I continue looking for Sloan as I take several more sips of wine, but she is still M.I.A. Fortunately the deejay is doing a fantastic job of keeping me distracted and begins interplaying two songs that are calling me back to the dance floor, but I have an off feeling that I just can't shake, so I decide to stay put and flirt with the sun-kissed bartender. After about ten minutes of polite conversation between us he asks me, "So you're not going back out there gorgeous?"
I grin. "Nah, I’d rather sit here and enjoy the music."
"Hard day at work?"
"Not exactly ... more like a hard week. A bad break up."
Marco nods in understanding and then a text comes in from my mother. I don't feel like reading it, but I figure I have to because well, it's from my mom.
Mom: Where are you?
Me: I'm out with Sloan.
Mom: That means you're dancing very inappropriately somewhere.
Me: That's very possible:)
Mom: I've come up with a solution to your situation.
Me: Really?
Mom: I called your aunt.
Me: Aunt who???
This topic really deserves a phone conversation, but there is no way I could have a meaningful conversation with my mother, half-drunk, in a noisy club. I'm surprised she's actually this good at texting. They're coming in fast and grammatically correct.
Mom: You know who I'm talking about smarty. Aunt Juliette. The aunt I told you to give a call three weeks ago when you decided to stay in that godforsaken city after almost being murdered.
Me: When did u learn to txt like this mom? I'm impressed.
Mom: I didn't. I speak into the phone and it translates what I say into a text for me.
Aaah, of course.
Me: Very nice mom.
Mom: Her number is 215-555-7890. Call her tomorrow. She has room for you until whenever.
Whenever I come to my senses and move home she means.
Me: It won't be long. I'm figuring things out and will have a place soon.
Mom: Is business doing better?
Me: Yep.
Mom: Are you really okay Bitsy?
Me: Yes mom. Don't worry.
Lies.
First of all there is no way on God's green earth that I'm going to admit to my mother that I am scared shitless after being brutally assaulted by my boyfriend's frackin' drug dealers. She doesn't even know everything that happened. She'd literally drive down to Philly, pack up my stuff, and force me to come home if she did.
When I woke up in my bedroom three weeks ago, Ethan and the assailants were gone; my head hurt like hell, and my apartment had been completely ransacked and robbed. I'd been saving tip money for over two years from my part-time job at The Tavern and storing it all in two empty tampon boxes under the bathroom sink. (I've got an issue with paying bank fees.) It was over seventeen thousand dollars, and my plan was to use that money to live on while I worked on building my business full time; but now that money is gone and I need a Plan B.
I was too frightened to call the police when I finally woke up, so the only person I called was Sloan, who promptly took me to the emergency room. Physically I had only suffered a minor concussion, but emotionally I was ruined. My home had been violated, I couldn't concentrate on work, I was scared to be alone, and my boyfriend's phone was going straight to voicemail. His father, who I had only met once before, finally called me a few days later and told me that Ethan was fine and resting in a drug rehab in Arizona.
When I told him everything that transpired that night, then asked him (politely) why his son saw fit to leave me unconscious on the floor of my bedroom without even a 911 call, his father totally sidestepped my question and blatantly offered me twenty-five hundred dollars if I remained quiet about everything. To add insult to injury, he also said there was another twenty-five hundred in it for me if I refused any and all of Ethan's calls. Something about codependency, blah, blah, blah. Needless to say, I turned down his highly offensive offer and told him to go fuck himself. I didn't need to be paid off to avoid having any contact with Ethan, considering that he had been ignoring all of my calls and texts for days anyway.
Assholes.
Both of them.
And as far as my business is concerned, that is laughable at best. About eighteen months ago, I built and launched a smartphone application that helps connect college students with scholarship money. I named the application School Bucks, and I charge ninety-nine cents per download for it. The app generates about three hundred dollars a month, which is a pretty decent start, but it doesn't pay the bills. I need to make some major improvements to the app and develop a marketing plan to make some traction in the marketplace, but now that my entire frackin' savings is completely gone, I'm going to have to come up with a Plan B.
All of this on my brain is what has brought me here tonight. I'm trying to forget about how I can't get a decent night's sleep in my own home, because I'm too afraid to close my eyes. I am also trying to forget how any little bit of money I earn now has to go to bills, not savings, and that I don't have enough money to put down a security deposit and first month's rent on a new place. So I guess living at my aunt's house would be a great way to feel safe for a moment and stack some money while I figure things out. Work on my Plan B. Maybe I do need to bite the bullet and accept some help, regardless of the source. It's not like I have a lot have options. It's either this or go home to my parents and start all over again.