by R. R. Banks
“I haven't been keeping that chair warm for the last couple of years,” he says, “just to let some spiteful, greedy little girl sell it off to the highest bidder.”
“I know you haven't, hoss,” I say. “And I'm going to do everything I can not to disappoint you.”
Thomas nods. “That's all I can ask.”
I leave the Keating building and feel like the weight of the world is on my shoulders. The lives and livelihood of more than fifty thousand people rests on my ability to meet my two obligations – which are getting married, and apparently learning to ask for help.
My mind is swirling in a million different directions and I'm not entirely sure what to think. It feels like there's a hellacious storm brewing. It's out on the horizon, still two years away, but it's like I can see the thunderheads already gathering. The clouds are pitch black and promise to bring ruin and destruction.
Unless I can somehow manage to head it off.
The driver holds the door open for me and I slip into the back seat, lost in thought. But as he pulls away from the curb, an idea begins to form in my mind. And by the time we're halfway home, I'm feeling really good about it.
“This can work,” I say. “This can really work.”
Chapter Ten
Amanda
I climb the stairs to my apartment after another fruitless day of job hunting. I don't have enough experience for this place. I don't have the right kind of experience for that place. Everywhere I went, all I got were doors slammed in my face. It's all so frustrating and scary, and all I want to do is cry.
“Amanda.”
The familiar voice freezes me in my tracks at the top of the stairs. I turn around on the landing, my heart thundering in my chest as I see my landlord Roger coming up the stairs behind me – and he looks none too pleased. Roger is a heavy-set man who looks like he's a donut or two away from a massive heart attack. He's bald and has a long, scraggly beard, and for some reason, always smells like fish and garlic. Always. He's exactly what I picture whenever somebody says the word, “redneck.”
“Got your rent?” he asks, out of breath from climbing the stairs, his twang more pronounced than usual. “You're late. Again.”
I give him my best smile. “I will,” I say. “Soon. I promise.”
“You said that two days ago.”
“I know, Roger,” I say. “And I'm sorry. I'm trying to find a new job and all –”
“Look,” he says. “You're a nice girl and all, Amanda, but that's really not my problem. Know what is my problem?”
The knot in my stomach twists painfully. “What is your problem, Roger?”
“The fact that you're more than a week late with the rent,” he says. “And that you've been late for the last six months in a row.”
“Roger, please,” I say. “I just need a little more time to get myself back on my feet. Please. I'm looking for a job every day. I'm looking hard. I just –”
He sighs and runs his hand over his bald head. “You have two days,” he says. “If you don't have your rent by then, I have no choice but to evict.”
“Roger, please –”
He holds his hand up to cut me off. “Two days,” he says. “That's it. That's all I can do.”
He turns and waddles back down the stairs, grumbling to himself the whole way. The knot in my stomach is so tight, I feel like I'm going to throw up. My life is literally spinning out of control. Not only do I not have a job, I'm about to be out on the street. There's no way in hell I can get a new job – and the money to pay my rent – in two days.
I'm screwed. Absolutely screwed.
I walk into my apartment and slam the door behind me. I look around at my shitty little apartment. I stare at the cracks in the walls. The peeling linoleum in the kitchen. As I walk down the short entryway, I listen to the creaks in the floorboards. There are a million things wrong with this place, a million reasons why it sucks, but it's mine. This is my place. My home. My sanctuary. This is where I come when I need to hide away from the world.
And now, it's about to be taken away from me.
I fall to my knees and bury my face in my hands, my body heaving as I sob. It's like the dam that's been holding all of my emotions back finally burst. I've been punched in the gut by life over and over and over again and I just don't know how much more I can take.
My cell phone rings, so I try to pull myself together. I dig my phone out of my bag and look at the display – unknown number. I decline the call and drop the phone back into my bag.
“Pull yourself together,” I tell myself.
I force myself to my feet and pace the living room, trying to figure out what I can do. Looking around my place, I look for things I can sell. Except, I don't really have much of value. Certainly not anything valuable enough to pay the rent.
I need to clear my head. I need to get out. Grabbing my bag, I walk out the door, locking it behind me. Descending the stairs, Roger is standing there, next to the mailboxes. He looks over at me.
“Two days,” he says.
“I heard you,” I reply and rush out into the dying light of the late afternoon.
The air is crisp and I take in several long, deep breaths. Walking down the street, I try to organize my thoughts. What can I do to earn money? What can I do to make sure I don't get kicked out of my place?
With no job prospects, I really didn't have the answers to those questions. And had no idea how to go about getting them.
My phone rings again and I dig it out of my bag, hoping against all hope it's one of the places I applied to, calling me to schedule an interview. It's a number I don't recognize, which gives me a spark of hope.
“Hello?” I say.
“Amanda?”
The voice is familiar, but I can't quite place it immediately.
“This is she,” I say.
“You're a hard woman to track down, darlin'” he says and chuckles.
And then it hits me. The slow, southern drawl – it's Brady goddamn Keating.
“How in the hell did you get my number?” I snap.
“It wasn't all that hard really,” he says. “I know people and –”
“How?” I'm almost yelling.
“I asked your co-worker,” he says. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I'm pretty goddamn far from okay,” I am yelling into the phone now. “Thanks to you.”
People on the street are turning and looking at me, their expressions ranging from curious to amused to frightened. I suppose it's not everyday they run across some lunatic yelling on the street.
“And now people think I'm a freak,” I say, lowering my voice. “Also, thanks to you.”
“Slow down now, darlin',” he says. “The reason I –”
“Call me darlin' one more time and the next time I see you, I'm going to tear your nuts off with my bare hands.”
His laugh is slow and sugary, like molasses. “As pleasant as you make that sound, I actually have a purpose in making this call, dar – Amanda.”
“What, to rub in the fact that you've made my life a living hell?”
“Actually, there's something I want to discuss with you,” he says.
I'm so angry that I'm seeing red. The nerve of his son of a bitch. He turns my life upside down, destroys everything I've been working for, and then has the gall to call me to chat? I want nothing to do with Brady Keating – unless it involves beating him senseless.
“I've got nothing to say to you,” I say, my voice colder than ice.
“Well, that's fine,” he says. “You don't need to say anything. I just need you to listen, darlin'.”
“You realize I'm going to kill you, right?”
He chuckles. “Now, why would you want to kill me?” he asks. “I've got the key to solving all your problems.”
“The key?” I almost screech. “You are the reason for all my problems.”
“Well, that's not exactly fair, I –”
“You got me fired from my job, Brady,” I said.
“And because I don't have a job, I can't pay my rent. And if I can't pay my rent, I'm going to have no place to live. So, unless you're calling to give me a million dollars, you can just screw off. I'm not going out with you. Ever. So, leave me alone.”
I stab the button on the phone, ending the call and drop it back into my bag. It immediately rings again, so I pull it out again and punch the button.
“Stop calling me, you pretentious prick!”
“Wow,” Amy says, her familiar Texas drawl coming through the phone. “Got a stalker or something, girl?”
I sigh and shake my head. “Sorry,” I say. “Just some annoying asshole keeps bothering me.”
“I gathered,” she says and giggles. “What are you doing right now?”
“Thinking about jumping off a bridge,” I say.
“Before you do that, why don't you come out and have a few drinks with us?”
It's tempting. Very tempting. I'm so stressed out and angry, I want nothing more than to go drink myself into oblivion. It'd help me forget my problems. At least, for a little while. But as I think about the amount of money I owe versus the amount of money I have, I know I can't.
“I'd really love to,” I say. “But I really can't afford it right now. I lost my job.”
“What?” Amy gasps. “I had no idea. I'm so sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks.”
Amy has been my best friend since we met shortly after I moved to San Antonio. And I'd only moved to San Antonio to escape the misery of life in California. Yeah, that's looking like a really solid move now and I'm kicking my own ass. At least back home, I had a decent job and wasn't struggling so bad to get by. Of course, everything else that went with it made it intolerable. But at least I knew I wasn't going to be homeless and starving on the street.
Amy is a bright and chipper girl, always happy, and always optimistic. She's one of those already fairly well established in her career. She went to cosmetology school and now has her own shop. Of course, she had help from mommy and daddy – something I never got – but her shop is a huge success. And she did that on her own. I'm proud of her – but also jealous as hell.
“How about this?” she says. “Why don't you come out with us and it'll be my treat.”
The idea of somebody else paying my way curdles my stomach. I can't stand the idea of being somebody's charity case. Yeah, I'm in a bad way, but I'm a little too proud to accept handouts. For now, anyway. I might have to reconsider that depending on how bad things get.
“Thanks, hon,” I say. “But I'm just not going to be good company tonight. Rain check?”
“I'm sorry to hear that,” she says. “But I understand. We'll do brunch soon and you can tell me about everything going on.”
“Definitely.”
“And hey, don't get too down, Amanda,” she says. “Things will pick up again soon. I know they will.”
“I hope so,” I reply. “Have fun tonight. Be safe.”
“Love ya.”
“Love you too.”
I disconnect the call and stand there, trying to figure out what to do. Drinking myself blind is out – I just don't have the money for it. So, I decide to drown my sorrows in a big piece of chocolate cake. Molino's is a bakery near my apartment and has the best sweet treats in all of Texas. Maybe even in the entire world. So, I turn around and head back the way I came. The entire day has sucked, so I might as well eat my weight in chocolate cake and watch some trashy TV.
Since I'm going to be out on the street in a couple of days, I might as well enjoy my place with the time I have left.
Chapter Eleven
I wake up on the living room floor the next morning looking like I'd gone on a bender the night before. I suppose I did. Except that my bender included a giant piece of double chocolate-chocolate chip cake and a custard filled eclair. The TV was still on with an infomercial for some hair replacement therapy playing at an obscene volume.
Grabbing the remote, I turn the TV off and get to my feet. My hair is sticking out in a thousand different directions, my breath smells like raw sewage, I'm sure, and I feel like I need to take a scalding hot shower to melt the crud off of me. I'm afraid to look in the mirror though – I have the overwhelming fear that I'm going to find chocolate smeared all over my face.
“At least I'm not hungover,” I mutter to myself.
I grab my phone out of my bag and see that I have half a dozen missed calls – all from the number Brady Keating had called me from.
“Doesn't this guy ever take a goddamn hint?” I mutter.
I turn off my phone and jump when there is a loud knocking at the door. I look from my phone to the door and feel a surge of anger. No way. He couldn't know where I live. And he wouldn't have the balls to show up at my door – would he?
Of course, he would. He had the balls to not just dig up my phone number, but call me as well. Half a dozen times since the sun came up this morning, in fact.
I can't believe the nerve on this guy. Seriously. My blood is up and I'm ready to beat him to a pulp as I storm across the living room and down the short hallway to the front door. I drop my phone on the small table and practically rip the door off the hinges as I open it.
“You have got a lot –”
My voice dies in my throat when I see that it's not in fact, Brady Keating darkening my doorstep, but my landlord Roger. And he's standing there with a look of annoyance on his face and a piece of paper in his hand – which can only mean one thing.
The tide of anger that had welled up within me quickly ebbs away and is replaced by an overwhelming wave of fear. It comes crashing down and pulls me under, leaving me a trembling, fearful mess.
“I still have one more day,” I say quickly. “You gave me two days. I have until tomorr –”
Roger holds up his hand. “You can stop talking now.”
I open my mouth to speak again and then quickly close it. I look at the paper he's holding, but it's folded, so I have no idea what it is. Though I'm relatively certain it's an eviction notice. What else could it be?
“Roger, please,” I plead. “Just give me a little more time. I have a few solid leads on a job and –”
I stop talking when he crosses his arms in front of his chest and stares me down, the annoyance in his face deepening. I stand there, my stomach in knots, my head hurting, and still not knowing whether or not I have chocolate smeared all over my face like some gluttonous pig.
“Are you done?” he asks.
I nod quickly even though it takes a monumental effort to keep myself from speaking.
“Good,” he says. “Because what I was going to tell you is that I have some good news for you.”
I raise my eyes and look at him questioningly. Good news? It seems like it's been forever since I've heard good news that I'm totally unfamiliar with the concept.
“You're going to give me a little extra time to get the rent together?”
“Not exactly,” he says. “But your rent has been paid up for the next twelve months.”
I understand the words that came out of his mouth, but I don't really comprehend what he's saying. My rent is paid for the next twelve months? I'm not sure what he means by that. He looks at me as I struggle with comprehending it all and looks irritated. He rolls his eyes and shoves the piece of paper into my hand. I unfold it and look at it – my eyes widening when I see it's a receipt for twelve months worth of rent.
I look up at him, not understanding how this is even possible.
“You have a guardian angel, Amanda,” he says.
I shake my head, trying to wrap my head around it all. A guardian angel? Who in the – and just as the question enters my mind, I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I have a feeling I know exactly who my mysterious benefactor is.
“Who was it?” I ask, my tone dark and grim. “Who is this guardian angel?”
“Somebody who obviously likes you well enough to not want to see you on the street,” he replies.
“
Who, Roger?” I demand.
“Anybody ever tell you not to look a gift horse in the mouth?”
I sigh. “Roger, who? Who was it?”
He looks at me more irritated than ever. “Said his name is Brady,” he replies, his tone curt. “But he could call himself George Washington for all I care so long as his check clears.”
I feel like I'm about to puke. I feared as much. I shake my head and try to get myself under control.
“You have to give the check back,” I say.
“The hell I do.”
“Roger,” I say. “I cannot accept his – charity.”
“Like hell you can't,” he says. “Way I see things, you don't got much of a choice. You don't take it, you're out on the streets.”
“Then I'd rather be out on the streets.”
He shakes his head. “I don't get you, girl,” he says. “Some fella comes along and gives you the answer to your problems and you wanna just throw it away?”
“It's – complicated.”
“Don't seem that complicated to me,” he says. “You need money. You got money. You get to keep a roof over your head. End of story.”
“It's not that simple.”
“It is to me,” Roger replies. “I ain't returning the check. Whether you decided to move out or not is up to you. Either way, this place is yours for the next twelve months.”
He turns and walks away without another word. Feeling my nausea rising, I run to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before throwing up. I flush the toilet and then stand up, turn on the sink and look myself in the mirror for the first time.
The reflection I see staring back at me is a hot mess – and covered in smeared chocolate.
“Yeah, you're a real winner,” I mutter.
I rinse my mouth out and then brush my teeth. Turning on the shower, I strip down and climb in, letting the hot water rain down over me. My mind is still swirling and my heart is still thumping. I let the steam fill the room and breathe it in deeply, letting it clear me out. As the water works its way into my skin and muscles, I feel my head begin to clear and I'm able to focus my thoughts a little better.