17

While I’m sure this level of bitter rage probably isn’t healthy, it’s done wonders for my productivity in cleaning out units. The hate-fire of plotting all the different ways I could sucker punch Caspian Tiddleswich in his stupid lizard nose is fueling an almost superhuman burst of physical strength. If I keep this up, I’ll have this crap unit marked off my list by the end of the day.

At least this one seemed like it was owned by relatively normal humans. There’s nothing in here but boxes of old clothes, dishes, and other things I assume they wanted out of their house, but didn’t quite feel ready to do away with. The saddest things, to me, are the boxes of books, left crammed away in this dark and forgotten concrete tomb.

I set them aside on Brutus’s front seat and make a note to drop those and the bags of usable clothes off at the women’s shelter on 17th Ave before I take him in for the night.

I put my headphones in and hit Play on some feisty music. Angry rock combined with the burning fires of my Tiddles-loathing will get me done with this unit by the end of the day for sure.

Sitting on an unopened box, I crack the lid on a plastic storage container and sift through the contents inside. These look like a hodgepodge of toys from the eighties, but none in good enough condition to be worth anything, nor to be passed on to a shelter.

I pop the lid back on and, just as I stand up with the box, I realize I’m not alone.

I quickly yank out my earbuds and stare at the random man standing in front of me. “Hello?” I say, fairly stunned. “Can I help you?”

“Do you work here?” the man asks. He’s maybe in his forties, a week or two into growing a beard or just not feeling inclined to shave at the moment, wearing a beat-up puffy coat over dingy jeans and sneakers that have seen better days.

“Not exactly,” I answer. “I’m just clearing out abandoned units for the owner. There’s a number on the sign out front if you want to get ahold of him.”

“Oh.” The man sort of stares at me and then at the unit and then at me again. I’m suddenly very aware of being a not particularly large woman alone in a giant lot with who knows what kind of people coming in and out. I could wind up cleaning out a unit with dead bodies stashed in it, for all I know.

And this could be the guy who put them there.

And here I am, in the back of an eight-foot-by-eight-foot unit, with a strange dude standing at the entrance.

“Is there something else you need?” I ask tentatively.

“Nope.” He keeps looking from me to something outside the unit and down a ways. “Thanks, though.”

“No problem,” I reply with a smile as I scan for ways to get the holy fuck out of this unit.

Creepy Dude takes one more look down the long row of units and calmly walks away.

My heart is beating much harder than I’d like it to be, and I’m pretty damn desperate to get out of here until I know that guy is gone. I slowly make my way to the opening, peeking my head around, but I don’t see him anywhere. Still, I’m weirded out enough that it feels like time to pack it in for the day.

I throw the bin of toys in the back of Brutus and reach behind me to slam the unit closed, locking it back up. Then I jump into the truck and make my way off the lot toward the shelter and the dump before I head home to change for drinks.

A few hours later, I’m on a train, heading for Midtown and the bougie bar where I’m supposed to meet my Lord Commander.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Once upon a time, I reacted to phone alerts with no identifiable emotion. I would just pull it out of my pocket, check to see what had come in, and that was the end of it.

Now I have an almost Pavlovian fear response to any buzz or beep the damn thing makes. Even with Caspian’s new Darth Vader text alert sound, the second my phone makes any noise at all, my entire body clenches up and my heart pounds out a rhythm that I’ve decided is the bass line for the song my subconscious is writing, called “Fuck Caspian Tiddleswich and All He Stands For.”

I remember a time when I wasn’t an outrageously bitter person, and even though it was only about a week ago, it feels like that memory is eons old.

I swipe my screen and am greeted by an email from the VP of the young adult imprint at Polar House. My heart stops pounding out revenge sambas and launches right into gleeful K-Pop.

Polar House is one of the Big Five houses. The top of the game. I’d submitted an application there, but hadn’t even dreamed of hearing from anyone. My résumé is good, but I never thought it would be considered Polar House good—not in a self-deprecating way, but because their standards are absurdly high, and it’s next to impossible to get a foot in their door, even as an unpaid intern.

Hell, I’d be willing to sleep on Gertrude a whole lot longer if it meant getting a coffee-wrangling intern position at Polar.

Mara Aaronovich, in all her Polar-y magnificence, writes that she would like to meet with me for lunch tomorrow to discuss the open associate editor position they have on the YA imprint they are so very famous for. I nearly miss my stop rattling off an eager acceptance and start doing an actual happy dance in my seat before I realize I’m not alone on this train and people are side-eyeing me pretty hard.

Whatever. If they’d just landed an interview with Polar, they’d be doing a choreographed jig up and down this car.

As I make my way through the station, mentally combing through the limited professional wardrobe I currently have stored in Tom’s coat closet, all my enthusiastic zeal suddenly comes crashing to a halt when I remember where I’m headed and why. The various blazer options in my head are replaced with images of a certain British pain in my ass falling down open sewer grates.

Oh Christ. I turn a corner and trudge down the block toward Clicks, the painfully trendy bar where I’m to meet my fictional flame. There’s a collection of photographers on the sidewalk, staring through the window and absentmindedly talking to each other, and I have to physically force myself to keep moving forward, as my gut instinct is to turn tail and haul ass to literally anywhere but here.

There is a very deep-rooted part of me that’s unspeakably enraged at being put into situations where I am forced to ignore thirty years of fine-tuning my internal compass in favor of parading in front of paparazzi for the benefit of a psychological sniper who loathes me.

I almost tuck down inside my coat, or at least yank the collar up to cover my face, but I realize that will just draw more attention to myself. Instead, I pull out my phone and pretend to be very interested in something on the screen as I make my way to the door.

For the sake of authenticity, I fire off a text to CiCi that reads, This text exists because I’m trying to look terribly busy and important. Also, I changed my mind and think it’s time to start researching celebrity hit men and alibis, because I’m not going to make it through this nightmare with Tiddleswich in one piece.

The fact that I’m not anyone of actual import combined with my ignoring all the hubbub on the sidewalk pays off. Just as I’m about to pass the door, I turn on my heel and push my way inside. I smile smugly to myself as chaos and glaringly bright camera flashes erupt in my wake, quickly extinguished when the door closes behind me.

Just as I’m about to tuck my phone back in my pocket, I see a message pop up on my screen.

I almost laugh out loud, but there is suddenly a very tall, very British presence standing in front of me. He looks happy to see me and bends down in what, to everyone else, likely appears to be a kiss on the cheek. For a hot minute, I have to appreciate his skill as an actor. Even I almost believe he’s being genuinely welcoming.

My appreciation is quickly burned away by disgust and wondering if people like him even know when they’re bullshitting the world. Still, I plaster my most endearing smile on my face, trying to lock in the “loving girlfriend” look, but I know my skills aren’t up to his level.

“Does it get exhausting, not having an actual personality of your own?” I ask him, still smiling beatifically. “Or does lying to everyone all the time get easier after a while?”

Caspian’s adoring expression doesn’t falter for a moment as he replies, “I assume it’s no less tiring than spending your days trying to defraud others for money, but you’d be the expert on that.”

I am so out of my league here with the beaming facial expressions while lobbing sentences made of razor blades.

A feeling of annoyance builds on my brow, and I have to fight hard to keep a smile intact. I really need to give up on the sassing while we’re in front of an audience, because I am not at all equipped for this game.

He takes my hand, a previously agreed upon acceptable form of physical contact, and I fight an internal and petty as hell urge to dig my nails into his palm.

Once upon a time, I was a normal person who didn’t have frequent thoughts of murdering a celebrity or attempting to draw blood in a public place.

Those were the days.

People’s heads turn as he leads me through the bar. I’m not sure what it is about famous people that makes them stand out the way they do. Even if I didn’t know Caspian was famous, I would find myself looking twice in his direction. Aside from him being a very large—and fairly imposing—figure, he just has that sheen that all celebrities seem to have.

The handful of times I’ve come into contact with stars in the city, they’ve been remarkably easy to spot. Once I passed Anthony Hopkins on the sidewalk, and even though there were no cameras or stalking fans to be seen, it was like the man had a glowing marquee following him around, shining brightly to draw the eyes of all of us who walked past. He was dressed in a nonspecific way, had a hat on to protect against the chill of the winter, and yet it was still like walking by the sun, the way he stuck out.

Caspian is damn well no Anthony Hopkins, but he’s got that unspecified glowing aura, too. It makes me unspeakably angry that it exists at all for people like him.

We make our way back into what I am assuming is either a tiny little VIP room, or something he managed to have set up specifically for him. He’s obviously been here for a bit, because I see a script lying out on the table with various writing implements and notebooks opened up around it.

Caspian pulls out a chair for me, and at first, I can’t understand why he’s bothering to keep the ruse going when we’re in such an isolated space. A biting response is just making its way across my tongue when I realize a waiter has followed us inside our little slice of hell.

Allowing myself to accept the proffered chair, I smile kindly at the waiter, who introduces himself as Lionel and declares he is here for absolutely anything we might be needing for the night.

“Hi, Lionel,” I say, taking my coat off and letting it sit on the back of the chair behind me. “Nice to meet you.”

“Can I get you something to drink, ma’am?” Lionel asks. I refuse to let my Tiddles-venom leak out onto others, so I manage not to bristle at being called “ma’am.” I’m only thirty years old, damn it.

Caspian sits beside me, and I see a glass containing what looks to be scotch sitting in his improvised work area. If I could stomach the stuff, I would order the same, just to appear like one of those couples—the ones who are so disgustingly smitten, they even start ordering the same things.

“Gin and tonic,” I say, smiling. “Thank you.” Lionel gives a little nod, and as he turns to leave, I look at Caspian and—making sure I’m overheard by our waiter friend—say in my most irritatingly adoring voice, “How was your day, dear?”

Once Lionel is gone, Caspian picks up his glass and takes a sip. “That had to be painful for you.”

Any traces of adoration fall from my expression. “I may actually vomit.”

“Cheers,” he says, tabling his scotch and picking up a highlighter.

Oh, goody. It looks to be one of those nights where I’ve traveled across the city to sit next to a pompous, silent statue in the shape of Caspian Tiddleswich, when I could have been doing absolutely anything else at all that wasn’t a huge waste of time.

Well, screw him. Tonight, I came prepared. I have a portable charger for my phone in my purse, and every free game app I could load on this thing ready to go.

I refuse to let him see me sweat.

I’m three rounds into a maddening game where I’m trying to maneuver a pixilated Iron Man through broken pillars when Lionel appears with my drink.

“Thank you,” Caspian and I say in a perfect unison that makes me bristle with annoyance. Lionel inclines his head at us and heads back out.

I suppose it’s mildly endearing that Caspian is at least polite to waiters and the other service industry folk I’ve seen him interact with. Either that, or it’s all part of his bizarre public facade, and therefore all the more gross.

Iron Man crashes into the fifteenth pillar, and I internally sigh. I plan to show my date nothing but stony silence unless otherwise required by the presence of another human being.

Although, the more I think about it, the more I have to concede that even a fake persona that is kind to waiters and elevator operators is still a huge step up from many people I come into contact with, who seem to believe that every barista they meet is deserving of whatever verbal abuse they can come up with.

The moment of positive thinking about Caspian unnerves me enough to make sure all audible alerts and buzzes are turned off on my phone as I start texting CiCi.

I almost snort out loud, but cover up the sound by pretending to clear my throat and taking a drink.

He is intently focused on whatever task he’s performing. I try to casually see what he’s reading, but the text is too lightly printed, and all I can make out is the giant watermark covering each page that states this is Caspian Tiddleswich’s script. I read somewhere once that studios do that watermark thing for scripts they can’t risk being leaked.

Naturally, he’s up for some fancy part, or has already been cast in one. The thought of him being paid tens of millions of dollars to star in something that’s just going to make him all the more famous is beyond irritating—and because the world is a cruel place, I have to assume he will end up an action figure or on the T-shirts of every kid I see for the rest of my life—while I sit here smelling like stale storage units and employment desperation suddenly has me steaming with anger.

An idea that’s been rattling around in my head ever since Trina’s confession flashes to the front of my mind, and before I can talk myself into doing this with some semblance of class or calm, I’m digging through my purse for the envelope she gave me. When I finally find it, I slap the check from TMZ down on top of his stupid script and say, “Here.”

For a moment, he looks up at me without actually moving his head at all, which, if I’m being honest, unnerves me a bit. This guy has the steely glares down cold.

“And what might this be?”

“It’s the check for the godforsaken picture that cast me into this role of indentured servitude, your highness,” I snap, a little more harshly than I intended. Then the whole day of Caspian-centric shenanigans comes flooding into my thoughts, and I am torn between crying and throwing a drink in his face. The sycophantic grins of the McEnroe staff, huddled around that table; the look on Trina’s face as she confessed; his smug, ridiculous, not-at-all Anthony Hopkins sheen—just all of it.

“I didn’t sell the damn thing,” I tell him. “And before you even ask, I have no intention of telling you who did—I won’t let you throw them into your imaginary debt as well. But...there’s the money for it.”

He calmly—so irritatingly calm, god—picks up the check to examine it. “This is made out to you.”

“It’s like I’m with the actual Poirot,” I say, feigning a gasp.

Now he tilts his head up, and his steely gaze is replaced by mild irritation. “You do realize how ridiculous you look, right? Trying to pass this off as not belonging to you while it bears your name, and no one else’s?”

I grab my drink, throw the watery remnants back, and stand up. As I wrestle my coat on, I say, “I can’t think of anything I care less about than how things look to you.”

Leaning back in his seat, he continues to hold the check while he scans me for...something. “And what would you like me to do with this?”

I make my way toward the door of the now-stifling VIP room. “Cash it. Donate it. Burn it. Choke on it. I honestly don’t care. I don’t want it.” Angrily yanking my purse up my arm, I add, “And while I hate to deny you the joy of ditching me on a corner later, I’ll be making my own way tonight. Dick.”

Turning on my heel before he can make another wry comment, I do my best to sashay out with dignity, but I’m pretty sure it comes off more like a petulant stomp.

My hubris doesn’t last long beyond passing through the door. Through the front window of the bar, I see there’s still a small gathering of photographers on the sidewalk.

As the blood drains from my face, Lionel comes running toward me, looking eager to assist. “Ma’am, can I help you? Did you and Mr. Tiddleswich need something?”

My eye involuntarily twitches both at the “ma’am” and the idea of Mr. Tiddleswich and I needing anything in a joint capacity.

“Uh,” I say, trying desperately to think of anything that might alleviate the horrors of the day. I decide to embrace cowardice. “Actually, Lionel,” I say, lowering my voice, “would it be okay if I slide out through the back or the kitchen entrance or something?”

He gives me a knowing, professional nod and leads the way as I shake my head at myself.

In a string of bad days, today somehow manages to stand out as one of the least pleasant.