by L.J. Shen
Sure, I liked numbers. They were safe. They didn’t fucking speak. What wasn’t to like? But I liked arguing and pissing people off even more.
And now I’d found Help.
She wasn’t part of the plan, which made the surprise so much sweeter. She was the missing piece. Insurance in case things went south back in Todos Santos. I came here for a merger deal, but I also needed someone to do my dirty work. Originally, I wanted my ex-psychiatrist to help me reach my goal. He knew the whole story and could testify against my stepmother. But fuck, dealing with Help was going to be so much sweeter.
It would probably shatter her innocent little soul. She didn’t do revenge. Was never cruel or selfish or any of the things that were the essence of my being. She was kind. Polite and agreeable. She smiled at strangers on the street—I would bet she still did, even in New York—and still had that faint Southern drawl, welcoming and soft, just like her.
I hoped she didn’t have a boyfriend. Not for my sake, for his. Whether he existed or not didn’t matter. I’d figuratively shoved him out of the picture the minute I set foot in McCoy’s and looked up to find her peacock-blue eyes staring right back at me.
She was perfect.
Perfect for my plans and perfect to pass the time with until they materialized.
A ghost from my past who was going to help me haunt the demons of my present. She had the ability to help, and it was obvious she was in a financial pit. A black hole I could fish her out of, healthy and in one piece, except for her scruples.
I was prepared to throw in a lot of resources to get her to agree to my plan. She was mine again the minute I saw her in her next-to-nothing outfit.
She just didn’t know it yet.
My heart was my enemy. I’d known that since I was seventeen. That’s why I couldn’t stop thinking about him—despite my recent unemployment—when thunder cracked and rumbled above my head.
It had been twenty-four hours since I’d seen him, three hours since I’d thought about him and an hour and fifteen minutes since I’d debated, for the hundredth time, whether or not to tell Rosie about it.
At home, I wormed out of my soaked clothes, changed into dry ones, and ran back down to Duane Reade because I’d forgotten to pick up Rosie’s meds. By the time I got back, I was soaked again.
I opened the plastic bag and placed everything on the counter in our tiny studio apartment. Mucus thinners. Vitamins. Antibiotics. I unscrewed all the tops because Rosie was too weak to do it herself.
My sister had cystic fibrosis. Some diseases are silent. But cystic fibrosis? It was also invisible. Little Rose didn’t look sick. If anything, she was prettier than I was. We had the same eyes. Blue with turquoise and green dots swirling around the edges. Our lips were soft and plump, and our hair the same shade of toffee. But while my face was round and heart-shaped, she had the sculpted cheekbones of a supermodel.
To be a supermodel, though, Rosie would have to stride down the catwalk, and lately, she couldn’t even make it from our third-floor apartment down to our street.
She wasn’t always sick. Normally, she could function like almost any other person. But when she was sick, she was really sick. Fatigued, weak, and fragile. Three weeks ago she’d caught pneumonia.
It was the second time in six months. We were lucky she’d taken the semester off college to try and make some money because, otherwise, she would’ve flunked out.
“I bought you clear broth.” I took out the carton from the bag when I heard her rustling in our bed. I set the soup next to her medicine and turned on the stove top. “How are you feeling, you little devil?”
“Like a leech who sucks all your money. I’m so sorry, Millie.” Her voice croaked with sleep.
Friends was playing on our ancient television set. The canned laughter bounced between the scant furniture and thin walls, making our Sunnyside apartment a little more bearable. I wondered how many times Rosie could watch without losing her mind. She already knew all the episodes by heart.
She rolled off of the mattress and stood up, moving toward me. “How’d the job hunting go?” She rubbed my back in circles and started massaging my shoulders.
I sighed, dropping my head back and squeezing my eyes shut. So good. I couldn’t wait to jump into our double futon and watch TV under the blankets with my sister.
“Temp agencies are swamped, and no one is hiring for retail this close to Christmas. Those jobs are already gone. On the bright side, heroin chic is making a comeback, so at least we’ll have that going for us.” I blew out air. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, money’s gonna be extra tight this month.”
Everything went quiet, and all I heard were her labored breaths. She slapped a hand over her mouth and winced. “Oh, fuck.”
Yup. Rosie was no Southern belle.
“Can we survive December? I’m sure I’ll get back on my feet soon. By January, we’ll both be working.”
“By January, we’ll most likely be homeless,” I muttered, placing a pot on the stovetop and stirring the broth. I wished I had something to add to it. Vegetables, chicken, anything to make her feel better. To make her feel home.
“We’ll take everything you just bought back and get a refund. I don’t need my meds. I feel so much better.”
My heart shattered in my chest. Because she did need them. She needed them bad. Her antibiotics prevented lung and sinus infections, and her inhalers opened her airway. Not only did my sister need her medications, she literally couldn’t breathe without them.
“I threw away the receipt,” I lied. “Besides, I can always get them to raise the limit on my credit card.” Another lie. No one in their right mind was going to give me more credit. I was already neck-deep in debt.
“No,” she interrupted again, spinning me around to face her. She gripped my hands. Hers were so cold I wanted to cry. I must’ve flinched, because Rosie withdrew them quickly. “It’s bad circulation. I’m feeling really well, I swear. Listen to me, Millie. You’ve done enough for me. Made too many sacrifices along the way. Maybe it’s time for me to go live with Mama and Daddy.”
Tears welled in her eyes, but she smiled. I shook my head and gathered her hands, rubbing them to warm her up.
“You’ve only got two years left on your degree here. You’d have to start over in California, even if you could find a program you could afford. Stay. There are zero opportunities for people like us in Todos Santos.”
Besides, our parents were still broke. So were we, but I was much better at shouldering the financial burden. I was young and still had fight in me. Our parents were old and worn-out, two sixty-something servants living in California, still in that stupid servants’ apartment on the Spencer estate.
It wasn’t that bad for us most of the time. Rosie had worked too, until pneumonia knocked her on her butt. The wet, cold fall had made her sicker, and now winter had hit early and we were behind on the heat bill. But spring was going to come. Cherry trees were going to blossom. We were going to get better. I knew we would.
Still, telling her about my encounter with Vicious was out of the question. She didn’t need another reason to worry.
“I need a distraction.” I rubbed my face, changing the subject.
“You can say that again.” She tugged on her lower lip before turning and walking toward my easel in the corner of the small room.
The easel held a half-finished painting I was working on—a sandstorm rising to an inky black sky. An art collector from Williamsburg named Sarah had ordered the painting. She used to work for Saatchi Art and was still tight with gallery owners all over the city. I wanted to impress her. I wanted to get my foot in the door. I also needed the money.
Rosie knew painting soothed my soul.
She took out the half-squeezed oil tubes, my brushes, and wooden palette, mimicking my usual routine when I prepared to paint. Then she swayed her hips to our old stereo, put on “Teardrop” by Massive Attack, and silently made me some coffee.
I loved my baby s
ister so much in that moment. It reminded me the sacrifices I made for her were worth it.
I painted as cold December rain furiously knocked on our window. Rosie plopped onto our mattress and talked to me like when we were in high school, exchanging notes about people we went to school with.
“If you could fulfill one dream, what would it be?” she mused, propping her pajama-clad legs against the cold wall.
“Own a gallery of my own,” I answered without even thinking, a stupid smile plastered all over my face. “You?”
She picked at the fringe of the pillow she was hugging to her chest. “Get that damn degree and become a nurse,” she said. “Wait, scrap that. Jared Leto. My dream is to marry Jared Leto. I’d take a stab at Jared Leto. I’m not even talking about, like, a shallow wound. I’m talking a full-blown, deep-cut, ER-worthy stab. I mean, we’d be able to afford it. He’s doing very well for himself.”
I shook my head. She laughed, prompting me to do the same. Lord, Rosie.
I knew it was important to box up these kinds of moments, keep them locked away in my heart, and call them up when things got hard. Because moments like these reminded me that my life was hard, but not bad. There was a difference between the two.
A hard life equaled a life full of obstacles and challenging moments but also full of people you loved and cared about.
A bad life equaled an empty life. One that wasn’t necessarily hard or challenging but was devoid of the people you loved and cared about.
By the time I was done painting, my fingers were numb and my lower back ached from standing in a weird position for hours. We shared mac and cheese and chicken broth and watched “The One With The Lottery” episode of Friends for the six-millionth time. Rosie mouthed all the punch lines, her eyes never leaving the TV, and eventually fell asleep in my arms, snoring softly, her lungs wheezing for air.
I was confused. Tired. A little hungry.
But above all, blessed.
Four days passed before I caved and bought a new phone. I didn’t want to spend the money, but how else would potential employers contact me? It was nothing fancy. The kind of Nokia from before the smartphone era. But I could text and make calls and even play some old-school games like Snake.
I’d been spending the week knocking on recruitment agencies’ doors during the day and working shifts at McCoy’s at night. Rachelle begged the other waitresses to give me their shifts so I could pay the rent, and even though I was embarrassed, I was mostly just grateful.
Rosie took her medicine, but she was still getting worse and worry gnawed at my gut.
It was the apartment.
We didn’t have adequate heating in our tiny Sunnyside studio, and sometimes it was colder inside than it was out. I often found myself jogging in place, doing jumping jacks to warm up. Little Rose didn’t have that option because she was always out of breath.
I didn’t know how to get out of the financial hole I’d been digging ever since I’d offered to have her come live with me. She’d wanted to study in New York, so I temporarily gave up on my internship at an art gallery and took the PA job to support us.
That was two years ago.
Stuck in a rut, I needed a miracle to survive until Rosie was back on her feet.
My mind drifted to Vicious and the fact that he hadn’t come back to McCoy’s. Well, at least there are small miracles to be thankful for.
I was mostly happy about it, but an occasional pang of sorrow would pierce my heart at the thought of him. I couldn’t believe he hadn’t left a tip. He really was a heartless bastard.
It was another cold night, and I was getting back from a double shift at the bar. I held on to the bannisters in our building as I fumbled my way up the dark staircase of the Italianate-style brownstone. The hallway upstairs was dark too, because the landlord hadn’t bothered to replace the dead lightbulbs. I couldn’t complain since I was late on the rent almost every month.
My arms were stretched out in front of me as I felt my way down the hall. A shriek escaped my lungs when moonlight slanted through the tall window near my apartment door. A large shadow fell across me.
My pepper spray was already out of my new thrift-store courier bag when a light flashed from a smartphone the shadow was holding. Bluish light enveloped the angles of Vicious’s face.
He was leaning against my door, wearing a tailored navy sweater rolled to his elbows, black dress pants, and stylish shoes, the leather still wrinkle-free. He looked like a Ralph Lauren ad, and I looked like the girl who cleaned up the set. The visual alone made me scowl at him before he even opened his mouth.
“I’m surprised, Help.”
The ever-constant nickname gave me yet another reason to scowl. Help.
His eyes dropped to the Mace, but he didn’t seem fazed by it. “I thought you’d come for your tip.”
“You did?” The tension in my body eased as some of the fear rolled off of me, but my heart continued pumping furiously for a whole different reason. “Well, here’s a tip from me to you—when you single-handedly ruin someone’s life, said someone is not too eager to contact you. Especially for money.”
Vicious looked indifferent to my bitter tone. He pushed off from my door and strode closer, purposeful and confident, reminding me that he was much more comfortable in his skin than I was in mine. When he stopped, his chest brushed mine, sending shivers to the rest of my body.
I moved aside, crossing my arms over my chest and quirking an eyebrow. “Do I want to know how you found me?”
“Your little friend Rachelle thinks I’m taking you out on a surprise date. Not the sharpest pencil in the box, but then you always had a soft spot for the simpletons of the world.”
I looked away from his face, concentrating on the peeling, worn door leading to my shoebox apartment. “What are you here for, Vicious?”
“You said you’re a PA,” he replied on half a shrug.
“And?”
“And I need one.”
I tossed my head back and laughed, not a trace of humor in me. He really had some nerve. My laughter died quickly. “Leave.”
I fished my keys out of my purse and stabbed the key toward the lock. He reached for my waist, effortlessly spinning me around to face him. His touch caught me off guard. Suddenly, I felt light-headed. I jolted away from his body and twisted back to the door, hysteria climbing up my throat. I dropped the keys and picked them up. I didn’t like the way my body reacted to this man. It always had been—still was—completely out of sync with the way I felt about him.
“Name your price,” he growled, way too close to my ear.
“World peace, the cure for lung disease, for The White Stripes to reunite,” I shot back.
He didn’t even blink. “One hundred K a year.” His voice crawled into my ear like sweet poison, and I froze. “I know your sister is sick. Work for me, Help, and you won’t have to think about how to pay for Rosie’s meds ever again.”
How long a conversation did he have with Rach, and more importantly—why?
That kind of pay would be amazing, especially for a PA. I could quit my night job at McCoy’s, not to mention provide for my sister and myself. But my pride—my stupid pride, a monster that demanded to be fed only when Vicious was at the dinner table—snatched the imaginary microphone and did the talking for me.
“No,” I gritted out.
“No?” He cocked his head to the side, like he didn’t hear me right, and dang it, he looked good doing it.
“Is this word new to you?” I squared my shoulders. “No amount of money is going to make the fact I hate your guts disappear.”
“One hundred fifty K might,” he said, unblinking.
Does he need a hearing aid?
His eyes were so dark blue they sparkled like rare sapphires. He thought it was a negotiation. He was wrong.
“It’s not about the money, Vicious.” I felt my teeth grinding together. “Do you want it in another language? I can write it down for you or even communicate it in
the form of a dance.”
His mouth twisted into something that resembled a smirk, but it failed to last. “I forgot how fucking fun it is to piss you off. I’m throwing in an apartment within walking distance of the job. Fully furnished and paid for throughout your employment.”
I felt the blood rush between my ears. “Vicious!” Would it be too much to punch him?
“And a nurse who will be on call for Rosie. Twenty-four fucking hours a day. That’s my final offer.” His jaw ticked once.
We stood in front of each other like two warriors about to wield our swords, and a sob caught in my throat because, goddammit, I wanted to take the deal. What did that make me? Weak, immoral, or simply insane? More than likely, all three.
This man had driven me out of California, out of my mind. Now he was hell-bent on hiring me. On elbowing his way back into my life. It didn’t make sense. He wasn’t a friend. He didn’t want to help. His proposition was littered with red flags.
I tried to slam my key into the lock again but couldn’t find the keyhole in the dark. Which reminded me I had an electricity bill to pay. Three of them, actually. Fun, fun, fun.
“What’s the catch?” I croaked as I turned to face him, rubbing my forehead, frustrated.
He brushed his knuckles over his cheekbone, amusement dancing in his pupils. “Oh, Help, why must there always be a catch?”
“Because it’s you.” I knew I sounded bitter. I didn’t care.
“It may entail some tasks that won’t make it into your contract. Nothing too seedy, though.”
I cocked an eyebrow. That didn’t sound too reassuring.
He quickly caught my drift. “Nothing sexual either. You’ll be happy to know, I still see more ass than a proctologist. For free.”
For some stupid reason, my heart leapt when I read between the lines. Vicious was single. No girlfriend if he was still enjoying meaningless flings. Vicious was too proud a man to be a cheater. He was an ass, but a loyal one nonetheless.