CHAPTER ONE
Laurie
I heaved the box down on the floor of my new apartment, exhausted. My back ached, my fingers were sore and I’d pulled a piece of skin off my knee when I tripped on the stairs coming up.
Because my new place was a fifth floor walk-up, a tiny nest on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, on the fringe of the city where the sidewalk was still filled with drug dealers and junkies at night.
But I shrugged, taking a deep breath and plopped on the couch. It was all I could afford right now and I was just happy to be out of the apartment I shared with my ex, Gary. Blech, even his name made me vomit. Gary. Sad to say, but we’d only been married two days before we separated. Can you believe it? When they say starter marriage, I don’t think they meant something that lasted a blink of an eye, over before it even began.
Because Gary had had a mistress the entire time we were dating, making my stomach churn once again. For the two years before we got married, two whole frickin’ years, Gary had been keeping a sweet blonde thing on the side, not a day over twenty-one with bolt-on boobs, a tiny waist and even tinier ass. Yeah, she was Barbie doll skinny whereas I was real girl, with a butt and hips that were wide and generous.
So I leaned back on the couch, a hand over my eyes. God, I was so goddamned tired and exhausted, the last couple months had been an emotional drain that rivaled only a nuclear disaster, my heart pulled apart, torn to shreds and then flushed down the toilet. But at least I was out now. I’d left our penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue and was happy to have my own space now, humble as it might be.
Sighing, I looked around. Yeah, my new place wasn’t much bigger than a postage stamp, and that was including the bathroom. There was a combination living/dining space with a utility kitchen spread out against the wall, and then a narrow hall which led to a tiny bedroom in back. The whole place had been coated in a terrible pastel blue paint that was cracking and stale, but the broker had assured me it was lead-free at least.
I stepped into my tiny bathroom, trying not to cower as my eyes were seared by the overwhelming blueness of the place, the tiles, the tub, and the sink all the same aquamarine. The color was a throwback to the eighties when electric teal and hot pink had been popular, but now it just made my head hurt, my irises imprinted with the flashy shade.
But I was disgusting, sweaty, tired and dirty, and I could keep my eyes closed in the shower if it came to that. Sighing, I shook my head and began to strip. The baggy plaid shirt I wore fell to the floor, crumpled and used, and I popped the waistband of my jeans loose, stepping out of the hot denim with relief. Taking a deep breath for the first time in weeks, I stripped off my grimy bra and undies too, wearing nothing now but my birthday suit and some flirty pink toenail polish.
The spray spurted on with a hiss, the boiler coming to life with a groan but at least the water was blessedly hot. I stepped into the tiny stall, so small that I could touch both sides without stretching my arms and let the spray pound me, closing my eyes, steam filling the enclosure in a matter of seconds, turning it into a sauna.
But when my hand groped blindly at the ledge, my mistake became apparent. I’d forgotten to unpack my toiletries and there was no shampoo or soap in the stall. In fact, there was nothing whatsoever, I’d forgotten to get a towel, a razor, a loofah, and I was stuck, soaking wet with nothing to get myself clean. I thought about going with it. I could rinse myself and call it a day, but my inner self was grossed out. I’d been moving for ten hours straight, heaving loads of junk, dirty, dusty and sweaty, and mere water wasn’t enough to do the trick. I needed soap and a good scrub.
So resignedly, I shut off the water and opened the stall door, stepping out while dripping, a big pool of water forming on the linoleum floor. Fuck, what a way to start my new life. Reaching down, I grabbed my plaid shirt and tried to use it as a towel, scrubbing the faded cotton up and down my curves, trying to soak up as much as possible. But the problem was my hair. I have curly brown locks and when they get wet, they retain a ton of water, making me into a human sponge. So even though I tried to squeeze out the curls, wring out as much excess as possible, it was useless, the plaid shirt was soaked in seconds.
Groaning, I turned to my jeans next. Gross, these things were so dirty, the light blue torn at the knee where I’d fallen, dirt streaks and random dust covering the denim. It was almost like I’d come from a construction site, they were so filthy. But I had no choice. So wrapping the material around me in a makeshift towel, I left the bathroom, my boobs and cunny each covered by a different pant leg, my tummy bare, my ass naked.
And my teeth chattered as I tiptoed into the living room. Eff me, it was cold and I cursed myself as I began rummaging through this box and that, frantically trying to locate my toiletries. Fuck! I scraped my hand on the cardboard edge of one container, a red welt rising on my palm even as I tried to tear open another box, futilely digging through piles and piles of random items, dishes, books, kitchen utensils mixed together haphazardly. Why oh why hadn’t I labeled my stuff instead of throwing it together in a jumble? But I knew why – I’d been in such a rush to leave Gary, get out of our joint home asap that I’d tossed everything together without any organization or planning.
And now I was paying the price, shivering and soaked through like a wet rat with nothing to wear and no hope of finding anything useful anytime soon. I almost cried, tears welling up in my eyes. It would be the perfect beginning to my new life if I kicked it off with a wretched case of pneumonia, my lungs clogged with fluid, a headache muffling my hearing, my sinuses clogged. Plus I’d have to stay home sick when my job was the only thing keeping me afloat, my only source of income.
So I sat back, about to give up, when inspiration struck. I scrabbled for my cell among the junk and began scrolling furiously. There it was – an app called “NYC Concierge.” I gasped, and my fingers trembled as I logged in. A screen flashed to life and a Siri-like voice spoke, “How may we help you today?”
I ignored the voice, instead choosing to type my request. First up was shampoo, and upon further thought, conditioner and soap too. And screw it, might as well order a bathrobe while I was at it. I typed in the brand Coeur L’Amour, figuring that since I was splurging on a concierge service, I might as well go all the way and get myself a fancy satin robe, not just some terrycloth thing that was warm and homey.
And after I’d entered all my items, I pressed send, watching with bated breath as the program hummed, spitting out the words, “Please wait, we are thinking.” And then the screen flashed. “Thank you. Your items will be delivered in twenty minutes.”
I let out a small yelp of relief, falling back on the couch with a gusty sigh. Saved, I was saved. A messenger would be here shortly with the things I’d ordered, I was going to be warm and toasty and clean, and I couldn’t wait.
So I paced a bit, trying to ward off the chill by jumping up and down, my generous curves bouncing, hoping my neighbors downstairs couldn’t hear. I loved New York City and swore my allegiance to it once more. I loved how I could get anything and everything delivered at any time of the day or night, and all it cost was money. Gary wasn’t going to ruin my life, I was going to pull myself up by the bootstraps even if it killed me, I wasn’t going down without a fight.
But in the meantime, I was soaking wet with only my jeans to cover me, my curves popping out everywhere, droplets spattering as I moved around the apartment briskly to keep warm. It wasn’t ideal, but now the ticker read fifteen minutes, and my package would be arriving soon. I sighed, shuddered and forced my mouth into a grim line. What was important was that I work myself out of this mess and survive to fight another day … ex-husband be damned.