I turn around and catch my reflection in the mirror that hangs in the hallway, getting a very clear view of the blue baggage I’m sporting under my eyes. Nice. I look like one of those Bourbon Street commandos punched me in the face.
I really, really need that bath and at least a few hours to relax, but five hundred bucks is five hundred bucks; and when child support checks bounce more often than not, having a little padding in the bank account is a good thing. No . . . it’s a great thing. Thank you, May.
I resist the urge to take another gulp of my wine, and turn to go up to my room so I can slather on some makeup and hide the bags under my eyes. I’ll take my bath later. And hey . . . I might even spring for some champagne to drink while I’m in it, since I’ll soon be flush with some cash I wasn’t expecting.
I’m finally able to muster a smile as I head up the stairs.
CHAPTER TWO
I can’t believe I’m doing this. I don’t even know what this is. Am I dressed appropriately for freelance computer work at the Bourbon Street Boys security company? As I wait at the stoplight just in front of the port’s entrance, I look down at myself. I’m wearing jeans, sneakers with flowers embroidered on them, a white button-down blouse, and my light brown hair in a ponytail. Except for silver ball stud earrings, I left all my jewelry behind; it didn’t seem right to be getting all fancy when I’d be working at the port. The vehicle of choice out here is a forklift. I don’t want to embarrass myself or my sister by walking into this place looking like a goof who doesn’t know how to dress for the occasion.
Checking the mirror, I note bangs that should have been trimmed a month ago hanging in my eyes. I swipe them over to the side and make sure my mascara hasn’t smeared. Good to go. My fatigue is not doing a good job of hiding behind that foundation I used. Lucky for me, my blue eyes are picking up the slack, looking pretty dang bright and fresh if I do say so myself. The idea of five hundred extra bucks and a shopping mall gift certificate tend to have that effect on me.
The light turns green, forcing me out of my self-evaluation and into the port. Working from memory, I drive in and weave around various buildings until I see the one I want. I pull up to the warehouse and stop the car outside, letting it idle for a little while as I examine the exterior of the place.
There’s no obvious pedestrian entrance, but I’ve been here before, so I know that I have to go over to the keypad and press the call button so that someone will let me in through the rolling door in front of my car.
I’m tempted to remain out here in the air-conditioning and try to guess what’s going on behind the scenes in there, but that’s just going to delay my bath event that much longer. Might as well just admit I’m nervous and get this over with.
I hate that I’m such a creature of habit, that working at a place other than my normal job site makes me so uncomfortable. How will I ever leave that hellhole and work as a freelancer if I can’t do something as simple as one hour of work with my own sister? Ugh. I’m hopeless. Fear has me so strapped to my job, I’ll never leave it. I’ll grow old and gray there, and they’ll have to force me out in the end. I’m doomed. Doomed!
Disgusted with myself, I turn off the ignition, grab my laptop and my purse from the seat next to me, and leave the car, slamming the door behind me. My sneakers squeak with each step as I draw closer to the door. My ponytail swings in rhythm behind me, right along with my butt. Yo, can I get some fries wit dat shake? I seriously need to get to the gym.
At the keypad, I lean in and press the call button as I speak. I’m sweating and my hand is trembling with nerves. “Hello?”
When all I get is static in response, I start to panic. A forklift flies past behind me, going way too fast, or so it seems. I twist around to watch it zoom away. The guy driving it turns and whistles at me, smiles, and gives me a wave. He has two teeth missing.
Oh, God. I’m a mother with three children! Ack! What am I doing here?
I take a deep breath, face the keypad, and slowly breathe out, trying like hell to calm myself. You can do this, Jenny. Woman up. Remember: you are a beast. No, you are a honey badger. No one messes with the honey badger.
“Come on, answer your door, Bourbon Street Baboons.” I press the button again and raise my voice. “Helloooo!” The sweat is now making my shirt stick to me. Aaaand the hits just keep on coming! Maybe I’ll get lucky and Forklift Driver Guy will swing by again and offer to take me out for drinks at the local strip club.