Page 42 of Callan

His eyes meet mine, a resolute expression on his face.

He’s here for business.

So, no smile, no wandering gaze, and no intrusive comments.

“Anything for me?” he asks quietly.

I reach inside my pocket and hand him the sheet of paper.

“You just missed her last two guests. They walked out as you got in. They were short and beefy.”

“I noticed them.”

“Good,” I say in a similarly abrupt voice.

“How much time did they spend inside?”

“It’s all in there,” I say, pointing to the paper in his hand before lifting my gaze. “About twenty minutes,” I say in response to his stern look. “It’s hard to tell whether they had sex or not. If they did, it must’ve been a threesome. Or one of the guys likes to watch.”

He flicks his hand in displeasure, cutting me off while making me aware of how little importance that detail has for him.

He puts the piece of paper inside his jacket without looking at it.

His hair looks nice, and so does his face.

Clean shaven, with a whiff of aftershave drifting off his skin.

His eyes glint as he delicately puts me on notice that I'm gawking at him.

“Right,” I murmur. “Well, good luck upstairs. You might need to use a condom,” I say dryly. “There was some shuffling, and the woman laughed. Maybe they showed her their dicks.What do I know?” I say, already weighed down by the unintended dread created by my new side hustle.

I pull at the doorknob to close it when he wedges his boot in, forcing me to stop.

My eyes drift back to him.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Sure. I hope there’s more to this job than me keeping track of all the sex she’s having upstairs.”

His eyes glint with a barely concealed smile before he pulls his boot back and, without a word, walks away, making me question my last words.

I need the money. And it’s not my business what they're doing upstairs. Why would I care about their lives?

I need to focus on mine.

The problem is that all our lives seem to be enmeshed together, so sighing, I return to the kitchen, pour myself another glass of wine, and retrieve the pecan pie from the fridge to drown my sorrows.

7

MACKENZIE

Before Christmas

I headout for my daily walk later than usual. It’s almost five in the afternoon, and it’s dark outside.

I normally walk around the neighborhood in the mornings––especially when I’m not working, which I’m currently not.

But today, I’ve spent the entire day cleaning my place, organizing my drawers and closet, listening to music, and sifting through some old photographs.

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