Page 30 of Mr. July

“You trust me with your credit card?”

“More than my sister. I just finished paying off the 30k furniture bill she charged without telling me.”

“What do you need all those cameras for?”

“Getting ideas Bun?” I winked at her again as the elevator dinged.

“I’m reporting you to HR. You’re making me uncomfortable.”

“Please. Admit it. I’m the most fun you’ve had in years. I’ll be over for Bridge on Friday.” I stepped in the elevator as Bun started clicking away again at her keys, this time muttering about my generation’s obsession with cameras and recording ourselves.

I stopped by Starbucks, ordered myself a Venti double black. If the house was as bad as Doreen said it was, I’d have no choice but to keep the 3% damage fee. A few hours later, I was rolling in the drive. I let out a long breath. The house was fucking gorgeous. A sparkling gem. I raked a hand through my hair, steeling myself for what I was about to walk into.

I inserted my key into the lock, letting the door swing open wide. At first, I thought Doreen was exaggerating. The main room wasn’t spotless but hardly a mess. Sure, ash and splinters of wood were by the fireplace. I expected that. The kitchen however was much worse. The trash was full. The sticky syrup on the back counter was raspberry colored and I knew it would be a bitch getting out of my natural white stone. I opened the screen door to the back patio. The cover was left off the hot tub, wasting energy and electricity. A pair of silk panties fluttered in the breeze when I lifted the cover of the hot tub off the deck. I found two more pairs in the bushes. The tip of my polished shoes almost touched the evidence of what went on here.

There’s no way I’d make Doreen touch that.

Even with gloves on.

With a sigh, I walked back inside and upstairs. The master bedroom was tidy. The lines and towels were dirty, so what? The next room didn’t look bad either. It smelled faintly of orange blossoms and vanilla. I bent down to pick up a towel coming face to face with a vibrator that was under the bed. Next to it was a pink silk thong. I lived in a frat house; this was nothing. Nothing I haven’t seen or done myself. However, my shore house is not a fraternity house, and Ryan Hill lied his ass off.

I went downstairs contemplating how to play this. I sat down on the couch, removing the throw blanket uncovering a handful of dick gummies. I pressed a hand to my forehead before getting back up. My eyes then noticed the pink stain on the top back of the couch. “Son of a bitch.” I knew a white couch was a bad idea. Char said it wasn’t returnable since she bought it at a sample sale. It still cost 2k though. Moving fast to the mudroom where I kept the cleaning supplies, I swung the door open, coming face to face with two dozen blown up dick balloons. I punched them out of the way so I could reach the cleaning supplies. On top of the washing machine was a bag someone had left behind. I peeked inside.

“What the fuck?”

Neon green dick rings, with tiny vibrating heads. Dick lollipops. Massage cream that when rubbed in heats to a tingle. Edible body cream. Handcuffs. Maybe I’d be horny if I weren’t so pissed.

By the time I applied a stain stick to the back of the couch and started working on my kitchen counter, my left eye twitched. The nerve in my cheek wouldn’t stop ticking. I did the best I could with both before calling a commercial grade cleaning company. The kind you call after a fire or flood. Who knew what kind of orgy went down? Some strangers got their freak on, maybe in every room of my house. Forget rentals. I was one and done. From now on, it was reserved for me. I’d take on more at work if I had to. My yearly bonus was coming up anyway. I sat down on the front stoop knowing there was only one thing to do.

From: homeowner1278

To: [email protected]

SUBJECT: Cleaning Fee/Damage

Ryan,

Consider this email notice of my intention to invoke the lease clause for property damage. I’m in the mind to sue you for mental anguish and trauma from your lies. Clearly, you didn’t have a relaxing weekend for your pregnant girlfriend. My housecleaner refuses to touch the evidence you left behind of what really went on. As you know, the security/damage fees for my property is three thousand dollars. I’m collecting.

C.C.

I worked from my car until the industrial cleaning crew left. After inspecting every inch of my house, I almost felt better. Until I opened the fridge and saw what was left of a cut up dick cake. Cursing, I slammed the door, reached for the cabinet above the fridge for my stash of red that I kept there. The fifty-dollar bottle of cabernet was my go-to after a long day of sanding floors or painting.

“Motherfucker.”

It was gone. I made a mental note to add that to the tab Ryan Hill owed me.

Eleven

My high was short lived. After arriving back on campus, I spent the rest of the day searching classifieds. Even on the offseason, there were no places I could ever afford close to the research facility. If it were warmer, I could make do living on Pop’s boat at the marina. I found one that had a shower facility and free Wi-Fi. On a whim, I logged into the rental app I used for the weekend. It was a long shot, but I thought just maybe there’d be something. I scrolled listings, until I found one that might work. It was an older home, on the bayside. Un-winterized. No heating. It did have a fireplace. Two bedrooms and one full bath. A dock…. I started dreaming about bringing the boat. Making fires. Having my own slice of heaven. It was a thousand dollars a month off season and was available until May. I’d drain my savings—with little options left, I booked it. I’d get about a three-thousand-dollar housing refund for leaving so early this semester. After a refund on my food plan—it’d be a wash. I was about to close my laptop when my bleary eyes could barely focus, noticing I had a new notification from the booking app.

I scanned his message, twice. Surely there was a mistake. I perked right up. No longer bone-tired. I had cleaned the sink and ran the dishes myself. The girls had promised they would tidy up before leaving. I didn’t want to upset Kells but the homeowner threatening to charge my debit card three thousand dollars was no laughing matter. I texted Soph.

Me:Hey. Did you guys clean the shore house before leaving? The owner just sent me a nasty email.

Soph:Kells had an OBGYN appointment so we left after lunch. Hannah said she’d do it.

“Well, that explains a lot,” I muttered.We didn’t do any damage. Did we?“Shit. The couch. I meant to tell him about the wine.” Biting my lip, I decided to respond. We had clean fun. Well except for Hannah.

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