I rush to my car from Jaxson’s building, my mind whirling.

What the hell just happened?

One minute, I’m riding an elevator up to my interviewer, and the next, Jaxson is offering me a ridiculous amount of money for a simple job.

Actually, I never did get specifics of what I’ll be doing, so maybe I’ll end up earning every penny.

I immediately have to fight off images of ways I wouldn’t mind earning it, and I’m appalled my mind keeps going there—with Jaxson between my legs, his stiff cock buried deep inside me as he thrusts in and out of my grateful wet slit.

It certainly doesn’t help that I’ve seen his dick almost bust out of his pants while my slick, warm opening eagerly clamored to take it in.

I’m seriously messed up—far beyond what my ex-husband did to us. But because of the mess Charles left, there I was, grateful for the opportunity to interview for a job I’m way overqualified for, so desperate that I pretty much took what my other ex offered without even finding out for sure what he has planned for me, even after noticing he still holds a grudge.

Christ, what was I thinking, accepting the job blind?

I couldn’t actually think, that was the problem—not with my first love staring at me with an otherwise calm face, his stormy blue eyes giving him away.

And I certainly couldn’t think properly once he pulled me into his muscular arms, our warm bodies close.

My lizard brain completely took over once the length and hardness of his erection pressed against me.

And that searing kiss? I would have agreed to anything anyone asked in that moment and its immediate aftermath. The gentleness yet roughness of it surprised and melted me. The surge of emotion, the raging desire—I was a desperate, panting mess once Jaxson was done with me, unable to mask the fact that I was practically drooling for more, wishing more than anything he’d satisfy my throbbing core by pounding me to climax, his thick cock sliding in and out of my neglected, needy entrance until we’re both sated and euphoric.

But even if I had been able to think, my mind safely out of the gutter, I’m pretty sure I would have come to the same conclusion: just take the damned job.

It’s not like I’m fifteen or eighteen or even twenty-four anymore—I’ve had life experiences that made it easier to put my ego and judgment aside, to see things from other perspectives. Even before I fell from it, I stopped looking down from my privileged perch and realized honest work is honest work; everyone who does it deserves respect.

During the course of my charity stints, I met hard-working people, people who did everything they could to have a ‘normal’ life, working too many hours for too little pay.

Considering everything that went down in my household and my current miserable state, who am I to turn my nose up at any job? Especially one like this, where I get to keep all my clothes on and not have to rely on tips?

I’m lucky, actually; if this hadn’t been Jaxson’s company, I might not have gotten hired and I’d still be worrying if I’d ever feel stable enough to put together a plan and move from my current location—a place I’ve never even been able to call ‘home.’

Home is a word bathed in sunlight—a place that represents warmth, comfort, stability. It’s a safe place, one that’s usually occupied by people who love me and look out for me.

Home was taken for granted the first twenty-six years of my life, and the places I’ve lived in since Charles and I lost our mansion over a year ago are not homes.

My first apartment after the house got reclaimed was a 2-bed, 1-bath, 1000 square feet.

I still didn’t understand how much trouble I was in at that point, and I couldn’t get over the steep downgrade from my 4-bed, 3.5-bath, 5000 square feet residence, my heart sinking every time I drove up to my new apartment, dropping lower every time I entered the unit and got reminded again and again how much less I was working with.

I hated the unfamiliarity of it, the ordinariness of it.

Not long after leaving that apartment for the latest downgrade, I started reflecting on the 2-bed wistfully, bemoaning the luxuries I still had at the time but took for granted.

I pull into my current neighborhood warily.

Though I’ve been here almost three months, I’m still not used to feeling fear instead of relief as I head toward it.

I begin the walk up to my unit, eyeing it, as usual, for signs of a break-in.

I didn’t trek anything of value into this dump, but that won’t stop some opportunistic punk from checking.

This neighborhood is yet another reminder why accepting almost any job offered wasn’t a question; I need to get out of here as soon as possible.

Though my hooptie doesn’t draw attention, and I’m under the ‘disguise’ of inexpensive department store clothing and home-styled hair, I get the sense the usual occupants of this territory know I’m an outsider.

I might be pitifully broke, but I suppose I hold myself differently; my upbringing probably gives me away, and they can sense the discomfort, that I don’t belong here. But here is what I can afford for now.

I check my mail, and among the envelopes containing bill reminders is a small white box—about the size of a jewelry box for a ring or a pair of earrings.

I sandwich it between the envelopes, my heart pounding a bit harder.

Part of me stupidly hopes it’s a gift from Jaxson—a lunatic part that doesn’t understand that things have changed and it’s not that easy to get where we’d been before, despite the powerful kiss he planted on me.

But lower in my body—I guess in my gut—I have a sick feeling.

I hurry into the apartment, twist one lock into place before doing a quick sweep of my studio unit, then return to slide the chain into position. It makes me feel safer, even though I know that anyone who really wanted to get in, can. But not without a lot of noise.

While holding on to the small box, I dump the envelopes onto the stack of other unopened mail on the single round table outside of my tiny kitchen area.

I take a small breath before working the top off, then pull away the top cottony layer.

As the smarter part of me expected, there’s no jewelry inside the box—sitting on top of the bottom foam are two human teeth and part of a finger.

I almost drop the box, my mouth falling open in horror.

To anyone else, it might look like a sick joke, but it’s far more than that—it’s a small but effective reminder of something I couldn’t possibly forget: the debt my husband owes that I’m supposed to pay back.

I missed yesterday’s due date, respectfully requesting a one-day extension instead, and this is what I get—a pretty little box of body parts.

I suspect the next time I’m late, I won’t be so lucky to receive small ones like these.

I put the box down and plop down onto my carefully covered couch to collect myself before my next task.

It’s easy to put aside everything that happened in Jaxson’s office now.

I almost start to think I’d imagined things, that I didn’t actually show up at my first love’s company, and that he didn’t pretty much hire me on the spot and then kiss me soundly as if the years we spent apart meant nothing.

That seems like something my traumatized brain would do at this point—drum up a ridiculous fantasy like that.

My prepaid phone buzzes, and I know exactly who’s on the other end—there’s only one person—or organization—that’s been in touch with me this way.

Got our gift? the text says.

Yes, I text back, feeling the remaining positive energy drain from me.

The next text is a time and location.

I start preparing to gather the required payment, cobbled together from sales of valuables I’ve had in a deposit box for a while.

My dad advised me long ago to make sure I had some kind of personal insurance—a safety net outside of my impending marriage—and helped me get the deposit box started. He even insured the first deposits—safety bonds courtesy of him to me.

“Consider it a wedding gift,” he said, even though he was already paying for the wedding.

No one knew about the box but him and me, and I kept making small deposits over the years—whatever I could squirrel away that wouldn’t be missed.

I’ve been able to make the debt payments by selling those things off bit by bit once all my bonds had been converted—things like a pair of earrings that once belonged to my grandmother and other bits of jewelry.

At some point, I tried selling off valuables obtained during my marriage—Birkin bags and Cartier bracelets—but I quickly found out that most of the gifts my husband gave me were fake.

The first few payments to Charles’s loan shark were fairly easy—my secret savings took care of the first few, and the contents of my safety box have been taking care of the rest.

But the deposit box is now pretty much empty, the inventory down to just my birth certificate and the promise ring Jaxson gave me ten years ago.

That ring has sentimental value only—I’m not even sure I could give it away on the free section of Craigslist—but I could never bring myself to get rid of it.

I collect and pack up the cash as instructed then head to the designated location, resigned, as usual, to my fate.

But that resignation is interrupted by bitterness once I recognize who’s waiting for me this time outside of a coffee shop, holding a bag identical to mine that we’re supposed to ‘get mixed up’—it’s fucking John Barone.

Excuse my French.

* * *

I study the lanky, greasy-haired man in front of me, unlit cigarette dangling from the side of his thin mouth.

His hair and eyes are almost the same color—his wavy hair black as oil, his eyes more of an off-black color, but still unsavory pools.

John Barone knows very well his killer sticks aren’t allowed inside this house, so even if my husband were here, he’d have to get rid of it before coming in.

But my husband isn’t here, so either way, he’s not crossing this threshold.

He always gave me a weird feeling, and nothing has changed over the years since I first met him.

It doesn’t matter to me how long he and Charles have been friends; my spirit’s always on guard when he appears.

“Huh,” he says after I inform him of Charles’s absence. “I thought for sure he said to meet him at four.”

“And you’re sure it’s here?”

He gives me what would’ve been a goofy, possibly endearing smile had he managed to make it reach his eyes.

“You could be right; I could have gotten that mixed up,” he says as his eyes assess my boobs.

I’m not wearing anything revealing, but if I had been, I would have thrown something over it before answering the door, even if it was someone other than skeevy John Barone.

There’s no doubt that some of my uneasiness around him is due to his shameless appraisal of my assets every now and then, and I suspect that if I ever gave him any sign of interest, he’d jump at it, longtime friendship with Charles be damned.

“Say, I always wanted to tell you I think you’re real cool, letting him come to strip clubs with me; I need the company,” he says brightly.

I try to keep my face neutral but doubt my success—I’m shocked by the revelation.

Charles and I had a very specific discussion about this very thing, and he promised he was done with them.

I resist replying, “News to me!”; I don’t want to look like a clueless wife.

“Well,” I improvise, “you guys did that sort of thing before me, and I figured as long as he wasn’t getting lap dances…”

John guffaws, his cigarette flying from his mouth.

“Oops, sorry about that,” he says as he bends to pick it up then pockets it. “It’s just…well, anyway, rest assured he’s not actually banging any of those chicks, regardless of what else happens.”

“What do you mean?”

He holds up his hands. “Actually, I already put my foot in my mouth; forget I said anything. Great to see you again, Candy. You’re still one of the most beautiful chicks I ever saw.”

I fucking hate it when he calls me Candy and he knows it.

I give a stiff smile as I shut the door, not bothering to respond this time.

His spurious compliment doesn’t move me—I’d bet he says that to all the girls he’d like to fuck.

Thankfully, I don’t have to see John Barone more than a few times a year, and at least this time, he was sort of useful, providing me with helpful info.

I often get the feeling Charles is hiding something from me, and John gave me some intel—accidentally or self-servingly—that confirms Charles is lying to me in at least one area.

* * *

“Wonderful to see you again,” John says, and I’m too angry to reply.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask, ignoring my instinctive knowledge, hoping this is just a coincidence or something.

“I’ve been hired to collect today. No offense, but a paycheck is a paycheck, so to speak.”

“You’re actually working for these people? How could you?”

“How could I not? They’re paying me handsomely and you never did anything for me.”

I resist punching him in the throat, shoving the bag of cash at him instead.

“Just take it and get the fuck out of my sight,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Whoah, whoah, whoah—is that any way to talk to an old friend?”

“You were clearly never a real friend of Charles’s, and certainly no friend of mine.”

“Aw, why shoot the messenger?” he says while peeking at the contents of the bag. “As usual, someone will be in contact with the next set of details. Hand me your phone.”

I reluctantly hand it to him, despite knowing the routine.

By now, they’ve tossed the last burner phone, so the contact number has changed yet again.

I watch him key in a number and label it ‘Booty Call.’

I roll my eyes.

I know what he’s going to say next, and thankfully, it also means the end to this exchange.

“Expect new information in about six days,” he says before taking off.