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WREN KELLER
Some people like to think they’re a tall glass of champagne. Take Antionette for example. She was stunning. Tall, legs for days, blonde. But once you got to know her, you realized she was nothing more than a plastic cup full of warm pee. She hovered over me as I scrambled on the cold marble floor of The Buchannan Hotel’s lobby to collect all my art supplies.
“I told my father he was wasting his time hiring you. That you didn’t have the vision required to create a monument for this lobby. But, no. He felt sorry for the pathetic orphan princess and wanted to give you a chance.” She scoffed and toed my barbie doll, the inspiration for my design, with the tip of her designer leather stiletto.
I stood up and dusted off my trousers as though the pristine gold-flecked marble floor was dirty. It wasn’t, but I knew it would irritate her nonetheless. The Buchannan Hotel was far from a dirty place. If they awarded over 5 stars, then The Buchannan was a 10-star hotel. It was exquisite. Only the elitist of the elite called that hotel a home away from home.
Hoisting my bag of supplies over my shoulder, I stared at her, wanting terribly to say something about her father’s stuffy hotel and how I didn’t need his charity anyway, but I knew it would be a lie. I needed this job more than I needed air, but luck was never on my side.
“Just hurry and collect your junk before you cause any further embarrassment on this establishment.”
Embarrassment? I’d have her know while unconventional, my designs, my art was exquisite. She was the one who lacked creativity and any vision. “If only closed minds came with closed mouths, the world would be a much happier place,” I muttered as her eyebrows twitched, unable to pull together in a frown due to the excessive Botox between them. It was practically oozing out of her pores. And she didn’t even comprehend my comeback.
I turned on my heel and stormed out of the hotel into sweltering sun. The air was thick and stifling. Pulling on the collar of my shirt did little to cool me or my anger down. How dare she speak that way? Calling me a rich orphan princess was a low blow.
Yes, I was an orphan. But I wasn’t a princess, and I certainly wasn’t rich. I dropped my art bag into the backseat of my white convertible before falling into the driver’s seat with as much grace as a baby giraffe trying to stand on its ridiculously long, lanky legs. I angled the diamond-encrusted rear-view mirror to check my reflection.
Okay, so maybe I was rich.
Was being the operative word.
I wasn’t so much rich anymore as I was attempting to keep my lights on and my shower running. Growing up with wealthy parents was great. Being left to fend for myself since they died two years ago... not so great.
The money I had in my bank account was running dry and the trust fund my parents lovingly set up for me when I was young was something I couldn’t touch until I turned 25. Two years away. I had barely $200 in the bank and no money coming in for two years, unless I could secure employment soon.
That word alone caused chills up and down my spine. Job.
I shuddered.
Taking orders from anyone was far from appealing. But being able to take a hot shower every day outweighed the negative. I was counting on this job and Mr. Buchannan to save my ass, my home, and my hot water. I needed a shower every day. Though, it seemed dear Antionette worked her way into his ear and changed his mind. Mr. Buchannan had the vision, the eye for design and great art. Antionette, well... she had an eye for bulging biceps and well-endowed men, or so the rumors would have you believe.
I pulled out of my parking spot and headed to my home in the hills overlooking both the center of the city and the ocean to the right. The gated community was peaceful. The houses, all white, floor-to-ceiling windows, lush, sprawling green lawns, tennis courts and infinity pools. There was absolutely no personality to our neighborhood from an outside look, but inside... Inside was an entirely different story.
I refused to park my car in the garage next to my father’s row of vintage cars. They were his pride and joy and even though I wouldn’t dare drive them, I also couldn’t bear the thought of parting with them. Once a month a guy came out and cleaned them for me, so they stayed pristine. He’d also take them for a drive around the neighborhood just to ensure the engines didn’t cease up. But with yet another job falling through, and the bills piling up, I was afraid I’d have to cancel Nelson’s services.
It saddened me to realize the condition of my father’s prized car collection would slowly deteriorate until they were nothing more than rust buckets. I wasn’t responsible or careful enough to care for them the way my father or Nelson did. I nearly had a panic attack every time I parked my car next to them over the years, out of fear I’d accidentally drive into one. My track record proved there was an extremely high chance of that. Just last week, I nearly reversed into the fountain in the center of the driveway because I got a little over-excited when my favorite song came on the radio and stamped my foot down on the accelerator as I jammed along to the drum solo.
I’d never get an award for best driving, but my drum skills kicked ass. I could totally start a band. And it would rock the socks off everyone.
Tiptoeing between the cars, careful not to even breathe in their direction, I made my way inside and dumped my bags and keys on the floor. My stomach rumbled, and I realized I hadn’t eaten yet. The leftover pizza in the fridge was calling out in a sultry voice, almost a breathy whisper, ‘Wren. Wren. Eat me. You know you want to. I’m delicious.’
And I craved to.
So, so bad.
Nothing could keep me from those heavenly slices of pure pizza-ry satisfaction. We were made for each other, pizza and me. I dumped the pizza on a plate and put it in the microwave to heat as I kicked off my shoes and flung them out of the kitchen. The stack of bills on the counter was teetering like an unsteady house of cards; one wrong movement and they’d come crashing down. I was a sore loser, hence why I hadn’t touched the pile yet. They tilted precariously to the left, unopened, angry red stamps across the front shouting ‘Final Notice’. But if I took the top one off, they’d all fall and that was a bad omen. And bad omens meant no power, no water, no gas, and no... No!
I slapped my hands to my cheeks and my mouth dropped open in a silent scream as the microwave beeped.
That meant no pizza.
I grabbed my pizza out and eyed it sadly. I’d die without pizza. I mean, if push came to shove, I could survive without water, gas and power. I could live like a homeless person with a roof over my head. The beach had shower blocks, drinking fountains, and public toilets were everywhere too. It didn’t get dark until late up here anyway, so light was no problem. Neither was gas because I shouldn’t be allowed to cook with gas anyway, or so the local firefighters liked to tell me on a near monthly basis.
But pizza? That was a basic necessity. The number one thing required to ensure the survival of humanity. And I would lose it if I didn’t get money soon.
Lifting a warm cheesy slice to my lips, I sniffed back the tears threatening to spill and whispered, “I’ll fight for you. Nothing will keep us apart.”
I could sell things. Items from my mansion. We had books and furniture I didn’t need. It was only me here, why did I need six beds, eight sofas, three dining tables with matching chairs and five televisions?
But I couldn’t sell things. These were my parents’ belongings, and I’d rather die than watch them being taken away in the back of a truck to someone else’s house who wouldn’t appreciate them.
I paced around my kitchen, cradling the pizza to my chest, not wanting to finish it in case it was the last slice I ever had. My gaze drifted out the window and fell on the pool house where I used to live until my parents died. I had wanted the privacy and a space I could call my own, and I loved it out there. I felt like a real adult, doing real adult things, even if I came into the main house to eat every day because I couldn’t feed myself.
But then they died, and I wished I’d never moved out to the pool house. I wished I’d stayed in the main residence, closer to my parents. I wished they’d never gone on that sailing trip. I wished their yacht never capsized. I wished I’d spent more time with them.
To feel closer to them after the accident, I’d moved back into the far-too-big-for-one-person house. I missed my cozy pool house. I missed my parents.
But I knew what I had to do. I knew what they would want me to do.
I needed to rent out their house.
It was the only way to ensure my love affair with pizza would survive.