And my teeth chattered as I tiptoed into the living room. Eff me, it was cold and I cursed myself as I began rummaging through this box and that, frantically trying to locate my toiletries. Fuck! I scraped my hand on the cardboard edge of one container, a red welt rising on my palm even as I tried to tear open another box, futilely digging through piles and piles of random items, dishes, books, kitchen utensils mixed together haphazardly. Why oh why hadn’t I labeled my stuff instead of throwing it together in a jumble? But I knew why – I’d been in such a rush to leave Gary, get out of our joint home asap that I’d tossed everything together without any organization or planning.
And now I was paying the price, shivering and soaked through like a wet rat with nothing to wear and no hope of finding anything useful anytime soon. I almost cried, tears welling up in my eyes. It would be the perfect beginning to my new life if I kicked it off with a wretched case of pneumonia, my lungs clogged with fluid, a headache muffling my hearing, my sinuses clogged. Plus I’d have to stay home sick when my job was the only thing keeping me afloat, my only source of income.
So I sat back, about to give up, when inspiration struck. I scrabbled for my cell among the junk and began scrolling furiously. There it was – an app called “NYC Concierge.” I gasped, and my fingers trembled as I logged in. A screen flashed to life and a Siri-like voice spoke, “How may we help you today?”
I ignored the voice, instead choosing to type my request. First up was shampoo, and upon further thought, conditioner and soap too. And screw it, might as well order a bathrobe while I was at it. I typed in the brand Coeur L’Amour, figuring that since I was splurging on a concierge service, I might as well go all the way and get myself a fancy satin robe, not just some terrycloth thing that was warm and homey.
And after I’d entered all my items, I pressed send, watching with bated breath as the program hummed, spitting out the words, “Please wait, we are thinking.” And then the screen flashed. “Thank you. Your items will be delivered in twenty minutes.”
I let out a small yelp of relief, falling back on the couch with a gusty sigh. Saved, I was saved. A messenger would be here shortly with the things I’d ordered, I was going to be warm and toasty and clean, and I couldn’t wait.
So I paced a bit, trying to ward off the chill by jumping up and down, my generous curves bouncing, hoping my neighbors downstairs couldn’t hear. I loved New York City and swore my allegiance to it once more. I loved how I could get anything and everything delivered at any time of the day or night, and all it cost was money. Gary wasn’t going to ruin my life, I was going to pull myself up by the bootstraps even if it killed me, I wasn’t going down without a fight.
But in the meantime, I was soaking wet with only my jeans to cover me, my curves popping out everywhere, droplets spattering as I moved around the apartment briskly to keep warm. It wasn’t ideal, but now the ticker read fifteen minutes, and my package would be arriving soon. I sighed, shuddered and forced my mouth into a grim line. What was important was that I work myself out of this mess and survive to fight another day … ex-husband be damned.
CHAPTER TWO
Tucker
The order popped up on my terminal, the screen flashing to life. I squinted at the monitor, scrutinizing the shopping cart. Hmm, it was definitely a lady ordering this stuff or at least a dude who wanted to buy his girl some nice things. Because the soap and shampoo were fancy brands, French-milled soaps scented with lavender and the robe was a flimsy thing from an upscale boutique nearby. Well, no worries, NYC Concierge was on it.
Because I work for a start-up, a concierge service that’s accessible through an on-line app. It’s just like an old-time concierge service but instead of calling someone and placing an order, you type your request on a phone for delivery. It’s not so different from the old days except the app streamlines things, makes the experience more efficient. Without a human person on the telephone, there aren’t any missed words, we can read your order verbatim, and we have a handy countdown clock so you know exactly when your package is arriving.
Speaking of which, the stopwatch was already running. Heaving myself up, I stretched mightily, throwing muscled arms into the air before hopping off my stool. One of the great things about being a delivery guy is that it keeps you in shape walking all over the city, going up and down stairs, logging in hundreds of miles. So I worked out all the time, making sure I was athletic and flexible while also strong. You never knew if someone was going to order a microwave or god forbid, a refrigerator, and you were the only person on shift, manhandling that monster up a steep set of stairs. Fuck, I hated those deliveries, it was like they expected fucking Superman or something.