“Mmm. It might take a while for you to earn that half point back.”
“That means I’ll have to be on my best behavior then, doesn’t it?”
“Well I’m sure it’s a lot easier to behave yourself from across the ocean.”
“You’d be surprised,” he mutters. “Hold on, room service is here with my dinner.”
I’m surprised they serve food at two in the morning, but then maybe because his family owns the hotel he gets whatever he wants, whenever he wants.
I hear his muffled voice in the background and then he’s back again. “I don’t know why I’m making you stay on the phone with me, I’m sure you have better things to do than listen to me eat.”
“Actually, I haven’t eaten dinner yet, so I could heat something up and we could eat together.”
“Isn’t it nine there?”
“I slept in a little and had a late lunch.” I don’t mention getting up at two in the afternoon. Not when he’s been traveling all day.
I put him on speakerphone while I prepare a plate of leftovers and stick it in the microwave.
“What are you having?” he asks.
“I’m on to the chicken parm and spaghetti. I ate all the primavera this afternoon. What about you?”
“A burger and fries. It was pretty much the only option at this hour.”
Once my meal is reheated I take it over to the counter, grab a bottle of Perrier from the fridge, and drop onto a stool.
“So this traveling you’re doing now, will you have to keep it up?” I twirl noodles onto my fork.
“Probably for a while, at least until my father thinks I have the basics down.”
“I guess it’s good that you’re used to it then?”
“I don’t mind the travel but I feel like I’ve done enough of it over the last seven years. It can be”—he pauses for a few seconds, searching for the right word—“lonely, I guess. I missed so many birthdays and holidays with my family. I was looking forward to being able to spend more time with them, put down some more roots I guess, but it seems like that will be delayed again.”
“You’re close to your family then?”
“They’re important to me. My mother was sick a while back and I wasn’t there for that, because of my job. I’d like to be around more. There are some New York projects I’d like to be involved in, but it really depends on how quickly I pick things up whether or not I’ll get to work on them.” He sounds a little despondent.
“Is it a steep learning curve?” I have no idea what the hotel business entails.
“I have all the theory from school, but I haven’t been actively using any of the things I learned in college for this purpose. It’s a new application, if that makes any sense.”
“It does. So after you have the basics down, then you’ll get to work out of New York?”
“Not strictly, but my hope is that I’ll have the opportunity to manage some of the properties in the US, and travel will be limited.”
“And that’s what you’d prefer?”
“I think so, yes. It’s just a big transition. It’ll take time to get used to suits instead of cleats.”
“Mmm. That is a big change.” I lean back, holding on to the edge of the island until I can see the giant, sweaty poster of him on the wall. “If it’s any consolation, you look just as good in a suit as you do in cleats.”
“Nine out of ten good?”
“It would’ve been if you hadn’t asked that question.”
He laughs. “So how does a Scott end up in New York, looking to get on Broadway? I thought you were all born with your times tables memorized.”
I snort. “Ah, that’s typically the way it goes. I’m the rogue, unfortunately. My passion has always been in theater. My father only let me come to New York out of guilt. And possibly to get rid of me for a few years so I wouldn’t ruin his extended honeymoon phase.”
“I’m not following.”
“My mother waited until I was done with high school to hand my father the divorce papers. Then she moved to Alaska. I’d applied to Randolph before that happened and my mother had been a big supporter. My father not so much. Of course he found it in his heart to support my decision when he brought his new girlfriend home to meet me two weeks after my mother left.”
“Ouch.”
“She was his secretary at Scott Pharmaceuticals. She’d been working under my dad for two years. I’m fairly certain he’d been dipping his quill in the company inkwell for a long while. So he let me go to New York.”
“How convenient for him.” Bancroft’s derision makes me happy.
Obviously, my father was smart enough to draw up a prenup, so he wasn’t just letting his penis guide his actions.
He’d done the same with my mother, but the money had never been the thing for her. I’d been her glue; and when I was all grown up and ready to make my own way, she’d finally walked away. It had been so difficult to lose her like that at first. I’d been angry, until I realized what she’d sacrificed and that my father was just another privileged asshole.
“Oh it gets better. As soon as the divorce was final he married her. And my whore-mother is four years older than me.”
“Pardon?” I’m pleased by how horrified Bancroft sounds.
“I mean my stepmother. She’s twenty-eight and I’m twenty-four.”
“That’s just—”
“Gross? Sadly typical? At least she’s older than me. She’s actually five years younger than my half-sister and seven years younger than my half-brother.”
“That’s just wrong.”
“On so many levels. And they all work together. She’s moved to a different department so she’s not directly under him anymore.”
“So many tasteless jokes there,” Bancroft says derisively.
“Right? But he’s still her boss and she’s still the employee he screwed his wife and family over for. I think it’s rather ironic that he deals in erectile dysfunction medications. Of course he needs a trophy wife to parade around so everyone knows he can still get it up. It’s embarrassing.”
“I can see why New York would’ve been alluring, and still is.”
“Honestly, I probably would have murdered her had I stayed in Rhode Island, so moving was really the only viable option.”
“Very practical, and far less complicated than murder,” Bancroft says. I almost wish we were on video chat so I could see his smile.
“Exactly. I don’t think I’m designed for murder. I mean, I love watching horror movies, but I can barely manage preparing meat, so I think I probably would’ve sucked at getting rid of the body.”
Bancroft laughs. Then yawns.
“Am I boring you with my tales of murder?”
“I’m so sorry. I think the carbs and the jet lag are finally hitting me.”
“I’ll let you go so you can get a few hours of sleep before you have to be up for meetings.”
“It’s probably a good idea. I’ll touch base later in the week, okay?”
“Okay. Bye, Bancroft.”
“You know, you can call me Bane.”
“Like the bane of my existence?”
That gets me another sleepy, gravelly sounding laugh. “Is that what I am?”
“Not even a little. You’re my white knight in shining armor, saving me from living in a box on the corner, singing on the subway to earn a living.” As much as it’s supposed to be a joke, he really is the only thing keeping me from having to move back to Rhode Island for at least the next month.
“I’m not so sure I deserve that title, considering my role in sabotaging your last audition,” he says ruefully.
“I’m confident this makes up for it.”
“That eases my guilty conscious more than you can know. Night, Ruby.” The warmth in his voice wraps around me like a hug.
“Night, Bane.”
Chapter 10: Luckless
RUBY
I don’t hear from Bancroft for the next two days apart from a few
text messages asking how things are going. So he’ll know they’re alive, I send him pictures of Francesca and Tiny, with little thought bubbles proclaiming their love for me. Bancroft thinks it’s funny.
After that the phone calls come almost nightly. Bancroft has taken to calling me around dinnertime—well, dinnertime for me, but since he’s across the ocean it’s more like bedtime for him. Which I don’t mind in the least. Especially since, two nights ago, he video called instead of voice called because he missed seeing Francesca. If I put him on speakerphone while she’s in the room she goes nuts, and I wanted him to see how cute she is.
Both times we’ve video chatted he’s been wearing a white undershirt that hugs the muscles in his chest and outlines the incredible abs hidden underneath the thin fabric. I don’t get to see what he’s wearing from the waist down since we’re clearly not staring at each other’s crotches while we talk, but I like to picture him in boxer briefs that also hug all the good parts and outline his package nicely.
Dinner conversation usually starts with Bancroft asking about Francesca and Tiny, then I ask him how his day was, he tells me all about things his brother does to drive him insane and I point out he does a lot of the same things.
When he asks how the job hunt is going for me I tell him it’s great. I’ve managed to line up two auditions for next week, but both of the roles are small, and not likely to be enough for me to come up with a down payment for any kind of apartment, let alone allow me to start paying down my debts.
Two days ago I secured part-time employment in a bar serving drinks. I had reservations about the place, partly because the manager hired me on the spot with barely a glance at my résumé. Apparently my “bad plan” radar was accurate.
I lasted all of one shift. Not because I’m incapable of serving drinks and bar food, but because being propositioned by the manager during my first shift did not bode well for the long term. I pocketed the $120 in tips and walked.
I’m trying to stay positive. I have the auditions. I still have time. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
* * *
Over the next week, I take the job-hunting business seriously. When I’m not playing with Francesca, or letting Tiny crawl up and down my arm, I spend most of my days scouring the Internet for potential auditions and seeking agent representation or passing out my résumé at every damn place I can think of.
I bomb the first audition. Just choke. Like literally. I’m in the middle of my audition, singing my heart out when all of a sudden I’m choking on something. I double over coughing and spit out a giant housefly, covered in my saliva. It’s everything I can do not to throw up on stage again.
The night before my second audition I get nervous. For good reason. I feel like I’m jinxed. I’ve been practicing my dance routine all afternoon and I have it down perfectly. I know every step, every word to the song. I can perform it in my sleep. I don’t take any chances with food. I eat Cup-a-Soup and drink hot lemon water. Bancroft tells me to break a leg. It’s supposed to be good luck. But I go to sleep feeling uneasy anyway.
I wake up in the middle of night screaming bloody murder because I have a nightmare that I left the lid off Tiny’s terrarium and she escaped her habitat. In my dream I felt something crawling on me and I jumped out of bed stepping on something warm and squishy. In reality I do jump out of bed, but the warm and squishy thing is a wet washcloth I left on the floor after I’d given myself my nightly pre-bed Bancroft-inspired orgasm. In my haste to get away from the terrifying washcloth I slipped on the floor and landed on my ass.
I should’ve known from the lack of sleep, the bad dream, and the bruised bottom that the audition was going to be a failure.
The next day I nearly do break a leg, just like Bancroft told me to. The dance routine I know so well goes sideways when I faceplant on the stage in the middle the routine thanks to a rogue puddle of water. I go home—or back to the condo—feeling doomed. It’s as if karma is giving me the middle finger.
When I get home from my epically terrible day where I not only embarrass myself on stage, but also get turned down for not one, but three cashier positions—word to the wise: a Triple-Threat Award does not make one universally employable—all I want to do is curl up in bed and forget this day ever happened.
Bancroft will be back in little more than three weeks and I’m still minus a job. It’s not good. The envelope of cash—which contained the full five weeks’ worth of my stipend, well, double it, but it’s not my fault if his math is off—helps a lot, but I need to pay down my bills and save for an apartment. I have another audition lined up in two days, but with the way things are going, I’m worried I’ll bomb this one, too. The only thing I seem to be good at is taking care of Francesca and Tiny.
I almost caved when I spoke to my father earlier in the week. He asked how things were going and if I’d sorted out my apartment situation. I played dumb and asked him what he meant. Apparently, his brainless secretary told him I’d called about my bank account even though I’d said she didn’t need to. There was no way I was going to admit to not being able to take care of the situation on my own. I’m not at point critical quite yet. It’s close though.
I kick off my shoes and cross over to Francesca’s cage. A few days after Bane left I moved it to the main living area, which is where it stays for the most part. She’s already scaling the bars, jumping around and doing tricks for me.
“Hi, pretty girl,” I coo. “Did you miss me today? I missed you!” I unlatch the cage and lift her out. She cuddles into me, nuzzling into my cleavage like she’s looking for snacks. It’s her signature move every time I pick her up, as if she thinks I’ll have lost food down there. She’s a bright light in my otherwise shitty day.
I carry her down the hall, exhausted and defeated, looking for anything that will brighten my spirits. I grab my phone on the way, in case we end up chilling out and watching movies. It’s probably one of my favorite things to do, especially after a long, crappy day. Francesca loves nature documentaries and she’s great company when I watch horror movies.
I pass my own bedroom and keep going. In the past two weeks, I’ve only slept in my room once. That was the first night I stayed here. Half of my boxes still line the wall, unpacked. A constant reminder that I need a job, any job, and soon.
I push open the door to his room. The bed is made, because it’s so much more fun to mess it up when it’s already perfect. Last week I relented and changed the sheets, because they were smelling less than fresh, but I sprayed them with Bancroft’s cologne so they still smelled like him. It’s not authentic, but it’s kind of the same. I refuse to acknowledge that it’s a little creepy, this behavior of mine, but I tell myself it’s for the benefit of Francesca so she doesn’t think he’s abandoned her.
I put her down on Bancroft’s bed and she does her little nose twitch-sniffle thing, bouncing around, waiting for me to start the game. I’m tired and grumpy, but this at least will put me in a semi-better mood. I pull the sheet up over her and she makes this little noise of excitement. We play for a good fifteen or twenty minutes, until she’s had enough and all she wants to do is cuddle.
It’s just after six, but I didn’t sleep well last night and the failed audition and unsuccessful attempts to secure employment exhausts me, so I turn off all the lights and find a good horror movie. Sometimes torture and fear are a good way to remind me my life isn’t so bad.
I don’t even have the energy to consider making dinner. Francesca wriggles her way under my shirt and peeks her head out through the neckline. She likes being close to my boobs, right in the valley. I let her snuggle in and close my eyes. I just need a few minutes to manage the disappointment.
Digital ringing pulls me from sleep. I blink a bunch of times, trying to throw off the haze. I realize the sound is coming from my phone. I check the clock. It’s 8:03. At night. Shit. Bancroft said he’d call at seven and he’s prompt with phone calls, which means he’s been trying to reach me for the past hou
r.
I fumble around and hit the answer button, my uncoordinated fingers struggling to grab hold of the device.
“Ruby? Are you there? Ruby?” Bancroft’s concern is clear in his tone.
“Here.” I rasp. “Fell asleep. Sorry. Here now.”
“Is the connection bad? I can’t see anything.”
The room is dark. I didn’t even manage to start the movie, apparently. “Hold on.” I reach across for the lamp on the side table and flick it on. The brightness blinds me and I drop my phone on the bed, rubbing my eyes for a second. I glance around, looking for Francesca, but I don’t see her right away.
“Ruby?”
“Right here. I’m so sorry, did you have to call a bunch of times?”
“Uh . . . just a few. Is everything okay? Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m good. Fine. Just a long day. How are you?” I finally focus on the screen, not my surroundings. Bancroft is in a bed. Shirtless. In a bed. His hair is wet, like he’s fresh out of the shower. Did I mention he’s in bed. Shirtless?
I can see myself in the tiny screen in the corner. I look like a bag of dog poop. My hair is all over the place. I have crease lines in my face from the pillow.
Bancroft’s brows come down. “Where are you?”
“Huh?” I ask, because the answer to that question isn’t exactly one I want to give or explain.
He tilts his head to the side. “Are you in my bedroom?”
“What?” Panic flares for a second as I struggle to come up with a reason for my being in here.
“You’re in my bed.”
Oh Jesus. Is he mad? His eyes are dark. Although the room he’s in is not well lit, so that could totally account for the whole darkness aspect.
“I, uh . . . I was cleaning and I moved Francesca in here and then we were playing hide in the sheets and I must’ve fallen asleep and I’m sorry about that. I’ll wash your sheets.”
A smile quirks the corner of his mouth. “You don’t have to apologize for playing with Francesca. How’s my girl?”
The Shacking Up Series Page 14