Page 7 of The Wrong Sister
Pressing charges it is.
4
Maeve
The asshole is here. What the hell ishedoing here?
Is he a building inspector or something? I mean, I know he’s been coming here for the past two months, but so do a lot of people. And yes, Jerome kisses his ass more than others, but I thought it’s becauseMr. Kingis rich. But Jerome tends to kiss a lot of rich asses, so I never paid much attention to how special Mr. King might be. Except, his ass. It’s very special, but since it belongs to such a jerk, I stopped admiring it at some point.
Oh, fuck. Is he a cop?I quickly disregard this thought. His suit is too expensive to be anything other than some dude working on one of the top floors here.
His eyes narrow at me, and I squint mine right back. He nods to something a cop is saying and then moves toward me. To my table. To where I’m actually sitting, trying to catch my breath after what has happened.
I didn’t mean to fall asleep, I really didn’t. I just wanted to close my eyes for a second because I had a double shift today. Or was it triple? I’m just trying to make enough so I can rent a room or a couch or something. My coworker kicked me out of her place three days ago because her boyfriend moved in with her, and he was looking at me ‘funny.’ Quite frankly, not paying the rent might have been the reason too—I’ve been out of luck for the past month. Or six.
Needless to say, I didn’t get the job I was interviewing for two months ago. Neither did I get any other office jobs I’ve tried for in the past few months. All my interviews ended up with a note that they were looking for someone with a more ‘typical appearance’ and that they’d consider me if I was willing to ‘change the hair color and remove my brow piercing and reconsider my clothing choices.’ So, pretty much, they were asking me to change back into the person I escaped years ago. And this is precisely why, currently, I’m homeless and likely jobless after this fiasco.
Besides being out of luck with interviews, I was also robbed. Twice. All of my money—gone. The room in a cheap apartment I was renting—flooded a month ago. Not by me, surprisingly. My laptop and phone and everything else I owned—ruined. I found a flip phone for twenty bucks, and that’s what gets me by these days.
And this job was getting me by too.
All I wanted was a break. A tiny break.
I guess I’ll be getting it very soon, I think to myself as I glance around. The place is a mess, and I’m definitely out of a job. And out of a place to sleep too. I can’t even imagine how the fire caught in the first place. I mean, I didn’t put anything extra in the oven like paper or something, and the alarm hadn’t even gone off when I woke up from the heat on my face and something itchy in my nose. I even have a few burnt hairs on my head.
And on top of that, I had to pay for this asshole’s coffee out of my pocket. Nine bucks for this overpriced shit. The coffee isn’t even that good. The beans are always over-roasted, the syrups always too sweet or tangy. And I had to pay nine dollars for it. I hope the douchebag enjoyed the extra spices I put in this morning specially for him.
Heiscurrently standing next to me with arms crossed over his cashmere sweater. It’s past midnight, and he still looks like he just stepped out of a billboard. Life is unfair.
The cop is right next to him, and they both are staring at me with stern faces.
“Yes?” I mumble.
“Mr. King here,” the cop points his notepad atMr. King, “has decided to press charges against you.”
“What?” I jump in my seat, instantly feeling energized. “Why?”
“Someone has to answer for the damage,” the billboard dude grits out. “Someone responsible for it.”
“I called the fire department and saved everyone,” I cry out. “And I didn’t start the fire.”
“If you weren’t heresleeping,” the asshole accentuates, “the fire wouldn’t have happened.”
“How do you know?” I squint my eyes. “And why are you even here?”
His hard eyes are focused on my face while the ‘nice’ cop explains, “Mr. King owns the building.” He points his index finger on the top, cueing me on the name of the building. King Enterprise. Of freaking course. I nearly roll my eyes.
“I didn’t start the fire,” I repeat stubbornly.
The cop clears his throat and opens his notepad. “On the call, you said that the oven was burning.” He keeps relaying what I said while I glance between the two of them. The jerk looks to be dead set on pressing charges. Which could be agood thing so at least I can spend the night somewhere. Then I remember the movies I’ve seen about jails and what sort of people can be in there. I don’t think I’ll survive in there with my big mouth.
Think quickly, Maeve.
The female paramedic who was treating me before and offering oxygen I kept refusing, is getting her bag together to leave. Her curious eyes roam between our unfortunate trio.
Here we go.
“I can’t breathe!” I cough, clutching my chest. “Breathe,” I sigh, dramatically losing ability to keep my eyes open.
