Chapter 24
Mariah
As it turns out, Wesley (when did I start calling him that in my head?) is right. I don’t let myself or anyone else down. At least when it comes to work. It’s a good thing I have to go in early the next day, though, because when I get back to my hotel, I find -
“A fucking eviction notice? What the hell is this?!” I’m right in the night clerk’s face, but I’ve got no scruples about that. It’s midnight, I’m tired, and somehow I’ve just lost my living situation.
The clerk looks at me through sleep-deprived eyes, hits a few keys on the keyboard in front of him, and sighs. “Miss, your bill is almost two weeks overdue. At fourteen days, we’re within our rights to request you vacate the premises. So that’s what Management elected to do.”
Shit. Shitshitshit. This guy’s not wrong. I’ve barely been spending any money at all, and I’m still out straight trying to make the credit limit on my card last until a paycheck comes in. There’s definitely not enough left over to pay for another month in this place.
“Okay. I’m sorry. Is there any way I can at least get back in for tonight? I don’t have anywhere else to go, and my keycard isn’t working.”
The clerk looks bored. “Not my problem.”
Suddenly, the stubborn streak imparted to me by my dad flares up. That, and the self-preservation instinct that I’ve cultivated myself since I was a kid.
“Not now it isn’t. But I guarantee you, I’ll make it your problem. This notice,” I brandish it in his face through the glass partition, “states that after two weeks you can request that I vacate - but it’s only been thirteen days. So, either you let me back into my room for the night, or I’ll make sure it’s your head on the chopping block when the local cops ask me why I’m sleeping outside their station and I tell them it’s because I’m being illegally prevented from entering my living space.”
That, at least, gets his attention. I seriously doubt it’s out of any sense of care for me or my situation, but he relents, and that means I have a place to sleep for the night. Even if I had to think of every dirty trick in the book in order to get it.
Unfortunately, having a place to sleep doesn’t actually mean I get any rest. The whole night is a fit of tossing and turning, trying desperately not to panic about the fact that I’m essentially going to be homeless when the sun comes up. That, and the fact that work on my first open house starts tomorrow.
Every time I start to fall asleep, I wake up with a nightmare. In it, my open house turns out horribly and no one wants to work with me. I’m back on the street, being forced to wear skimpy outfits and serve men drinks.
I finally decide I’m not going to get any meaningful sleep tonight. But somehow, I make it through the night and to the office the next day. I just plain get out of bed at 6 am and head for the shower, figuring that if I can’t sleep, I might as well start getting ready.
At least I have plenty of time to do my hair and make up and look well put together. Usually, I’m running about in too much of a hurry to care how I look. Today’s a special day though, and I want to make sure I look my best – and not like someone who has been living in a motel.
I get to the office earlier than everyone else, so I can stow my two suitcases in my office without anyone spotting me - a plan on where to go next has to wait until after I handle the open house. Screw that up, and I can just plan on bringing them back to my father’s house… and then to my new husband Charles’s place. And I am not going to let that happen.
Somehow, I get through the afternoon. I’m tired, but it’s nothing I haven’t experienced in the past during my long nights and days of hard work. And it’s nothing that some caffeine can’t help me get through.
A car takes me to the house that’s on the market, and I spend the time in the car reviewing information about the property, filing away any bits and pieces of information that I can while downing my third cup of coffee (I think I finally top out at around five cups today).
The house is filled with people almost immediately after I open the doors. Apparently, the place used to belong to a soap opera star, and most of the people here are couples whose wives have insisted on visiting the property for a chance at touching something approaching fame.
They’re not the ones with whom I’m concerned. The ones I focus on, beyond a polite greeting, are the few couples that I catch commenting on the architecture of the place, or whispering to their partners about how it reminds them of home somehow.
Out of all these couples, one stays longer than all the rest, and, without much in the way of urging from me, makes an offer on the house that’s ten thousand dollars above the asking price. Two sales in less than two weeks… not a bad start at all.
Sure, part of me is worried that I really hadn’t put much work into the open house myself – most of it had been set up in advance before I even started working for the company - but a sale is a sale, and right now, that’s what matters. I can worry about owning things every little step of the way once I have a roof over my head again.
Luckily, as it turns out, the rest of the office staff seem to share my feelings on the subject. After all, an offer is an offer is an offer - especially when the potential buyers schedule a meeting to sign the final paperwork in less than a week.
Back in my office, I sink down behind my desk and let out a sigh that it feels like I’ve been keeping inside for weeks. Maybe now I can finally relax just a bit.
That notion lasts for a grand total of about eight seconds before there’s a knock on my door. “Payroll delivery!”
That gets my spirit up - until I open the envelope to find that my first check is made out to “Mariah Young”… the fake last name I used when I applied for this job, rather than Mariah Harper, my real last name.
Shit. I completely forgot that I did that to hide any connection to my father or his company. Now I can’t cash the check, and it’s just one more instance of my dad screwing me over. I still don’t have money – or I do, but I can’t get to it. And this time, I can’t see a way out of it.
I don’t know how long I sit there, staring at that check with a fake name on it, but by the time I finally get up to leave, the rest of the floor is pretty much deserted. Again. I’m really making a habit out of being the last person in the office. If there was anyone around to see it, it’d be impressive.
I wander into the lobby, idly looking around. It’s not like I have anywhere else to be. That’s when the couch where we relegate clients as they wait for an appointment catches my eye. It’s practically bigger than my bed at the motel.
I sit down. And it’s softer than the bed, too! Could I…?
No, that’s a terrible idea! But do I really have another choice?
Besides, every great biography seems to start with a story about how the famous subject worked without sleeping or never left the office or snuck onto a studio lot with a fake ID to get their first gig. Is crashing on the office couch for a few days really that much worse than those things?
“Oh, Mariah, hi!” I whirl to find - who else? - Wesley Drive standing in the lobby behind me. “I thought I was the only one who burned the midnight oil around here.” He checks his watch, then shrugs. “Or rather, the 10:30 p.m. oil.”
“Hi, Mr. Drive,” I manage, fighting to keep the memory of our moment outside the restaurant at bay long enough to survive this surprise conversation. “I was just finishing up some of the paperwork from the open house today. I guess I just lost track of time.”
“That used to happen to me quite a bit when I first started too, funny enough.” Mr. Drive cracks that smile of his again, and I can feel certain parts of my body rebelling, refusing to obey my internal shouts to not get turned on, to feel perfectly normal and not excited, to not release those butterflies in my stomach.
“My father’s office used to be like this one,” he continues, “emptying out early every evening. Myself and a few other folks would stick around, buried in our books or paperwork. For some reason, I always felt more peaceful and relaxed in the empty office than I did anywhere else. It’s an exciting feeling, knowing you’re part of such a lively and important place. I’d stay and keep you company, but I’m afraid the old bones are demanding their rest. Makes sure the door locks behind you when you leave, hmm?”
With that, he walks past me and out the door. When I’m sure he’s far enough away that he won’t hear me, I let out a strangled, “Goddamnit, Mariah!”
He was so hot. But I can’t have him. And he shot out of here fast, as if he’s not interested in me the way I am in him, anyway.
Seething, I sit on the couch. “Do not try to fuck your boss. Just don’t. You have more important things to worry about right now, like your job, and where you’re going to sleep tonight!”
Spent, I lie back against the couch cushions and let out a long breath. I should get up and find a cheap motel or something. Go somewhere, anywhere, that isn’t the office… I should….