CHAPTER FIVE
I’m in my Tacoma, cutting through Tiny Amsterdam on my way to Old Town and my shitty apartment in the Regency, when my phone rings. I still have a few hours of work left. I’m salaried, not hourly, but if I don’t get back up to Stonegate before end-of-day to watch my guys and gals, someone will inevitably do something stupid. But I’m not going in Shaun’s suit. I’ll be eviscerated by the guys I used to work with, all of whom already rib me for becoming fancy.
“Brandon,” says a female voice. The voice is husky, like sandpaper. The kind of voice I’ll never be able to find sexy in a woman even though everyone else seems to, given that I grew up listening to this one.
“Bridget.”
“Where are you?”
“Rum Street.”
“Ah. Are you looking for a hooker this time, or just sex toys?”
“Very funny.”
“Can you hop into the Broken Halo for me? Pick something up.”
“Gross.”
“Not because I want it. So that you can talk to Liz.”
I roll my eyes. I’ve had my eye on Liz for a while, but she’s not an easy get even though she works at a sex shop in Tiny Amsterdam. I know her from Bridget’s circles and don’t really want to see the girl in her native element. There might be something percolating between us, but it only happens when alcohol’s flowing. Liz and I might finally hook up when the next wave comes, then that will be the end of whatever friendship we have, of course, but that’s okay. Bridget thinks Liz and I might be good for more than a night, but Bridget thinks dumb shit like that, about me, more than she should.
“What do you need, Bridget?” I sigh.
“I need you to pull over.”
“No. I mean, why did you call?”
“I’ll tell you once you’ve pulled over.”
I consider protesting and pointing out that everyone in the world talks on cell phones while driving. I also consider lying — either telling Bridget that I have stopped or that I bought one of those hands-free headset things. But instead, I pull up beside a parking meter and kill the engine, because to not do so seems disrespectful. Maybe people drive safely every day while on cell phones, but try saying that while looking into the eyes of someone whose second set of foster parents died in a crash. And that was the set who didn’t hit her.
“Okay. I’m pulled over. What’s up?”
Bridget hesitates. It’s only three seconds or so, but it slows my breath. Bridget doesn’t hesitate. To Bridget, life is a game, and you win by punching your opponent in the crotch and taking their pieces while they’re planning their next move. She doesn’t flinch, or back down. Not since Keith, anyway.
“I need money.”
“Shit, Bridge. For what?” I don’t protest. She doesn’t like to ask for things, so she must be desperate.
“Don’t make me beg. If I weren’t waiting for Archive’s fucking quarterlies, which should actually be good this time around, I’d never even consider — ”
“I’m not prying. I just want to know if I can help.”
“Yes. You can help by loaning me eight hundred bucks.”
“Eight hundred!”
“Jesus, Brandon. I feel bad enough. Don’t make me — ”
“Stop being so defensive. You don’t want to tell me, fine.” I don’t go on because I’ve already put her on speaker and am trying to reach my bank’s website. Give her the illusion that I can help for at least a little while longer.
“I’ve got nodules,” she blurts.
I don’t understand that sentence.
“Nodules. On my vocal cords. Look. It’s not a big deal, but they can take them off right now, but only if I can give them a deposit ahead of time because I’m still paying off my last thing.”
Bridget’s “last thing” was a fracture in her femur that hopefully represented the last of Keith’s handiwork. It had been latent since their big incident then suddenly decided to flare up ten months ago and give her a limp. She tried to play it off jokingly as her pirate walk, but I made her get it fixed. She insisted on paying every cent. My protests that Keith was at fault fell on deaf ears.
“Are they … I don’t know … dangerous?”
“They’re nodules.”
I also don’t understand that sentence. Is it a yes or a no?
“I don’t know what the fuck nodules are, Bridget.”
“Like bumps.”
“And?”
She seems exasperated. Not by me; by herself. I’ve known Bridget since we were twelve, back when the foster care system first made us siblings. I know how painful this is for her — not the nodules, but the request for help.
“I’ll have to have them removed eventually, or they’ll affect my moneymaker.”
She means her voice. Bridget makes her living as a voice-over actor and an audiobook narrator. Her friends keep saying she should do phone sex, and I’m not sure if it’s a joke, and certainly don’t want to ask.
“It doesn’t have to be right now,” she says, “but I guess it’s a three- to five-week recovery period, and during that time I can’t work.”
“Will you be able to speak enough to meddle in my business?”
“Ha fucking ha. Look. I’m waiting on final edits of Sensation right now, and supposedly that’s at least five weeks. If I get it done now — like right now — I can be back in speaking shape by the time the script comes in. But if I wait, I’ll have a forced three-week break when I can least afford it.”
She’s right. We had this discussion the other night. She was all excited. Sensation has two sequels, Temptation and Reformation, and the trilogy already has enough gas in print and ebook that her best client, Archive Audiobooks, is ready to pay handsomely. But only if Bridget can keep their time frame … and maybe finally get the tiny break she desperately needs and badly deserves.
I nod to nobody. I’ve pulled up my bank account, and it looks like my entire net worth has topped out at $791.43. I made it to four digits once. That was a banner day. I supersized my Value Meal. I make decent money with Life of Riley, but it isn’t great. And holy shit, my debt has had children.
“Eight hundred bucks?” I try to sound casual. Just for kicks, I look inside my wallet, where I keep a twenty folded small for emergencies. Room to spare.
“I’ll pay you back, I swear.”
I’d laugh if I thought it wouldn’t insult her. Loaning money to Bridget is like making a Kiva loan. Her repayment rate is stellar, considering what most people would think of the recipient. Secure as Fort Knox. She’ll probably insist on paying interest. She hates imposing that much.
“I know you will. It’s not a problem.”
And it’s not. I’ve got a credit card. I’ll be paid again before the bill is due, and I can make the minimum payment as always. Rent is taken care of. I’m just on the goddamned edge, which is where I always seem to be. As a hammer-swinging grunt, I lived at redline. As a foreman, I lived at redline. As team leader, I still live at redline. On paper, I do well. It’s only unexpected, random events that knock me off kilter, and I’d be fine if those unexpected punches would stop coming. Too bad they seem to be nearly as reliable as rent and electric.
Now, if I could get the promotion? I’d move into six figures for sure. And if a hundred grand per year isn’t enough to sustain my shitty little life, there’s something wrong with the world.
“So … ?” Bridget says.
“I’ll bring you a check tonight. No problem.” A check because it’ll look official, like I’m Rockefeller and can spare it easily. Although come to think of it, I’d need to deposit my twenty to write her a check. So it’ll probably be a cashier’s check. Even more official.
“I’ll pay you back.”
“You said that.”
“You’re sure you can afford it?”
“Of course. No worries.”
I hear this little stirring on the phone’s other end, and I can picture Bridget warring with an appropriate response. Right now, her dignity wants her to reexplain how she has the money coming and this is just bad timing. But the bigger part of her knows she should be grateful first, defensive later.
“Thanks,” she says. Then we hang up.
It’ll be fine. I get paid soon. I have my credit card, and the debt can keep on waiting. I’ve paid 18 percent interest for years; it can keep on building. What do I care?
I need this promotion. Mason likes me. It’s hard to believe that with one side of my brain, but the other side thinks I’ve got a good shot. If I could move up to vice president, I’d make enough money to get out of debt. To leave the Regency and move into Old Town proper — or maybe Cherry Hill, in time. And it’d be another chance to prove myself. Land deals drive Life of Riley’s profit. The better I do, the more grateful Mason will be, and the more I’ll make.
Maybe the long road can finally be over. For me, and for Bridget.
I need to keep being impressive. Keep doing my job as well as I can.
I slip my wallet back into my pocket. The smooth leather sliding on my palm for some reason reminds me of the touch of the company’s namesake — Miss Riley James herself.
I shake the thought from my head. I make myself stop picturing the boss’s daughter, start my truck’s engine, and pull back out onto Rum.
I go home to change. Because for now, I’m still not the kind of man who wears a suit and has money … or resides in developments like I spend my day’s building, living the life of Riley.