You know, Mondays suck enough without being fired. I scrub the tears off my face as I step off the elevator onto my floor. Damn my speaking voice. I’ve always had a naturally loud and brassy voice, and people mistake my normal speaking tone as raising my voice or somehow being aggressive. It’s not…it’s just me. But one too many complaints about my customer service because people think I’m yelling at them, and now I’m unemployed.

Okay, fine. Maybe sometimes I yell at them, but I swear that the customer is not always right.

I turn the corner and wish I hadn’t. My Super is walking down the hallway towards me and I’ve been trying to avoid him the way you try to avoid STDs. AT ALL COSTS. I’m a week late on my rent because some months are harder than others, and if I have to choose between rent and food, I'd rather not starve.

I give him a weak smile. “Hey, Joe.”

There’s no smile from him. “I need your check, Delia.”

“I know. My car broke down last week and I had to have it fixed so I could actually get to work. It’s coming; I swear.” I hope he buys the lie. In the years I’ve been living here, I’ve never had a car. I’m hoping that he hasn’t noticed.

He sighs. “I can’t give you much more time. There are plenty of people waiting for apartments in this building, and if you can’t pay then someone else will.”

“I can. I will.” I swallow, brushing past him to my door and hurrying inside so he can’t pressure me anymore and I don’t accidentally give away that I just lost my job. If he knew that, he’d be furious, and I’d be out of time. Hell, once I get some work, maybe I should move. I’m sure I can find somewhere less expensive and without a super as overbearing as Joe.

I drop my purse on the ground and flop down on the couch, sliding down until my neck is leaning on the cushion and my legs are sprawled out on the floor. The absolute picture of grace. My cell phone buzzes and I groan. Can everyone just go away and let me hide under a rock for an hour? Please?

The phone buzzes again and I shimmy it out of my pocket so I can see the screen. Two text messages.

What the fuck happened?

Get your ass to this bar and spill.

There’s a reason people call my best friend Fleece. First, she can be as cuddly as one of those blankets when she likes you, but she can also rip you a new one. Only she could get away with a nickname that has a double meaning. Don’t get caught calling her by her actual name—Veronica—or you’ll be getting the wrong end of that nickname.

While I’m looking at the screen, the phone buzzes again.

I called the store to make dinner plans. I’m giving you 10 minutes before I start calling you every 5.

I roll my eyes. She’s not exaggerating. Even while she’s at work, she’ll make it happen. I text her back.

Fine. I’m on my way.

The response comes lightning fast.

Nine minutes, thirty seconds.

Even though I’m exhausted and I feel like I’m made of stone, I drag myself off the couch. I’m not bothering to change. The bar gets to see me in my utterly sexy khakis and black polo shirt. Luckily, Joe isn’t anywhere to be seen as I leave the building and start the six-block walk to the Blind Scorpion. Fleece and I discovered this bar when we first moved to New York. Close enough to both our apartments to walk home, and prices that didn’t break our college students’ budgets. Five years later, Fleece is one of the best bartenders in town and practically runs the place as her survival job. And I…have no job.

Shit.

I push open the door to the bar and get a blast of cool air. New York in the summer is hot but you can always rely on the Blind Scorpion to cool you down. Fleece sees me and checks her phone. I know she’s looking to see how much time I’ve got left on her timer. She points down to the seat at the end—a dark corner where I lurk and we steal moments to gossip—and gives me her signature glare.

The hard high bar stool somehow feels comfortable. I’ve sat here so often that my ass is used to being shaped by this seat. It’s almost like a homecoming.

Fleece smacks a glass full of something in front of me. “Drink. What happened?”

“What do you think happened? I clearly won employee of the year.”

“Don’t do that,” she says, more gently. “You can tell me.”

I sigh, downing half of the glass she put in front of me. It’s delicious and sweet, something with a hint of apple and a little bit of a bite. “I had another complaint.”

She winces and tries to hide it with a smile, but I see it. “Sorry,” she says. “Same reason?”

“I swear I’m not yelling at them,” I say. My voice carries across the bar and at least two people look in my direction. Perfect.

Fleece starts laughing. “Of course you weren’t. Unless you were.”

I roll my eyes. “I know I’ve done that before, but I swear this time I wasn’t actually yelling. I was trying to be nice.”

“So why would they fire you?”

“Once they tag you as having a temper, it seems like they can’t get it out of their heads. Any complaint all of a sudden has to do with my temper, and I had t

oo many customer complaints in too short a time. They have a policy.”

“That sucks.”

“Plus,” I say, “I ran into Joe when I got home. He’s practically stalking me for the rent which I can’t give him because I am now broke and unemployed.”

Someone signals Fleece down the bar and she turns to me. “Look, hold that thought. Everything’s going to be fine. I think I might know a way to help you.”

I sit with my drink, taking occasional sips and gathering the confidence to tell Fleece no, she cannot lend me money again, no matter how much it might save my ass. The bar is busy tonight, especially for a Monday, and Fleece looks like she’s struggling to keep up. I look around and see a couple of waiters, but the bar seems really understaffed today.

When she finally manages to find a second to come back over, she’s practically out of breath.

“Why is it so busy?” I ask.

“No fucking clue. And Barbara is sick, so I’m all on my own back here tonight. She also gave her flu to the waiters she’s sleeping with.”

I choke on my drink. “Waiters? Plural? Isn’t the idea generally not to sleep with your employees?”

“I think Barbara does whatever and whoever she wants. But enough about that, check your email. I sent you something I think is going to help you.”

Pulling out my phone, I pull open the new email from her. I recognize the heading and the format—I’ve seen them before in her emails. I roll my eyes. “Fleece, this is a model casting call.”

“Yes, it is,” she says, replacing my drink. “My agent sent it to me and I can’t go. I’m way too busy with everything here, and Barbara out for who knows how long. On top of that, I’m not the kind of model they hire.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“And why wouldn’t I be serious about helping my best friend?”

I hold a hand to stop her, “No, I know, and I’m grateful, but you’re you. You’re glamorous and you know how to do this. I am not glamorous and I have no idea how to do what you do.”

Fleece pushes my drink at me and I take another sip. “It’s really not that hard, I promise. Besides, how many times have you seen me walk or pose? Just copy me. You’re gorgeous and they would be lucky to have you.”

Anxiety swims in my stomach. “I don’t know.”

“Will you at least look at the email?

I glance at my phone. “Xellum Studios? I’ve heard of them. Why won’t they hire you?”

She shrugs, “They have a darker aesthetic and rarely hire blondes. But you’d be perfect.”

“You’re forgetting again that I’m not a model.” I laugh. “I don’t have an agent.”

She taps my phone. “That’s why it’s perfect. You don’t have to have an agent to go to this one. Just be there early and get in line.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Who knows? Sometimes I think the same models get sent over and over again to castings, and if they don’t find what they want, they’ll try somebody new. I think you’ve got a look they’ll like.”

I roll my eyes again, my stomach churning with anxiety just thinking about it. “I think you’ve been drinking on the job.”

She laughs, but she shakes her head. “I’m serious. Just walk like you’re trying to get a guy to look at your ass, but you’ve also got a stick up that same ass, and you’ll be fine.”

Liquid bubbles out of my mouth and I reach for napkins as I laugh, unable to control myself. “Is that what you think about when you’re walking in shows?”

“Hell yes.”

“This makes your runway bitch face ten times more hilarious.”

She cracks a grin, and I know that runway bitch face is going to have more trouble at her next show. “Seriously though, go to the casting. It’s tomorrow. You’re not going to schedule any interviews by tomorrow anyway.”

I take another sip of my drink. “The real question is if you’re going to let me leave this bar without actually signing up for the call.”

Fleece sweeps her blonde hair over her shoulder and smirks. “Not a fucking chance.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”