I climb the stairs to my apartment after another fruitless day of job hunting. I don't have enough experience for this place. I don't have the right kind of experience for that place. Everywhere I went, all I got were doors slammed in my face. It's all so frustrating and scary, and all I want to do is cry.
“Amanda.”
The familiar voice freezes me in my tracks at the top of the stairs. I turn around on the landing, my heart thundering in my chest as I see my landlord Roger coming up the stairs behind me – and he looks none too pleased. Roger is a heavy-set man who looks like he's a donut or two away from a massive heart attack. He's bald and has a long, scraggly beard, and for some reason, always smells like fish and garlic. Always. He's exactly what I picture whenever somebody says the word, “redneck.”
“Got your rent?” he asks, out of breath from climbing the stairs, his twang more pronounced than usual. “You're late. Again.”
I give him my best smile. “I will,” I say. “Soon. I promise.”
“You said that two days ago.”
“I know, Roger,” I say. “And I'm sorry. I'm trying to find a new job and all –”
“Look,” he says. “You're a nice girl and all, Amanda, but that's really not my problem. Know what is my problem?”
The knot in my stomach twists painfully. “What is your problem, Roger?”
“The fact that you're more than a week late with the rent,” he says. “And that you've been late for the last six months in a row.”
“Roger, please,” I say. “I just need a little more time to get myself back on my feet. Please. I'm looking for a job every day. I'm looking hard. I just –”
He sighs and runs his hand over his bald head. “You have two days,” he says. “If you don't have your rent by then, I have no choice but to evict.”
“Roger, please –”
He holds his hand up to cut me off. “Two days,” he says. “That's it. That's all I can do.”
He turns and waddles back down the stairs, grumbling to himself the whole way. The knot in my stomach is so tight, I feel like I'm going to throw up. My life is literally spinning out of control. Not only do I not have a job, I'm about to be out on the street. There's no way in hell I can get a new job – and the money to pay my rent – in two days.
I'm screwed. Absolutely screwed.
I walk into my apartment and slam the door behind me. I look around at my shitty little apartment. I stare at the cracks in the walls. The peeling linoleum in the kitchen. As I walk down the short entryway, I listen to the creaks in the floorboards. There are a million things wrong with this place, a million reasons why it sucks, but it's mine. This is my place. My home. My sanctuary. This is where I come when I need to hide away from the world.
And now, it's about to be taken away from me.
I fall to my knees and bury my face in my hands, my body heaving as I sob. It's like the dam that's been holding all of my emotions back finally burst. I've been punched in the gut by life over and over and over again and I just don't know how much more I can take.
My cell phone rings, so I try to pull myself together. I dig my phone out of my bag and look at the display – unknown number. I decline the call and drop the phone back into my bag.
“Pull yourself together,” I tell myself.
I force myself to my feet and pace the living room, trying to figure out what I can do. Looking around my place, I look for things I can sell. Except, I don't really have much of value. Certainly not anything valuable enough to pay the rent.
I need to clear my head. I need to get out. Grabbing my bag, I walk out the door, locking it behind me. Descending the stairs, Roger is standing there, next to the mailboxes. He looks over at me.
“Two days,” he says.
“I heard you,” I reply and rush out into the dying light of the late afternoon.
The air is crisp and I take in several long, deep breaths. Walking down the street, I try to organize my thoughts. What can I do to earn money? What can I do to make sure I don't get kicked out of my place?
With no job prospects, I really didn't have the answers to those questions. And had no idea how to go about getting them.
My phone rings again and I dig it out of my bag, hoping against all hope it's one of the places I applied to, calling me to schedule an interview. It's a number I don't recognize, which gives me a spark of hope.
“Hello?” I say.
“Amanda?”
The voice is familiar, but I can't quite place it immediately.
“This is she,” I say.
“You're a hard woman to track down, darlin'” he says and chuckles.
And then it hits me. The slow, southern drawl – it's Brady goddamn Keating.
“How in the hell did you get my number?” I snap.
“It wasn't all that hard really,” he says. “I know people and –”
“How?” I'm almost yelling.
“I asked your co-worker,” he says. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I'm pretty goddamn far from okay,” I am yelling into the phone now. “Thanks to you.”
People on the street are turning and looking at me, their expressions ranging from curious to amused to frightened. I suppose it's not everyday they run across some lunatic yelling on the street.
“And now people think I'm a freak,” I say, lowering my voice. “Also, thanks to you.”
“Slow down now, darlin',” he says. “The reason I –”
“Call me darlin' one more time and the next time I see you, I'm going to tear your nuts off with my bare hands.”
His laugh is slow and sugary, like molasses. “As pleasant as you make that sound, I actually have a purpose in making this call, dar – Amanda.”
“What, to rub in the fact that you've made my life a living hell?”
“Actually, there's something I want to discuss with you,” he says.
I'm so angry that I'm seeing red. The nerve of his son of a bitch. He turns my life upside down, destroys everything I've been working for, and then has the gall to call me to chat? I want nothing to do with Brady Keating – unless it involves beating him senseless.
“I've got nothing to say to you,” I say, my voice colder than ice.
“Well, that's fine,” he says. “You don't need to say anything. I just need you to listen, darlin'.”
“You realize I'm going to kill you, right?”
He chuckles. “Now, why would you want to kill me?” he asks. “I've got the key to solving all your problems.”
“The key?” I almost screech. “You are the reason for all my problems.”
“Well, that's not exactly fair, I –”
“You got me fired from my job, Brady,” I said. “And because I don't have a job, I can't pay my rent. And if I can't pay my rent, I'm going to have no place to live. So, unless you're calling to give me a million dollars, you can just screw off. I'm not going out with you. Ever. So, leave me alone.”
I stab the button on the phone, ending the call and drop it back into my bag. It immediately rings again, so I pull it out again and punch the button.
“Stop calling me, you pretentious prick!”
“Wow,” Amy says, her familiar Texas drawl coming through the phone. “Got a stalker or something, girl?”
I sigh and shake my head. “Sorry,” I say. “Just some annoying asshole keeps bothering me.”
“I gathered,” she says and giggles. “What are you doing right now?”
“Thinking about jumping off a bridge,” I say.
“Before you do that, why don't you come out and have a few drinks with us?”
It's tempting. Very tempting. I'm so stressed out and angry, I want nothing more than to go drink myself into oblivion. It'd help me forget my problems. At least, for a little while. But as I think about the amount of money I owe versus the amount of money I have, I know I can't.
“I'd really love to,” I say. “But I really can't afford it right now. I lost my job.”
“What?” Amy gasps. “I had no idea. I'm so sorry to hear that.”