Page 2 of Dirty Little Secret, Baby
"Just finish your flowers first and..." Her gaze falls on my phone on the floor. "Hey, you must have dropped this," she bends down and picks it up. "And there's an envelope under the table, too."
She places both on the table. Her eyes pause as she looks at the device, whose screen has lit up, probably because she accidentally pressed one of the buttons. She looks at me silently.
I turn my gaze to the screen, then I also see the message from the unknown number.
I love it when you're naughty. Your Chris
Chris apparently has another cell number. I groan and tell Veronica about the previous messages.
"What an asshole," Veronica moans, slamming her fist on the table in anger. So hard that the envelope she had just picked up, which was only resting on the edge, falls to the floor again.
"Oh, sorry," she says, bending down and picking it up again.
"ARS Group," she reads from the envelope.
"Asshole Group would be more fitting," I say, and we both have to laugh at the rather lame pun. Then I get serious again. "You can throw that in the trash behind me. They want my shop. The landlord apparently won't sell. They periodically offer me an increasingly higher amount to vacate the shop."
"You'd really think the whole world thinks money can buy anything," Veronica groans, shaking her head in disbelief. "Don't you give in, Beth."
"I won't," I say, trying to sound confident as I carefully apply the gold leaf decorations. When I'm finished, I go to the computer for the final step before completion: to look at the text I'm supposed to write in elegant handwriting on the greeting card for the bouquet.
"Now look at this," I say to Veronica and read aloud. "Your nectar tastes like the gold of the bouquet. I want to taste you!"
"The world has gotten so depraved, sweetie," Veronica laughs.
"But does anyone believe that? Am I old-fashioned for just hoping to find the right one someday?" I ask, while I write the words on the greeting card.
"I don't know," Veronica says. "It's not like I've had a bunch of promising dates lately." Then she shrugs. "You?"
"Not a single one," I murmur, feeling an emptiness spread inside me and a deep longing for real intimacy. Not this pseudo-intimacy that this bouquet is probably supposed to convey, which is likely just a means to an end.
Then I see that in the top right of the screen on the online vendor's page, next to the bell symbol, there's a red 1. Another order? I could use the money, but it's been a long week, I'm pretty tired and wanted to take Veronica out to eat and...
But it's even worse, because it says:
The driver for the AAA-class premium priority order has deleted their account on the platform. We were unable to find a short-notice replacement. In accordance with the platform's terms and conditions, you must deliver the bouquet and collect your payment from the customer. Delivery address:...
Kind Regards
"Shit," I mutter.
"What is it?" Veronica asks. I point to the message on the screen.
"Well, let's get going then," Veronica replies. "Your car is in the underground garage, right?"
I nod. The car was a gift from my late father shortly before his death. I know I can't really afford it, because the parking spot costs a fortune and you don't really need a car in New York. But I couldn't bring myself to part with it, even if the car is nothing special.
"Where's the damn key?" I mutter, after searching my pockets, my handbag, and the shelves above the computer.
"Can you help me look, Veronica?" I ask, a little desperate, glancing at the clock and knowing this is going to be a damn close call. The address is in one of the best areas of the city; from here, I'll need at least half an hour, and that's only if I'm very lucky. Delivery is in forty minutes. That's going to be tight. Very tight.
I curse the online portal and make a mental note to do the same as the driver. Just delete my account and focus on regular customers. On the other hand, a lot of my income comes from exactly these kinds of orders and...
"Hey, there are more letters from the ARS Group here. But no key."
"You can toss those. I must have forgotten," I reply, glancing briefly at Veronica, who is truly searching frantically for the key, and feel a brief surge of deep gratitude before I continue searching myself.
After two long minutes, which are ticking away from my delivery time, I have one last idea. Maybe in the mailbox? Did I leave it in the lock?
