The Shacking Up Series

by Helena Hunting

  She lifts a shoulder in a careless shrug, but her body language is stiff. In the time I’ve been away I’ve become fairly good at reading her. She’s expressive—hand gestures, the look on her face, her posture all tell me things her thorny words do not. The idea of this bothers her. And that makes me happy, because I feel like we are on a level playing field now.

  “Honestly, Ruby?” It comes out with real bite.

  Her gaze shifts my way. I see the thing I want: worry.

  “I’m offended,” I say. “You should know me better than that by now, don’t you think?”

  She scoffs.

  “What’s that sound supposed to mean?”

  This time when her gaze drops, so does her voice. “Armstrong implied you were enjoying the perks.”

  Fucking Armstrong. The next time I play golf with him I’m going to Charlie horse him with a nine iron. “Armstrong can be an asshole.”

  She fiddles with her napkin, twisting it until it tears. “So you’re not enjoying the perks? You haven’t even gone to a café and smoked a hookah?”

  “Is that an approved activity or will it cost me more points?”

  A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “You might even earn some back if you send me a picture.”

  I wish I could reach through the screen and touch her. “You could use it for blackmail purposes.”

  She bats her lashes. “You think I would stoop to such low tactics?”

  “I don’t know. You did lead me to believe you intended to sleep with Wentworth. My faith is shaken a little.”

  “You were trying to tell me what to do!”

  “You were drunk and at risk of poor decision making!” I counter.

  She leans in closer, eyes narrowed, her fire having returned. “I was not drunk.”

  I arch a brow.

  She tips her head to the side and concedes, “Okay. I was a little drunk.”

  “And there was cleavage. Excessive cleavage.”

  “It wasn’t excessive. It was a perfectly tasteful amount of cleavage. You used the word forbid. At this point, you should know that words like can’t and forbid make me want to do exactly the opposite. You know what happened the last time someone forbid me to do something?”

  “I hope it wasn’t sleep with an asshole.” I have so many inappropriate thoughts going through my head. I’d like to test out her response to the word forbid in a variety of scenarios.

  Ruby shoots me a dirty look, as if she can read my mind. “No. I moved to New York and pursued my dream.” She mutters something else that I don’t quite catch. “Anyway. If you still have enough time to do something fun that doesn’t include prostitutes, I highly recommend enjoying a few hours in a café with a hookah, it might calm you down a little.”

  I run a hand through my hair. “I’m usually very calm.”

  “Unless cleavage and Wentworth are involved.”

  “I’m fine with the cleavage, as long as it’s not combined with Wentworth.”

  “But any other time the cleavage is acceptable.”

  “I’m not answering that. I’m working my way into a points deficit and this feels like a trap.”

  She points the fork at the screen and smiles deviously. “You’re learning.”

  “How are my other two girls?” I ask, intent on changing the topic so I don’t get myself into more trouble.

  Ruby blinks a few times, as if I’ve shocked her. “Other two girls?”

  “Tiny and Francesca?” I like her in green.

  “Oh. Right.” She shakes her head a little. “Do you want to see them?”

  “When you’re finished eating. Don’t let your food get cold.”

  “I’m full. It’s fine.” She takes me over to the terrarium first where Tiny is resting on her rock. Then she goes over to Francesca’s cage and takes her out, walking down the hall to my bedroom. “Sorry. Your bed’s not made, we were in here earlier.”

  There’s some rustling around. I hear a few things hit the floor and then she sets the device up against the pillows and climbs up onto the bed. My bed. She’s wearing those tiny little shorts of hers again. And a tank. Her legs are incredible. I want her ankles resting on my shoulders and the very limited amount of clothing she’s wearing to be gone when that happens. Not that I’ve been thinking about this scenario a lot or anything.

  Francesca runs around on the bed, playing hide and seek under the covers until she gets tired. Then she crawls onto Ruby’s lap and sticks her head under her shirt.

  “What’s going on there?”

  “She likes to hide out between my boobs.” Francesca peeks her head out of the neckline.

  “Smart girl,” I reply.

  I can’t wait to go home. Actually, I’m hoping to be back sooner than I originally planned. I only have a few more things to do in Amsterdam and then it’s back to London. Lexington is going before me to tie up some loose ends there, which is great because he’s driving me batshit nuts with all of his micromanaging. I also think his inability to lay off of the perks here is interfering with work. Normally he’s pretty good at moderation, but it doesn’t seem that way right now. He needs to dry out for a few days.

  I’ve done all the sightseeing I want to. Home is where I want to be most. In my own bed, eating my own food, prepared in my own kitchen. I want dinner with Ruby. Except she’s likely going to be moving out when I get back. Which I’m not all that excited about. I like my time with her.

  “How’s the job hunt going?”

  Ruby bites her lip and her gaze shifts away. “It’s okay. I have another audition later this week. I have a couple of interviews for some part-time work outside of theater, just for something a bit more steady.”

  “Oh. That’s good news then?” Her tone makes me think it’s the opposite. That she’s looking for something outside of acting must mean she’s having difficulty finding a role and that seems like a real travesty. She’s a born actress from the stories she’s told me. From the moment she could talk, she’s been performing, school Christmas concerts, drama classes, lead roles in every high school production. Even her first kiss was on a stage. She said it was awful because the lead had eaten a burger with raw onions on it before they rehearsed the scene. She sounds exactly like I was with rugby, except she’s just starting and I’ve already been down that road.

  “Oh, yeah. Definitely. Things are looking up.”

  “And what about apartment hunting? How’s that going? Have you found anything suitable yet?” It’s another reason I want to come home early. I’d at least like a little time with Ruby before she moves out.

  “Oh, um, well . . . I’m still looking, but I have a few friends I can stay with once you’re back.” Her fingernails are at her lips. She’s not biting, but I think she’d like to be.

  “That seems like a lot of unnecessary work.”

  “What does?”

  “Moving your stuff again.”

  “Well, I don’t have much to move, right?”

  “Still. It seems pointless. To move out when I get back, I mean. You might as well stay until you find something that works. If you want.”

  “That’s very kind of you to offer, Bancroft, but I don’t want to impose. You’ve already done more than enough for me.”

  “It’s not an imposition, Ruby. I have the space and Francesca loves you. I’d hate for you to have to move all your things just to do it all over again. And there’s no point in rushing, I don’t want you to end up in some dive just because you feel like you’re imposing when you’re not.”

  Ruby props her cheek on her fist. Francesca is still snuggled up in her cleavage with her head poking out. “You’re sure it’s okay?”

  “Positive. I have lots of space.”

  “Obviously, I’ll pay rent and help out with groceries.”

  “We can negotiate that later. I’m not particularly worried about it.”

  “I don’t want a free ride.”

  I’d be more than happy to give Ruby all the free r
ides she wants, but I keep that to myself. “We’ll figure it out when I’m back.”

  “Okay. Thanks Bancroft. You’re being awfully good to me, especially considering I gave you the silent treatment for two days.”

  “I’m trying to earn back some points. Where am I now?”

  She smiles and ducks her head, then scratches under Francesca’s chin, which is conveniently located very close to her boobs. I’ve never been so jealous of a ferret as I am now. It gives me a legitimate reason to stare. Her eyes lift and a small smile appears. “A solid nine-point-five now. You’re almost back where you started.”

  “Excellent.” Letting her stay is a curveball I’ve thrown myself, but I don’t plan to allow it to get in the way of my ultimate goal.

  Chapter 13: Jobs for the Jobless

  RUBY

  My living situation is ironed out for the time being, which is good because I was about to go into panic mode with Bancroft coming home soon. I really wish time would slow down.

  “Okay. So you have a place to live for now. That’s good.” Amie sounds reassured.

  I nod, although I’m not sure I can call the situation good.

  Bancroft is going to let me stay in his apartment until I can find a new place. It’s highly preferable to the alternative. Until now I’ve been relatively positive about things, but the closer we get to Bancroft’s return, the more worried I become about having to return to Rhode Island to work with the whore-mother.

  Beyond that, the excessive flirting and banter with Bancroft felt more acceptable when there was an end date to my stay at his condo. When I was just his temporary pet sitter it seemed harmless to engage. Now that I’m going to be his roommate for a while I’m not sure how acceptable it is anymore. It could get messy—especially if things don’t work out and I’m still living there.

  “And you’re on top of the job thing. You have an audition tomorrow, right? Everything is working out just fine.” Now Amie sounds like me.

  “And I have a couple of interviews for regular jobs.” I’m glad one of us is optimistic.

  She sips her cleansing tea. She’s on some sort of healthy-eating program. It sounds a lot like a diet. Which is absolutely ridiculous. Amie is tiny. She’s never had to work to be that way, she’s just naturally built like a model. She’s never been worried about her weight. Until recently. I’m attributing it to Armstrong’s constant, unnecessary commentary. I’m liking him less and less the more I get to know him. “What kind of interviews do you have?”

  “One is at a restaurant, the other is a café. I just need some quick money to help get me by.” I’ve avoided nightclubs so far. I don’t want to end up dealing with the same situation as I did in the last place.

  “Oh.” Amie makes a face that looks disapproving. “What if I talk to Armstrong about getting you something temporary?”

  “Thanks, but I’d rather you not.” If I take a job from Armstrong it’ll get back to my father. I don’t want that.

  “Come on, Ruby. It would just be until you get the role you deserve.”

  I sip my coffee. I need all the liquid energy I can get. After this I’m back to handing out résumés and filling out applications. To places I should’ve worked when I was in college, not after it.

  “What happens when Bancroft comes back? I know I can stay for a little while longer, but eventually I’m going to have to find a place to live that isn’t his spare bedroom.” Like his actual bedroom.

  “You’ll have a place to live.”

  I’m not so sure that’s true, but I don’t want to put this on Amie. It’s my fault I’m in this predicament. She’s done enough by getting me a place to stay while I try to sort out my life. It’d be great if I could actually make some headway on that front.

  “Do you smell that?” Amie’s nose wrinkles as I pull my phone out of my purse.

  I sniff and get a whiff of something disgustingly rancid. I put my hand over my mouth to stop from breathing it in again. “What is that?” I look around the café, curious to whether there’s a garbage truck nearby.

  “I don’t know. We should go. That smells toxic.”

  I gather my things. I have job-hunting to do anyway. Coffee dates are for people who are actually taking a break from being productive.

  * * *

  For some reason, the horrible smell from the café seems to stick with me all day. I keep wondering if it’s seared into my olfactory senses. People seem to be giving me a wide berth.

  I check the bottom of my shoes for carcass remnants, or dog poop, but all I have are a couple of stones stuck between the treads. It’s weird.

  By the end of the day I’m pretty sure I’m on the verge of some kind of emotional breakdown. I resorted to begging at one café. It was rather embarrassing since the manager looked to be about seventeen based on his inability to grow even a basic, fuzzy mustache.

  Today has been a failure on all counts. All I want is a job. It doesn’t matter what it is, as long as I can make some consistent money. I’ve been careful with what Bancroft left for me, but I don’t want to rely on that. Especially since I’m going to need to pay him rent soon.

  Calling my father isn’t an option since he’s made it clear what I’m in for if I go back to Rhode Island. I need some perspective, so I get on the subway and head to Central Park.

  It’s another travel day for Bancroft, back to London to finish off his trip around Europe, so I don’t expect to hear from him until much later, or maybe not even until tomorrow. The steady rocking of the subway soothes me. I close my eyes, tired from worry and the stress of knowing Bancroft is going to be back and I still have nothing to show for the weeks of pounding the pavement.

  I’m jolted awake by the jerk of the subway. Apparently I’ve been out for a while, because I don’t recognize the station. I exit the nearly empty subway and head for the platform, disoriented and confused.

  Late afternoon has turned into evening while I’ve been passed out on the subway. I must’ve been really freaking tired. I’m also in a sketchy, unfamiliar part of the city. And I have to pee like nobody’s business.

  I find what looks to be a bar called EsQue. It’s open, so I go inside. The hallway is painted deep burgundy, and a steep set of stairs lead to a glowing sign with one of those flashing arrows. Drunk people must break a lot of limbs here. The need to pee supersedes the need to find an alternate location.

  I rush down the stairs only to get stopped by a bouncer. “ID, please.” He holds out his hands.

  I shuffle from foot to foot, kegeling to prevent an accident as I root through my bag for my wallet. I’m hit with a horribly pungent, revolting smell. The same revolting smell that’s been following me all day. It’s like a rodent crawled in there and died. I gag when I skim something mushy and drop my purse. I shove my face into the crook of my arm to prevent the smell from invading my nostrils more than it already has as I crouch down.

  Bouncer man makes an unimpressed noise but doesn’t offer to help as I hover at crotch level—his, not mine—and try to navigate my purse without touching whatever is creating the offensive odor, while still trying to make sure I don’t pee myself. Opening it only serves to magnify the smell.

  He ushers three men in suits around me without carding them, although they’re all silver foxes, so that might explain it.

  “You got ID or not?” Bouncer man asks, irritated.

  “Do you have a flashlight? I can’t see a thing!”

  He blinds me with the flashlight on his phone before aiming it at my purse.

  Surrounded by lipstick tubes, a few pens, a couple of pads, and a wad of napkins, I spot my wallet. And three Ziploc bags.

  It’s then that I remember the appetizers I hoarded at Amie’s engagement party all those weeks ago. Following the flu episode, I’d forgotten all about them. I haven’t touched this purse since. They’ve been marinating in here for weeks. The contents appear to have liquefied during their rotting period. One of the bags glistens, and it seems to be the main sour
ce of the putrid smell. I manage to retrieve my wallet without disturbing the bags and flash the bouncer my ID.

  “Cover’s twenty bucks.”

  “I just need to use the bathroom.”

  “Cover’s twenty bucks,” he says again, his expression remaining neutral.

  My situation has become dire. I don’t have time to find another bathroom. I grudgingly part with twenty dollars, then rush through the bar toward the bathroom sign. I’m fortunate there’s no line for the women’s room. I take the most amazing pee of my entire life. It’s the physical manifestation of the word relief. So worth the twenty dollars.

  When I’m done I carefully remove the appetizer bomb baggies from my purse and leave them in the trash. Then I wash my hands four times. The smell seems to be stuck in my nose and a leak in one of the bags has left a small stain in the bottom of my purse. I use paper towels to clean that up, aware I’m very fortunate that none of the baggies burst while rolling around in there, especially since I have things like tweezers and emergency scissors. Sadly, I have a feeling I’m probably going to have to throw out my purse, which is a bit tragic, since it’s nice and I can’t afford to replace it.

  On my way out of the bathroom I nearly collide with another woman. I step aside, and mumble an apology. Her expression morphs into disgust as she passes me, her hand coming up to cover her mouth.

  “It’s horrible, isn’t it?” I don’t want her to think it was me who destroyed the bathroom, even though it was. Since I’m already in the bar, and I’ve paid the cover to get in, I might as well get something to drink while I figure out the best route home.

  The lack of line for the ladies’ room should’ve tipped me off that this is not a normal bar, but it’s also not that late, so I just assumed I’d beaten the crowd. Also, the urgency of my overfilled bladder prevented me from taking in my surroundings. The room is full of mostly men with only a handful of women scattered throughout.

  At first I think I’m in a strip club, but the women dancing on the stage aren’t getting naked. Well, not totally. They’re scantily clad, but they’re clearly costumes. The distinct lack of poles is another tipoff.