hi, pretty girl,” I coo. “Did you miss me today? I missed you!” I unlatch the cage and lift her out. She cuddles into me, nuzzling into my cleavage like she’s looking for snacks. It’s her signature move every time I pick her up, as if she thinks I’ll have lost food down there. She’s a bright light in my otherwise shitty day.

I carry her down the hall, exhausted and defeated, looking for anything that will brighten my spirits. I grab my phone on the way, in case we end up chilling out and watching movies. It’s probably one of my favorite things to do, especially after a long, crappy day. Francesca loves nature documentaries and she’s great company when I watch horror movies.

I pass my own bedroom and keep going. In the past two weeks, I’ve only slept in my room once. That was the first night I stayed here. Half of my boxes still line the wall, unpacked. A constant reminder that I need a job, any job, and soon.

I push open the door to his room. The bed is made, because it’s so much more fun to mess it up when it’s already perfect. Last week I relented and changed the sheets, because they were smelling less than fresh, but I sprayed them with Bancroft’s cologne so they still smelled like him. It’s not authentic, but it’s kind of the same. I refuse to acknowledge that it’s a little creepy, this behavior of mine, but I tell myself it’s for the benefit of Francesca so she doesn’t think he’s abandoned her.

I put her down on Bancroft’s bed and she does her little nose twitch-sniffle thing, bouncing around, waiting for me to start the game. I’m tired and grumpy, but this at least will put me in a semi-better mood. I pull the sheet up over her and she makes this little noise of excitement. We play for a good fifteen or twenty minutes, until she’s had enough and all she wants to do is cuddle.

It’s just after six, but I didn’t sleep well last night and the failed audition and unsuccessful attempts to secure employment exhausts me, so I turn off all the lights and find a good horror movie. Sometimes torture and fear are a good way to remind me my life isn’t so bad.

I don’t even have the energy to consider making dinner. Francesca wriggles her way under my shirt and peeks her head out through the neckline. She likes being close to my boobs, right in the valley. I let her snuggle in and close my eyes. I just need a few minutes to manage the disappointment.

Digital ringing pulls me from sleep. I blink a bunch of times, trying to throw off the haze. I realize the sound is coming from my phone. I check the clock. It’s 8:03. At night. Shit. Bancroft said he’d call at seven and he’s prompt with phone calls, which means he’s been trying to reach me for the past hour.

I fumble around and hit the answer button, my uncoordinated fingers struggling to grab hold of the device.

“Ruby? Are you there? Ruby?” Bancroft’s concern is clear in his tone.

“Here.” I rasp. “Fell asleep. Sorry. Here now.”