by Theresa Jane
He looked me up and down, lingering for a moment too long before he replied.
“I just didn’t take you for one of those girls.”
“One of what girls?” I prodded, raising my eyebrows and crossing my arms over my chest as the elevator started to climb.
“Don’t worry,” he shrugged, and I felt my temper flare.
“What, you don’t think I’m pretty enough to be with the god-like rock star, is that it?” I challenged as the elevator stopped at the man’s floor.
“No,” he answered simply as the doors slid open smoothly to reveal an opulent hallway with only two doors opposite each other. I watched the man walk out, unsure of whether to be offended or complimented, and then he spoke again. “You’re too real,” but before I could answer him, the doors slid close again and the elevator was moving upwards swiftly. I looked up at the numbers and realized the gap between me and the apartment was closing quickly.
Just one more floor and I would be there, and all thoughts about the almost insulting man were swept from my mind as anger, mixed with nerves, mixed with insanity, swirled in my stomach, threatening to toss the contents out in the pristine elevator. Then, suddenly I was there. The doors opened, slowly, almost ominously, and I reluctantly took a step out into the small entryway. There was a single green door in front of me, and all I could do was stare at it.
“Now what?” I muttered as the elevator doors closed behind me with finality, leaving me in an uncomfortable silence, the green door my only company.
Grudgingly, I stepped toward the door and knocked softly, hoping he might not hear me. However, my hopes were dashed moments later when the door swung open to reveal the golden god himself.
I stepped back in shock, arm still raised as my eyes tried to take him all in. His golden eyes bore into me with such intensity I felt my heart skip a beat almost in confusion, as if it didn’t know how to react to the man in front of me.
“You’re late,” he grunted before disappearing back inside the apartment, and I felt a smug grin spread across my face.
“I know,” I replied, no hint of remorse in my tone. However, I didn’t follow him in. Instead, I remained nailed to the carpet firmly outside his apartment, not ready to enter his territory.
“Frey,” he shouted from somewhere inside, and I felt my anger start to bubble again.
“It’s Freya,” I yelled into the space, still toeing the line of neutral territory.
“I don’t care if it’s Mother Teresa, get in here,” he growled, and reluctantly I stepped across the threshold, feeling a coldness wash over me. I immediately wanted to turn back. It wasn’t worth it. Mason could get another job.
“Freya,” he called again, and I slowly made my way down the empty corridor before it opened out into a large living area.
I stopped immediately to try and see it all. I had never been in a space so big. His TV would have taken up my entire apartment. There were low black leather couches that looked anything but comfortable, and the kitchen was so white I was surprised there weren’t any angels in there playing the harp.
However, all of this was nothing compared to the view. It was like nothing I had ever seen before, and I could feel myself moving toward it involuntarily.
“Have you seen this?” I asked in awe as I tried to push myself as close to the window as possible.
“Yes, a bunch of concrete buildings covered in a thick layer of smog. How magical,” he deadpanned, and I turned back to look at his annoyed stance. “Can I show you the rest of the apartment now?”
“Sure,” I shrugged, giving the view one last look before following his retreating steps down another hallway.
“Where’s all the art?” I asked, frowning at the barren white walls.
“Don’t need it,” he answered flatly.
“What about photos?” I suggested. “Of family, friends maybe?”
“Haven’t got any.” I was silent after that as he showed me all the rooms in the apartment. There were many, and the one that housed the cleaning supplies was almost bigger than my entire apartment put together. Finally, we reached the last room, and I sighed in relief, wondering if he would fire me when he realized how counterproductive I could be to the cleaning process.
“And this is your room,” he said, opening the door to reveal another plain room, with the faded blue bedspread the only color in it.
“My room?” I frowned, looking around the space. “Why would I need a room here?” Was cleaning really that strenuous that I would need a nap halfway through?
“You live here.”
“What?” I almost shouted as I turned from the room to look at his calm face, his golden eyes staring somewhere behind me.
“Where’s your bag?”
“What bag?”
“The one that has all your things,” he explained slowly, as if I was incapable of comprehending what he was saying.
“I’m not living here,” I answered, stepping back with my arms crossed.
“I’ll have some guys sent over to get your things today,” he answered casually before turning from me and walking back down the bland hallway.
“Where are you going?” I asked in exasperation.
“Out,” he replied, and then he was gone. All I was left with was an empty room and far too many unanswered questions. What had just happened?
Chapter 5: Moving Day
“Can I help you?” I asked the men in alarm as they came marching into the room. I had stayed in ‘my room’ ever since Liam left, not really sure what to do. I thought he would be back by now, but it appeared as if he might be gone the whole day. When I heard the door open only moments ago, I thought it would be him, but instead, I found two burly men in the doorway of the room carrying two pathetic armloads of belongings.
“We are here to deliver some things for Mr. Henderson. He told us this room, but maybe we were mistaken,” one of them explained, and I walked over to them, afraid of how they were handling my easel.
“Why did you bring it here?” I demanded, pursing my lips at the two men. They shared a confused look with one another before ignoring me and beginning to place things around the room. “Wait, stop. I’m not staying here.” I quickly moved around and picked up everything they put down as they ignored me until both my arms were loaded.
“Miss, we were instructed by Mr. Henderson to deliver these things, and we have already been paid,” one of the men told me impatiently.
“Well, take it all back because I don’t want it here. Don’t make any more trips with the rest of my stuff because I’m not living here,” I answered adamantly.
“This was our only trip,” the other man answered in confusion.
“What about the rest of my stuff?” I asked in alarm.
“We were instructed only to keep things which were salvageable.”
“You’re missing over half of what I own,” I accused, dropping everything down on the bed. “Are you saying that half of my life isn’t salvageable?”
“This was the best we could find,” they informed me, and I groaned in frustration.
“What did you do with the rest of it?” I demanded, pacing before the two confused men.
“We were to dispose of anything that was left behind,” they informed me, and I felt my face heat up, my body vibrating with uncontrollable anger.
“He told you to throw it out?” I screeched. “What gives him the right?”
“Miss, we’re just the movers,” one of the men answered cautiously as the other backed out of the room slowly. “If you have a problem, you’re going to need to take it up with Mr. Henderson.”
“I promise you, I will,” I growled as the two men walked briskly from the room, taking a calculated risk and turning their backs on me in their haste to escape.
Once they were out of my room, I dove for the phone on the bedside table and rang my landlord. I had a suspicion he wasn’t mine anymore, but I needed to be sure.
&nb
sp; * * *
“You already found someone?” I asked in alarm. My cranky landlord had almost been growling at me when I called.
“A man came and settled your lease. I rented the apartment out an hour ago,” he informed me with his usual croaky voice. I’d be surprised if they didn’t find a frog living down his throat one day.
“Well, un-rent it. I’m not moving out.”
“It’s too late. Besides, the man paid me extra to keep you out,” he continued, and I felt anger burn in my chest. How could he do this to me?
“Please, Mr. Peabody, I need a place to stay,” I begged, looking over at my tiny lump of belongings sitting on the bed.
“Not my problem,” he rumbled, and then the line went dead.
“Mr. Peabody?” However, there was no answer, and I slammed the phone down harshly. How could this have happened? I’d only been out of the apartment for no more than three hours, and I was homeless.
I got up to pace again, too angry to sit still for long. I wanted to destroy something; I wanted to maim the controlling rock star, but he had left. Why was he not here? How was I meant to yell at him if he had left before I had even received the news of my homelessness?
Grinding my teeth, I stomped from ‘my room’ and down to the living room, assessing what I could destroy. Everything was so neat and tidy I found myself wondering who the last maid was and why she had quit. There wasn’t a speck of dust or a pillow out of place on the sofa. All the remotes to the television were lined up neatly on the clear coffee table, and there was nothing personal anywhere. It was as if I had walked into a display home.
Brows furrowed, I walked into the kitchen, and the first thing to catch my eye was the coffee machine. It was beautiful. Every surface was shining and best of all, there wasn’t any duct tape in sight.
I approached it with reverence, my anger put aside for the moment. I was too afraid to touch it, and my fingers skated across the air around it until eventually my desire for coffee overpowered me. How hard could it be to work anyway?
I pushed a few buttons, and it replied with a series of worrying beeps, so I pushed a few more. There was a churning noise coming from the machine, and I began to panic. Something started whirring dangerously and before I knew what was happening, it started expelling hot liquid on me.
Diving for cover, I shielded my head and waited out the storm as the evil machine proceeded to coat the kitchen in milk and warm black coffee, emitting a series of loud, angry beeps as it attacked me. It screeched and shouted as I tried to keep the majority of it off my skin, but it still burned.
Just when I thought it was going to win the battle, suddenly, the noises stopped and the machine gave out one last squirt before falling inanimate again. Breathing a sigh of relief, I gingerly looked up from where I was hiding in my arms and found a fuming man glaring down at me, holding the plug to the machine.
For a moment I thought there was an amused smirk on his face, but the anger I saw staring back at me was undeniable. Slowly, I got to my feet as the kitchen dripped with the watery, milky mess I had created.
“You’re back,” I offered weakly.
“What happened?” he asked in a low, threatening voice, and I took a step back from him before I realized what I was doing.
“I don’t really know,” I shrugged helplessly, looking over at the coffee machine from hell.
“You destroyed my kitchen,” he said in exasperation, throwing the plug down and gesturing to the disaster zone.
“You destroyed my life,” I answered, anger rising in my voice. If anyone was going to be angry in this situation, it was going to be me.
“You’re meant to clean, not make things messier than when you started,” he shouted, advancing on me.
“You threw out half of my life, and now I’m homeless,” I retorted.
“I’ve seen homeless people with nicer places to stay than you,” he scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest, disapproval in every feature. “I did you a favor.”
“It was my home,” I shot back.
“You live here now,” he shrugged, and I felt my anger rise to a height I never knew existed.
“I don’t want to live here.”
“You don’t have a choice, now clean up this mess. I have work to do.”
“Why are you doing this?” I shouted at his retreating back as he headed for the corridor that led to our rooms.
“Do your job, Freya,” he answered, disappearing down the corridor, and I groaned in frustration, childishly stomping in the puddles of coffee and lukewarm water.
“I don’t even know what my job is,” I mumbled, walking through the kitchen and looking for a cloth or something to start cleaning up the mess.
* * *
“I’m going out,” he grunted before dropping something on the recently cleaned kitchen counter.
“Wait. You haven’t even explained anything to me,” I said irritably from where I was crouched on the floor, trying to get the coffee that had escaped under the cupboards.
“Read that,” he answered cryptically before disappearing out the front door again.
“Where does he go?” I grumbled, tossing the cloth in the sink and wiping the sweat from my forehead as I moved over to where he had dropped an enormous book. I was now coated with a layer of coffee and sweat, anger pulsing from every pore in my body. I had a feeling I was going to be permanently frustrated in this apartment if this was to continue. The least he could do was apologize for throwing out my life as if it meant nothing.
Opening the book, I realized it was a manual for how to clean his apartment written by the last maid. There were a lot of capitals instructing you on what not to do.
Picking it up, I walked back to my assigned prison cell and began to run a bath in my oversized bathtub. Every surface, like the rest of the apartment, was pristine. The walls were white, the counters were white, even the towels were white. It was extravagant, but it was plain, and I couldn’t help but feel a sadness spread through me as I realized nothing in this apartment revealed anything about Liam except that he was very lonely. How could anyone live this way, where was the color?
Curiosity started to overtake me and leaving the bath running, I walked toward his room that was a few doors away from mine.
“I’m technically his maid now,” I reasoned with myself. “I’m going to go into his room at some point.”
My heart beat rapidly in my chest as if I would be caught at any moment, but I knew he wasn’t home and based on the last time he left the apartment, he might not be back for hours. Who knew what he did with his nights?
Cautiously, I pushed down on his door handle and snuck inside, keeping the door open slightly behind me. When I looked up, I wasn’t shocked to find an empty room. There were no photos and just like the rest of the apartment, there was no color, just black and white, not even gray. How could anyone live like this?
I walked slowly over to his dresser and opened the first drawer to reveal black shirts all folded perfectly in their rows. I felt the overwhelming urge to move them around. I even entertained the idea of scrunching one up in a ball, but I restrained myself and instead moved one shirt so it was just out of place. The order of the room was making me twitch. It was too regimented and felt like it was pressing down on my mind. Everything about it made me uncomfortable. When I looked inside his bathroom, it was the same, and I shuddered at the excess of order.
If I were to compare him to me, it was obvious we were complete opposites. I had a suspicion that it wasn’t the maid who kept the place so clean. Based on the reaction he had over the coffee debacle, I was sure he was the perfectionist in this place. He was the one who was uncontrollably neat.
Crossing to his bedside table, I slowly opened the drawer, looking over my shoulder, hearing imaginary noises through the apartment as I snooped through his things.
Looking inside, I was shocked to find clutter and mess. There were pens scattered everywhere through
the drawer and loose pieces of paper piled on top of each other, rumpled and torn. Gingerly, I picked one up and realized they were song lyrics. His intimidating black scrawl was across all the pages, with various words and sentences carved out into the paper. Most were unintelligible while others were beautiful.
I wondered if I should listen to some of his music to see if maybe there was something about him that was redeemable. The last thing I expected from such a structured person were these beautiful, freeing words.
I looked at them for a moment longer before remembering the bath I was running, and I quickly placed them back inside the drawer before scurrying across his room and back to my temporary home.
Grabbing the manual, I moved to my waiting bath and quickly slipped out of my coffee-soaked clothes before plunging into the warm water. Immediately, I felt relaxed and let my eyes droop closed, the book forgotten on the floor beside the tub. There would be time for reading later.
* * *
“A map of the apartment?” I said in alarm, flicking the pages frantically to find the layout of the apartment where the location of every piece of furniture was mapped out to the very last inch. This was insane; no one mapped out their apartment.
“I am not doing math,” I grumbled, slipping into a fresh pair of jeans and another one of Mase's shirts as I flicked through the manual for Liam’s house of horrors. I was just about to read about the proper way to wash his laundry when I heard the door slam, and loud voices started to ricochet around the empty apartment. Glancing at the clock, I saw that it was after ten, and gingerly I padded out of my room, curious to see who had come home with him.
Nervously, I ducked around the corner of the hallway and saw ten or so people sprawled out on Liam’s couch. They were undeniably drunk. My eyes were immediately drawn to the glassy-eyed blond in the center who had three girls fawning over him as the other guys went to his fridge and liquor cabinet in search of a new high.
The girls were all over Liam, running up and down his sides with their talons as he sat there with a bored expression on his face. Someone tossed him a drink, and he caught it before throwing it back as one of the girls placed herself in the lap of a black-haired man, wrapping her arms around his neck, his eyes clouding over.