Shacking Up(73)

"Six? What could I possibly have done to dig myself that kind of hole?"

"How did you even get my bank account information? Isn't that fraud?"

"It's only fraudulent if I try to take money out of the account, not if I put it in there."

"That was sneaky."

"I told you I'd get the money to you one way or another. I wasn't lying or being sneaky. I was being totally upfront about it."

I make an angry sound.

"You can't be angry with me, Ruby."

"Are you telling me how to feel?" Goddammit. I shouldn't be so upset about this. It's really not rational. It shouldn't bother me this much that he wants to compensate me, beyond giving me a place to live, even if the amount is exorbitant.

"Please don't be upset with me. I feel responsible for you losing out on that audition. I cost you months of potential income, Ruby. Let me do what I can to make up for giving you that horrible flu bug."

"So this is guilt-induced?"

Bancroft sighs. "I feel like you're baiting me and nothing I say is going to be right here. I just don't want you to be angry with me for doing what I think is right."

Suddenly I realize why the money thing is bothering me. Over these past weeks I've stopped looking at Bancroft as my pseudo-employer. I don't think I ever really looked at him as my employer in the first place, if I'm honest with myself. Giving me a place to stay, food, and access to takeout was one thing, even the modest amount of money I could attribute to incidentals, but actual substantial payment for the pet sitting breaks the illusion that this is more. Or has the potential to be more. And it makes me feel kept, which makes me feel like the situation is no different than with my father. And I definitely don't want this situation to feel anything like that.

"I'm sorry. I'm not angry with you. I just want to be able to do this on my own."

"You are doing it on your own."

I motion to my surroundings. "Last time I checked, this wasn't my condo, unless you've decided to transfer ownership into my name."

Bancroft gives me the eyebrow. "You know, it's a damn good thing I'm not there right now."

"Why's that?"

"Because you're being difficult, and if I were there I'd be able to make you stop."

I plant my fist on my hip. "Oh? You think so?"

"I know so."

"And how exactly would you do that?" The way he's looking at me sends a shiver down my spine.

He drags his tongue across his bottom lip, his smile is downright evil. "I don't think I can answer that question honestly without putting the rest of my points at risk."

* * *

On Thursday afternoon I get a call from Bancroft. I'm still half asleep from having been up so late. I didn't get home until after three in the morning, which isn't typical for a Wednesday, but the club was rented out for a big party. Tips were great. It took a long time to come down from the high of the evening so I've been out for less than six. I'm an eight-hour girl.

It's a video call from Bancroft, which is terrible, since I'm sure I look like hell. I didn't even bother to take off my makeup last night. I probably look like a well-used hooker right now.



       
         
       
        

I answer the call, but leave the screen pointing at the ceiling.

"Ruby?"

I glance over, but stay out of view. He looks like he's in a car. "Hey." My voice is raspy from sleep.

"Did I wake you?"

"Yeah, but it's okay. I should probably think about getting up." And then go right back to bed.

"I have some good news!"

"Oh?" I lean over the phone and catch a glimpse of my messed-up hair. I have to use an ungodly amount of product to maintain my hairstyle for the duration of my performance, and I didn't shower before bed. Based on the quick glimpse, I definitely should've.

"Why can't I see you?"

"Because my face looks awful."

"Your face could never look awful."

"Let's not test that theory right now. What's the good news?"

"I'm on my way home."

"What?"

"We finished ahead of schedule. I'll be home soon."

I pick up the phone. Then drop it just as fast. Good lord. I look like a hooker clown on crack. I grab the closest garment, which happens to be a tank top and wrap it around my head, which makes me look as though I'm wearing a babushka. There's nothing I can do about the makeup still smeared under my eyes, but at least the insanity that is my hair is under cover.

I want to be excited, and I am. I get to see Bancroft after four and a half weeks of constant phone conversations that included incredible amounts of innuendo. But the condo is a mess. And there's little in the way of food in the fridge because I planned for him to be back two days from now.