Page 39 of Gluttony

With those parting words, Mickey hangs up on his end, leaving me open mouthed and enraged.

I know Mickey, which is why I have no doubts I just got threatened. Also, my cappuccino is now cold.

Definitely no wins tonight.

The entire week is weird.

Ever since Zucchini-Gate—it will forever be branded as such—the guys have been different. Hayes is less grumpy boss with a chip on his shoulder and more smug boss who won bragging rights. Problem is, Orion has stolen Hayes’s usual attitude and I must say, I don’t like it. Hadley? Well…he’s as demented as always and I can’t deny it’s been the only reassuring thing this past week.

At H2O, the vibe is buzzing with rumors of not one butthreeup-and-coming artists rumored to sign on with us. Becausethey’re all located on the west coast, this means the guys are flying cross-country this morning to wine and dine and hopefully get into bed with them. Metaphorically, of course. I hope. I mean, Iona—who apparently needs no last name—has been gaining some numbers on social media and I’m pretty sure the fact she looks like some kind of Viking queen isn’t a turn off.

But it’s fine. I look like an Irish goddess so we’re even.

Okay, so she can sing like she’s calling her people for war whereas when I sing I probably violate a dozen international laws protecting animals and their hearing.

The only good news for me is that, as their executive assistant, I’m invited to this weekend’s shindig and I refuse to pretend like I’m not excited about it. The size of my suitcase for a two-day trip is, no doubt, going to get some incredulous looks and maybe even a few snarky comments, but I won’t let that get me down.

I’m going to Cali and escaping this miserable winter for a while. At the thought, I raise my head and look out the impossible-to-clean window. I’m pretty sure the grime on it dates back to the eighties.

It’s snowing and has been for hours now. It’s not enough to have our flights cancelled but the accumulation of the steady fall is enough to sludge up the roads and cause the entire population of Manhattan to be grumpy.

But not I. This girl is going to fucking Cali and no amount of snow is going to take that joy away.

With my hard case zipped up and my carry-on sitting on top, I roll them to the front door and look around. The studio is tidy, my warm boots are waiting for me to slip them on, and my giant coat is hanging on the makeshift hanger that fits maybe one more article of clothing. If that.

With a confident nod, I check the time on my phone. Fifteen minutes to spare is pretty fucking good. Then it hits me. Fuck.

I forgot the trash and no way am I pulling my suitcases to the alley with me, which means I’m not risking being late. Double fuck. Leaving my trash all weekend would be akin to lighting up a neon sign and inviting yet another family of cockroaches and rats to Hotel Bowie. Not doing it.

Okay, I can do this.

All I need to do is run to the alley, drop the trash, run back up—stairs are faster than that poor excuse for an elevator—get my suitcases, lock up, and go back. Easy peasy.

Equipped with my boots and coat, I make my way downstairs. Once at the entrance, I say hello to one of my neighbors from down the hall. She’s a cute Black girl, about eleven or twelve, who lives with her dad. The only reason I know any of this is because that man is handy as fuck and has fixed various fuck ups in my studio. He refuses to take money so every week, I bring them different pastries from my favorite bakery. I can splurge because, unbeknownst to them, the guys are paying.

“Mornin’, Miss Bowie. You look so pretty.” Gah, I love this kid.

“Not if I’m standing next to you, Renita.” Her smile is blinding and when she pushes her glasses up her nose, I can see the pride shining in her eyes. “Whatcha reading today?” She’s always reading something and she’s smart as a whip. One day, that little girl is going to make this country proud. Mark my damn words.

“I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings.” There’s that pride again but if I stand here any longer, I’m going to be late as fuck.

“Nice! I love Maya Angelou. Let me know what you think, okay? Gotta bolt, see ya in a few days.”

I practically fly out the door and almost fall flat on my face as I run down the short walkway and skid as I round the corner into the alley. It fucking smells like rats died in here and the worst part of it all is that I’m starting to get used to it.

The garbage cans are already full to the brim, and then some. The city workers are due later this morning so everyone ispiling up their bags, just like me. With a softball-pitcher-worthy winding of my arm, I let the trash bag go and watch as it lands at the very top of the heap. Gross.

If it brings everything else down with it, that’s too bad. I’ve got a plane to catch.

When I swing around, red hot fire pain hits me in the side of my face, knocking me back a few steps. That pain is quickly followed by a sweep under my feet, causing me to fall to my knees.

“You think you’re so fucking special?” I don’t understand the words, the ringing is so loud in my ears, but my flight or fight instinct kicks in and just like my Irish descent dictates, this bitch fights back. I swing my fists, hoping to hit anything of value, like balls or dicks. By the satisfying sound of his grunt, I know I hit payday, except my good luck ends there.

“You’re going to pay for that, Bowie.”

Two big hands grab my face and when I look up, all I see are black eyes staring right back at me with contempt and serious hate, but the rest of his face is hidden behind a white balaclava. Like, what the fuck did I ever do to you?

With what feels like inhuman force, the asshole throws me against the wall, and by some kind of miracle, my shoulder gets the brunt of the hit, my head spared a concussion.

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