“Yeah. And?”
My grip tightens on my strap and I plead with karma to give me a break. “I…obviously, since I can’t any longer, I need my money back.”
His gaze slides once more over my body, slower, sleazier this time. A smile I’ve seen more times than I care to count eases over his pudgy features. “Of course, sweetheart. Like I said, bring me your paperwork and I’ll sort you out.”
The ice expands in my gut. “You know I don’t have paperwork.” My voice shakes and I despise myself for it.
His face contorts in a show of false regret. “Ah, I’m sorry. No paperwork, no refund. Company policy.”
Anger dislodges the ice. I want to fly at him, claw that sick look of glee off his face, but I force myself to remain calm. For one thing, there are too many people around to witness it and possibly clock it on their camera phones if I do anything stupid. For another, I want no part of me touching the shit bag in front of me. My days of allowing men like him anywhere near me are over. Well…nearly over.
“Look, I’m asking you to show some…mercy.” The word sticks in my throat. The idea of having to beg this piece of shit to give me back money that’s rightfully mine burns a hole in my chest.
He steps closer, his gaze probing where I’ve crossed my hands over my breasts. “I can be merciful, sugar. Come with me to my office and I’ll show you what Papa Bear can do for you.” He smiles. His hand starts to lift toward me.
I step back, partly because the idea of him touching me fills me with severe loathing. And partly because my knee is itching to make violent contact with the flabby Papa Bear parts between his legs. He accurately interprets the move.
“I guess you don’t want your refund, after all.” He waves a beefy hand in the direction of union Turnpike subway where I’ve just walked from. “There’s a homeless shelter that way. Or you can blow some homeless guy into sharing his cart with you.” He laughs and walks backwards. “Either way, sweetheart, your situation is not my problem.”
He disappears round the corner into his office and tears surge into my eyes.
I don’t blink. Because, damn it, tears are of zero use to me right now. But, God, I want to succumb. I want to find the nearest dark corner and howl my eyes out. I want to beat myself for falling into a trap of my own making. With leaden feet, I retrace my steps to the motel room. My larger backpack sits where I left it this morning. At least the asshole didn’t break in and help himself to my stuff as well.
I sink onto the bed and stare at the ugly wall until my vision hazes. Fat tears slide down my cheeks, shamelessly defying my will. Defeat throbs in my veins and I drop back on the bed, setting free thick sobs that rip from my throat loud enough to wake the dead.#p#分页标题#e#
I cry until I’m certain there isn’t a drop of liquid left in my body. When I can bear to drag myself up, I make my way to the bathroom, blow my nose on coarse toilet paper and wash my face. My eyes collide with my reflection and I shudder in revulsion. My face is blotchy, the hair at my temples tear-soaked. Averting my gaze, I grab more paper and swipe at the damp spots. I throw the paper in the general vicinity of the trash. It misses. I don’t pick it up. It can be my tiny fuck you to the cosmos for the unending deluge of shit-dumping.
I return to the room and catch the sound of an electronic ping. My heart trips in paralyzing alarm before I remember my new phone. In the tumult of being suddenly made homeless, I’ve forgotten my appointment with Fionnella and her team back in the Midtown apartment.
It’s not for another two hours, but as I’ve found out in the last two days, Fionnella is nothing if not a stickler for punctuality. At midday today, I received a menu by text with a prompt to choose my preferred meal. The repeat of the burger and fries arrived within half an hour. I was in the middle of devouring it, when Sully found me and informed me of my new work status.
I nearly choked on a precious mouthful when he told me the two girls who contracted food poisoning last week had both quit, and that until they were replaced, I would be working in the executive restaurant. As if that wasn’t intimidating enough, he calmly announced that my first task would be to serve Quinn Blackwood’s lunch to him in his office.
A different emotion weaves through me as I pull out the phone.
What happened in Quinn’s office still feels a little surreal. After a short exchange while I lay out his lunch, the man barely spoke more than a few words. Sitting at his dining table, watching him eat, was a weird experience, for sure. But it wasn’t the sort of weird that made me recoil. It was a mind-bendingly fascinating weird. A make-your-heart-flip-flop-in-your-chest-with-each-move-he-made weird.