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 hour.

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?”

For a very brief moment I think he’s referring to me as his girl, but then I realize he’s asking about his pet, who is nowhere to be found. “She’s good. We were cuddling and I fell asleep.”

“Where is she now?”

“Um, hold on.” I put the phone down so all he gets is a view of the ceiling. Then I hop off the bed and call Francesca’s name a couple of times. I look under it, because that’s a logical place for her to be.

“Ruby?”

“We were cuddling when I fell asleep!” I call out. All the horror stories I’ve heard come back to haunt me. She better not have escaped. It’s what ferrets are known for.

I glance at the bedroom door. It’s closed, so she has to be in here with me.

I cross over to the bathroom. Sometimes she likes to hide in the discarded towels, because in addition to sleeping in Bancroft’s bed I’ve also taken to using his shower. It’s even nicer than the one in my room, and slightly more complicated, but I managed to figure it out without scalding myself.

She’s not in the bathroom, though.

“Ruby?”

“She’s in here somewhere!” I glance at the bed and note movement near the pillows. A little brown head peeks out from inside the case. “There she is.” I return to the bed and scoop her up, then prop my phone against the headboard so I can hold her and talk with free hands.

“You scared me,” I coo at her, my voice cracking a little. “Daddy wants to see you.” I’m so relieved that I haven’t lost her, tears spring to my eyes. I blink them back as I hold Francesca in front of my face and wave one of her little paws at Bancroft.

“Are you coming down with something?” he asks.

“No, no. I’m fine,” I assure him, even though I’m not. I almost think I have things under control and then he asks the one question designed to put me over the edge.

“How’d the audition go today?”

I open my mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a squeak. And those stupid tears leak out of the corners of my eyes.

“Ruby?”

Francesca squirms out of my grasp when I wave a hand around in the air. I’m trying to breathe, but I can’t seem to manage it without making horrible high-pitched sounds.

“Babe, what’s wrong?”

I try to get myself under control. At least a little. I stammer out, “I-I b-bombed the audition.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”

“I fell on my face in the middle of my dance routine. I have a bruise on my cheek.” I lean in closer so he can see the slight bluish tint to my cheek. It’s tender to the touch.

Bancroft purses his lips. “I’m so sorry.”

“What if I can’t do this? What if I end up having to go back to Rhode Island to live with my father and whore-mother? What if I have to go work for my father? What if his skank wife really is my boss?” The panic is starting to set in again. I don’t want to have an emotional breakdown on Bancroft. I don’t want him to think I’m some loopy, unstable nutter. I want to have my life sorted out, like Amie does.

I need to get my shit together before Bancroft comes home. Because the more I talk to him, the more I want to do more than talk to him. At this point I want to do more than just get naked with him, but I definitely still want to do that, and sometimes it feels like maybe he wants the same thing. But he’s not going to want anything to do with an unemployed, homeless crybaby with more than ten thousand dollars in credit card and loan debt.

My internal pep talk isn’t helping with the tears.

“Maybe my dad’s right. Maybe I can’t hack it. I just wanted to I prove him wrong.” My voice is still pitchy.

“Take a breath, Ruby.” Bancroft’s voice is soft, lilting.

I do as he says and suck in a deep breath.

“That’s it, babe, good girl. Take another one for me.”

I take another slower, deeper breath.

He nods his approval. “And another.”

I keep taking deep breaths until the panic subsides. “I’m so embarrassed,” I mutter when I get myself under control again.

“Don’t be. You’ve had a rough day, it knocks you down a little. You have to get back up and brush it off.”

I let out a soft laugh.

“I have complete confidence that you’ll get a role, you’re too talented not to.”

He’s never seen me act or dance. He’s heard me sing, because I do it unconsciously sometimes. He’ll put on music while we’re talking just to make me hum. “I wish I had the confidence in me that you seem to.”

“You know what I’d do if I was there with you?” His voice is so soothing. I want to know what that sounds like in my ear with his body covering mine and no clothes getting in the way.

“What’s that?” I sound less pitchy and more breathy.

“I’d get you drunk.”

“And then take advantage of me?” I mean it to be sarcastic, not hopeful. How mortifying.

His expression turns serious. “I’d hope I wouldn’t have to resort to such tactics to get you into bed with me.”

“Well, I’m already in your bed, so we’re halfway there aren’t we?”

Bancroft’s tongue sweeps out to wet his bottom lip. “I think you should pour yourself a glass of wine. I have a bottle here. We can drink together.”

“Did you have a bad day, too?”

“I’ve had better.”

I grab my phone and carry it to the kitchen so I can raid his wine fridge. I decide on a crisp white. Also, his sheets aren’t dark enough for me to consider drinking red.

Once I’ve poured myself a glass I return to the bedroom. Francesca is curled up on top of the comforter. As soon as I’m half lying down, she pulls her favorite move and wriggles her way under my shirt, peeking her head out through the neckline, between my boobs.

I show Bancroft, who seems to appreciate her choice of location. He tells me about his day, about a multimillion dollar mistake someone on his team made, and about the phone call from his father. His troubles don’t necessarily make me feel better, but they certainly put my own into perspective. At least one small error isn’t going to cost me millions.