Chapter Eleven
I wake up on the living room floor the next morning looking like I'd gone on a bender the night before. I suppose I did. Except that my bender included a giant piece of double chocolate-chocolate chip cake and a custard filled eclair. The TV was still on with an infomercial for some hair replacement therapy playing at an obscene volume.
Grabbing the remote, I turn the TV off and get to my feet. My hair is sticking out in a thousand different directions, my breath smells like raw sewage, I'm sure, and I feel like I need to take a scalding hot shower to melt the crud off of me. I'm afraid to look in the mirror though – I have the overwhelming fear that I'm going to find chocolate smeared all over my face.
“At least I'm not hungover,” I mutter to myself.
I grab my phone out of my bag and see that I have half a dozen missed calls – all from the number Brady Keating had called me from.
“Doesn't this guy ever take a goddamn hint?” I mutter.
I turn off my phone and jump when there is a loud knocking at the door. I look from my phone to the door and feel a surge of anger. No way. He couldn't know where I live. And he wouldn't have the balls to show up at my door – would he?
Of course, he would. He had the balls to not just dig up my phone number, but call me as well. Half a dozen times since the sun came up this morning, in fact.
I can't believe the nerve on this guy. Seriously. My blood is up and I'm ready to beat him to a pulp as I storm across the living room and down the short hallway to the front door. I drop my phone on the small table and practically rip the door off the hinges as I open it.
“You have got a lot –”
My voice dies in my throat when I see that it's not in fact, Brady Keating darkening my doorstep, but my landlord Roger. And he's standing there with a look of annoyance on his face and a piece of paper in his hand – which can only mean one thing.
The tide of anger that had welled up within me quickly ebbs away and is replaced by an overwhelming wave of fear. It comes crashing down and pulls me under, leaving me a trembling, fearful mess.
“I still have one more day,” I say quickly. “You gave me two days. I have until tomorr –”
Roger holds up his hand. “You can stop talking now.”
I open my mouth to speak again and then quickly close it. I look at the paper he's holding, but it's folded, so I have no idea what it is. Though I'm relatively certain it's an eviction notice. What else could it be?
“Roger, please,” I plead. “Just give me a little more time. I have a few solid leads on a job and –”
I stop talking when he crosses his arms in front of his chest and stares me down, the annoyance in his face deepening. I stand there, my stomach in knots, my head hurting, and still not knowing whether or not I have chocolate smeared all over my face like some gluttonous pig.
“Are you done?” he asks.
I nod quickly even though it takes a monumental effort to keep myself from speaking.
“Good,” he says. “Because what I was going to tell you is that I have some good news for you.”
I raise my eyes and look at him questioningly. Good news? It seems like it's been forever since I've heard good news that I'm totally unfamiliar with the concept.
“You're going to give me a little extra time to get the rent together?”
“Not exactly,” he says. “But your rent has been paid up for the next twelve months.”
I understand the words that came out of his mouth, but I don't really comprehend what he's saying. My rent is paid for the next twelve months? I'm not sure what he means by that. He looks at me as I struggle with comprehending it all and looks irritated. He rolls his eyes and shoves the piece of paper into my hand. I unfold it and look at it – my eyes widening when I see it's a receipt for twelve months worth of rent.
I look up at him, not understanding how this is even possible.
“You have a guardian angel, Amanda,” he says.
I shake my head, trying to wrap my head around it all. A guardian angel? Who in the – and just as the question enters my mind, I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I have a feeling I know exactly who my mysterious benefactor is.
“Who was it?” I ask, my tone dark and grim. “Who is this guardian angel?”
“Somebody who obviously likes you well enough to not want to see you on the street,” he replies.
“Who, Roger?” I demand.
“Anybody ever tell you not to look a gift horse in the mouth?”
I sigh. “Roger, who? Who was it?”
He looks at me more irritated than ever. “Said his name is Brady,” he replies, his tone curt. “But he could call himself George Washington for all I care so long as his check clears.”
I feel like I'm about to puke. I feared as much. I shake my head and try to get myself under control.
“You have to give the check back,” I say.
“The hell I do.”
“Roger,” I say. “I cannot accept his – charity.”
“Like hell you can't,” he says. “Way I see things, you don't got much of a choice. You don't take it, you're out on the streets.”
“Then I'd rather be out on the streets.”
He shakes his head. “I don't get you, girl,” he says. “Some fella comes along and gives you the answer to your problems and you wanna just throw it away?”
“It's – complicated.”
“Don't seem that complicated to me,” he says. “You need money. You got money. You get to keep a roof over your head. End of story.”
“It's not that simple.”
“It is to me,” Roger replies. “I ain't returning the check. Whether you decided to move out or not is up to you. Either way, this place is yours for the next twelve months.”
He turns and walks away without another word. Feeling my nausea rising, I run to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before throwing up. I flush the toilet and then stand up, turn on the sink and look myself in the mirror for the first time.
The reflection I see staring back at me is a hot mess – and covered in smeared chocolate.
“Yeah, you're a real winner,” I mutter.
I rinse my mouth out and then brush my teeth. Turning on the shower, I strip down and climb in, letting the hot water rain down over me. My mind is still swirling and my heart is still thumping. I let the steam fill the room and breathe it in deeply, letting it clear me out. As the water works its way into my skin and muscles, I feel my head begin to clear and I'm able to focus my thoughts a little better.
I cannot believe that Brady paid my rent for the next year. On the one hand, it's great. It gives me time to find a job. It gives me some security. I won't have to worry about being homeless for a while. On the other hand, it's horrible. Because I know it's not a gesture that comes without strings. Brady doesn't strike me as an altruistic man and I know that he's going to want something in return for such a generous – and expensive – favor.
And it's what he might want in return that scares me.
Not knowing what else to do, I throw on a nice outfit and do what I've done everyday since I got fired – I'm going to hit the bricks, knock on doors, and find a job. I have no idea how I'm going to do it, but I'm going to pay Brady back. Every damn cent of it.
I don't like being indebted to people – least of all, somebody like him.