Falling Under

by Jasinda Wilder

  I shook my head. "No, please--Mr. Edwards, you can't do this. I need this job, you don't even know. I've never been late, never failed to do my job better than anyone else in my pool. Please, give me a chance--"

  "Miss St. Claire. Begging will not change the facts. It has been done. You were assigned to us through a temp agency. Temp, meaning temporary. As I said, this isn't a punishment. We are not firing you--we are simply letting you go now that your position is no longer necessary. Now, if you don't mind, I have a conference call in a few moments." Mr. Edwards arched an eyebrow at me expectantly.

  "Fine." I stood up, smoothing my navy pencil skirt over my hips, turning away. "Prick."

  "Excuse me?" Mr. Edwards rose to his feet, a fist clenched at his side. "What did you say?"

  I lifted my chin. "I said, prick." I used the same condescending tone he so often affected. "It's a derogatory term meaning penis. Meaning, you...are...a...dick." I turned away again, and grabbed the doorknob and twisted it.

  I was stopped by a hand on my wrist. "Now, now, Miss St. Claire. You don't want to go name-calling, do you? I can very easily call your temp agency and make sure you never work in their pool again." His fingers tightened on my wrist, and I felt his breath on my neck. "And...you know, there may be one way you could keep your job. Possibly even get that permanent position you mentioned."

  I felt him press up against me, felt the evidence of what he wanted from me. And, I won't lie, the thought crossed my mind. Once. Very, very briefly. I needed this job. I was already two months behind on rent, three months behind on my electric bill, barely keeping up with my tuition and my brother's, plus the ever-mounting costs of caring for Mama. I could do what this doucheknob wanted, and keep my job. It wouldn't take long. A few unpleasant minutes, if that long. He was old, past sixty, I'd guess. Fit enough for his age, but by no means virile.

  But...no matter how desperate I might be, that would never happen. Not like this. Not with this guy. If he was hot, and I wanted to, maybe. If it was a kick-ass job that really paid the bills. But it was a temp job. Hourly, and a shitty hourly rate at that. Barely enough to cover one bill, much less all the bills I had to pay.

  I turned, letting him hold on to my wrist. For the moment. I lifted my eyes to his, putting on my best poker face. "Yeah? Just like that? That easy, huh? Suck you off, and you'll let me keep my job? Let you fuck me over the desk, and I'll get the permanent position, too, I bet."

  He missed the dangerous calm in my voice. "Now you're thinking." He licked his lips, lifted a finger to touch the apex of my cleavage, what little of it I had showing in this conservative work outfit. "You're a very attractive young lady, Miss St. Claire. I'm sure we could come to an agreeable arrangement."

  God, I hated the arch, faux-formal way he spoke. "An agreeable arrangement." I forced down my revulsion, just for a few more seconds. "What did you have in mind, Mr. Edwards?"

  My spine crawled with disgust as his eyes leered and his tongue flicked out over his thin, pale lips. He made short work of his belt, and I heard the telltale zzzzhhrip of his zipper going down. I didn't look, didn't want to see what he'd just pulled out.

  "Well, let's just see how you do, and we'll go from there." He leaned back against the edge of his desk, a greedy smirk on his face. "And...unbutton the blouse a bit."

  I toyed with the button of my shirt, staring into his sludge-brown eyes. "You want a little show, huh, Mr. Edwards?" I freed the top button, which I would've done on the elevator anyway. I felt my breasts loosen a bit, no longer quite so constricted. His eyes devoured the expanse of cleavage. "How's this?"

  "Very nice. But...how about a bit more?"

  I nodded, as if this was perfectly reasonable, still refusing to look down at his crotch. And then, without warning, I snapped my head forward, felt my forehead connect with his nose, felt cartilage break. I stepped away as crimson blood sluiced from his nose. "How about fuck you, Mr. Edwards?" I left him bleeding, sagging against his desk. I shuddered as I caught an accidental glimpse of his wrinkled, veiny, now-flaccid penis hanging over his zipper. "God, I could've gone the rest of my life without seeing that."

  I opened his door and walked out, glanced down at my shirt, and cursed as I realized I had a few droplets of blood on my blouse. I stopped in the women's room and dabbed cold water onto the droplets, then retrieved my belongings from my desk. I didn't have much to get, a few granola bars, some spare tampons, and--most importantly--my framed photo of Mom, Dad, my younger brother Cal, and me. It was taken several years ago. Before. Before Dad was murdered. Before Mom got sick. Before I went from innocent, naive, privileged college girl to primary breadwinner for three people, one of whom didn't even recognize me most days. Before life went completely down the drain, putting all my dreams out of reach, leaving me desperate, exhausted, stressed, and frustrated.

  I stuffed my things into my purse and walked with as much dignity as I possessed to the elevator, and had to hide my mirth as I saw Mr. Edwards being escorted out by security. His pants were buttoned, but not zipped, and his once-impeccable suit was drenched in blood. Two more security members were going from cubicle to cubicle, looking for me, I supposed.

  I took the stairs.

  I took the bus to the temp agency, since the temp agency never had any parking spots available.

  My contact, Sheila, tapped on her computer for several minutes, then turned to me with a slight frown. "I'm sorry, Kyrie, but we just don't have anything else right now."

  I tried to keep breathing. "Can you check again? I'll take anything. Literally anything."

  She looked again, then glanced back up at me with a shrug. "Nothing. I'm sorry. Try again in a few weeks."

  "I won't have an apartment in a few weeks."

  "I'm sorry, honey. Things are tight. What can I tell you?" She laid a manicured hand on mine. "Do you need a few bucks? I can spare you--"

  I stood up. "No. Thanks." I did need the money, desperately. I'd skipped lunch today, just to have a bit more to go to rent. But I wouldn't take pity charity. "I'll figure something out."

  I walked slowly back to my car, started it, and then remembered that I'd just been fired. I wouldn't get my parking slip validated. Shit. There went another fifteen bucks I couldn't spare. The drive home was long. I'd been working in an office downtown, and I lived over forty-five minutes away in the suburbs outside Detroit. My car was running on fumes by the time I got home, and my stomach was empty, rumbling and growling and gurgling.

  I struggled to hold back the tears as I checked the mail. I was fumbling through the envelopes, muttering "fuck...fuck...fuck" under my breath at each new bill. There was DTE Energy, Consumers, AT&T cable and Internet, water, gas, Cal's tuition, my tuition, Mom's hospice bill...and a plain white envelope, no return address, just my name--Kyrie St. Claire--handwritten in neat black script in the center, along with my address. I tucked the other bills into my purse and stuck the envelope between my lips as I inserted my key into the lock.

  That, of course, was when I saw the white notice taped to my apartment door. Eviction Notice: pay rent or quit within 3 days.

  I was still a hundred dollars short on rent. Or rather, short of the one month's rent I could scrounge up. I had been hoping to avoid this long enough to be able to catch up on the past due amount. Now I'd just been fired.

  Still holding back tears, I opened my door, closed it behind me, and stifled a sob. I let the envelope fall to the floor at my feet and covered my mouth with my fist, tears hot and salty in my eyes. No. No. No tears, no regret, no self-pity. Figure it the fuck out, Kyrie. Figure it out.

  I pushed away from the door, knelt to retrieve the bizarre envelope, and flicked the light switch.

  Nothing.

  Of course the power had been turned off.

  All I had to eat at home was one package of ramen, some ketchup, two-week-old Chinese carryout, and a bag of baby carrots. And a single, lonely little cup of black cherry Chobani.

  Thank you, Jesus and all the Greeks for C
hobani. And thank you for the fact that the yogurt was still cold.

  I took my yogurt from the dark, still-cool fridge, opened it, grabbed a spoon from the drawer, and stirred it up. I opened my blouse all the way, unzipped my skirt, and perched on the counter, eating my yogurt, relishing every bite. I had one paycheck for not quite eight hundred dollars for two weeks of temp office work, plus severance.

  Finally, I couldn't hold back the sobs any longer. I gave in. Let myself cry for a solid ten minutes. I tore off a piece of paper towel--my last roll--and dabbed at my nose and eyes, making myself stop. I'd figure this out. Somehow.

  The envelope caught my eye where I'd set it on top of the microwave. I reached over and grabbed it, slid my index finger under the flap. Inside was...a check?

  Yes, a check. A personal check.

  For ten thousand dollars.

  Made out to me.

  I took a deep breath, put the check face down on my lap, and blinked several times. Hard. Okay, look again. Yep. It said pay to the order of Kyrie St. Claire, in the amount of ten thousand dollars and zero cents. At the top left of the check was the payer: VRI Inc., and a P.O. box address in Manhattan.

  And there, in the bottom left-hand corner, on the single line opposite the illegible signature, was a single word. YOU. All caps, all in the same bold, neat script that appeared on the envelope. I examined the signature again, but it was little more than a squiggly black line. I thought there might be a "V," and maybe an "R," but there was no way to be sure. I guess that would make sense, given the fact that the payer was VRI Incorporated. But that didn't tell me much.

  No note, nothing in the envelope except the check. For TEN THOUSAND dollars.

  What the hell was I supposed to do? Cash it? Ten thousand dollars would pay current rent due, as well as the past due amount, it would get the electricity back on by paying what I owed them...it could pay all my bills and still leave me enough to get the brakes on my car fixed.

  Ten thousand dollars.

  From whom? Why? I knew no one. No family other than my mom and brother. I mean, yeah, I had Grandma and Grandpa in Florida, but they were living off Social Security, and were about five minutes from moving into a nursing home...that I couldn't pay for. They'd asked me for money last year. And I'd given it to them.

  What if I cashed this, and it was...like, the Mob? And they'd come for what I owed them, and they'd break my knees. Okay, that was stupid. But for real, who on earth would send me money at all, much less this much? I had one friend, Layla. And she was almost as desperate as I was.

  Nonetheless, I called her. She answered on the fourth ring. "Hey, bitch. What's up?"

  "Did you--this is going to sound really dumb, but you didn't mail me a check? Did you? Like, you didn't secretly win the lottery?" I laughed, like it was joke. "I mean, you didn't, right?"

  Layla guffawed. "Have you been drinking? Why the hell would I mail you a check? I don't even have checks. And if I did, and if I had money to give you, why would I mail it to you?"

  "Yeah, right. That's--that's what I thought."

  Layla caught the tone in my voice. "What's going on, Key?"

  I wasn't sure what to say. "I. Um. Can I come over? For...a few days?"

  "Your electricity got shut off?"

  "I also got evicted."

  "No," she breathed.

  "And fired."

  "What?" Layla shrieked. "Didn't you just tell me you were going to get the permanent job?"

  "I was sexually propositioned by Mr. Edwards."

  "Shut the fuck up."

  "He said I could keep my job if I sucked his cock. I mean, he didn't say it in so many words. But he made it clear...by pulling his dick out."

  "Key. You've got to be kidding me." Layla's voice was flat, disbelieving.

  "Wish I was. I'll never get that mental image out of my head. Ugh." I didn't fake the shudder of revulsion. "Know what I did?"

  "What?"

  "I head-butted him. Broke his nose."

  "You did not!"

  I nodded, and then realized I was on the phone. "I did. I totally did."

  Layla was silent for a minute. Then, "Damn, Kyrie. That's a hell of a shitty day." I heard the light bulb go off. "What was that about the check?"

  "Can I come over? You wouldn't believe me if I told you." I had to force my voice to stay calm.

  "Of course. Bring your blankie, bitch. Let's have us a sleepover."

  Layla would never let me down. I mean, she couldn't pay my rent for me, but she'd let me stay on her couch until doomsday if I needed to. She lived with her boyfriend, Eric, so we couldn't be roommates anymore, but she'd always welcome me. I changed, packed my bags--which didn't take much--and left my shitty, third-hand furniture where it was. Either I'd be able to come back for it, or I wouldn't. Nothing to do about it now.

  At Layla's, I kicked off my shoes and accepted the Bud Light she handed me. Layla was half-black, half-Italian, all attitude and curves. Long black hair, dark brown eyes, flawless mocha skin. We'd been best friends since the first day of college, roommates for two years, until she met Eric and got serious enough to move in with him. Eric was...okay. Smart, good-looking, nice...and a small-time pot dealer. I didn't actively dislike him, but I didn't get what Layla saw in him. He wasn't a bad guy, just not my cup of tea. She knew it, and she didn't care. She liked him, he liked her, and it worked for them. Whatever.

  I sat back on her ratty couch, drained half of my beer, and then handed Layla the envelope. Or, as I thought of it, The Envelope. With Capital Letters of Importance. "I got this in the mail today. Just like that. Out of the blue. Open it."

  Layla frowned at me, then examined the outside. "Nice handwriting."

  "I know. But look inside. And...maybe sit down." I took another long pull of my beer.

  Layla perched her butt on the arm of the couch beside me and withdrew the check. "Holy shit!" She looked at me, her eyes wide. "Key, this is ten thousand dollars. You know what you could do with this?"

  "Yeah. I do. But...where did it come from? Who sent it? Why? And more importantly...do I dare cash it?"

  Layla sighed. "I get your point. I mean, part of me says 'duh, cash that bitch!', but the untrusting part of me says 'hold on now, sister.'"

  "Exactly. I'd never be able to pay this back. Not ever." I finished my beer, and got up to get another one, found a box of old pizza in the fridge. "Can I?" I lifted the box.

  Layla shrugged. "Go for it. So what are you going to do?"

  "I don't know, Layla. I wish I did. I--I'm at the end of my rope. If I didn't have you, I'd be living in my car right now. Daddy's life insurance policy ran out six months ago. I'm short on rent, and all my other bills are past due. Cal's tuition needs paying, and so does mine. Fuck, everything is due. And I don't have a job. I looked for weeks to find even this temp job. I'll never find another one. And now...right when I need it most, this" --I snatch the check from Layla and shake it-- "shows up. I don't see how I can not cash it. I'll just have to hope I don't end up owing, like, Sal the Slicer, or something."

  Layla nodded. "That's a risk. You don't know who this is." She taps the check. "Did you Google this VRI Incorporated?"

  "No electricity, remember? I couldn't use my computer. And I'm out of data on my cell phone plan."

  "Oh." Layla slumped into the chair in front of her PC, which was almost as old as mine. She brought up Google, typed in the name and address, and scrolled through the result. "Nothing. I mean, there are tons of companies with that name, and the fact that it's a P.O. box means whoever it is doesn't want to found."

  "No shit, Sherlock. Short of hiring a fucking PI or something, I don't see how I can find out who this is."

  "So you cash it."

  "So I cash it."

  We spent the evening drinking. I got blitzed on about six beers and passed out on the couch, since I didn't have to be up in the morning. Layla and I both had an afternoon class, so we slept in until almost eleven, which was nice. After breakfast and a shower, La
yla and I went together to the bank. I stood in front of the teller, two checks in my hand, which was shaking like a leaf. Eventually, I managed to hand them to the teller, and asked her to deposit them, and give me back a thousand dollars in cash.

  When that was done, the teller handed me a receipt, and an envelope full of the cash she'd counted out to me. I put two hundred dollars in twenties into my purse, and left the other eight hundred in the envelope. I stared at the receipt: $9,658.67. We left the bank, got into my car, and drove to the university. True to form, Layla made no mention of the money, no hints at how many bills she had due, how much she could use even a couple hundred bucks. Couple hundred? Shit, to girls in our situation, even twenty bucks would be a godsend. She wouldn't ask, not ever, no matter how much money I had. Just like I wouldn't ask her if the situation were reversed. She'd never ask for anything unless she was in dire straits like I was now. Before we got out and went to class, I grabbed Layla's hand. Put the envelope of cash in her hand.

  "Here." I folded her fingers over the edge. "I know you need it."

  Layla stared at me. "Um. No."

  I nodded. "Um, yes. You didn't think I wouldn't share with my best friend, did you?"

  "Kyrie. You can't give this to me. You need it."

  I smiled at her. "You do, too. I have enough now. You're not just my bestie, Layla. You're...you're like family. So just take it and say thank you."

  She sniffled. "You're gonna make me smear my mascara, hookerface." Layla took a deep breath, blinked, and visibly forced away the tears. "Thank you, Kyrie. You know I love you, right?"

  That was a big deal for her to say. She'd grown up in a tough household. No abuse, just cold and closed off, not the kind of family that exchanged declarations of love on a regular basis. I knew she loved Eric, but I'd never heard her say it. I was very much the same, growing up in a stable and happy home, but not one given to frequent hugs or I-love-you's. Layla and I had been best friends for more than three years. We'd gone through thick and thin together, faced near-starvation, faced asshole boyfriends and dickhole professors and betraying ex-friends, bar fights and cat fights and apartment break-ins. I'd been there for her when Layla had been sexually assaulted by a jealous ex-boyfriend, and she'd been there for me when Mom had her breakdown, necessitating long-term hospitalization. Yet, for all that, despite the fact that we'd both take a bullet for each other, we didn't tell each other we loved each other.