Page 9 of I Am the Wild

I walk as if in a daze, somehow finding the elevator and making my way to the first floor. The twins both stare as I walk out and hail a cab, my mind spinning with all that I saw, but my heart is full from that brief glimpse of the woman with silver eyes.

The Offer

I am not yours, not lost in you,

Not lost, although I long to be

Lost as a candle lit at noon,

Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

~ Sara Teasdale

I makea quick stop at the grocery store, tipping the cabbie generously with money I can ill afford to spend, so that she'll wait as I pick up the necessary supplies for my evening plan. It should be sleep, since it's almost two in the morning at this point, but this is New York, a city that's always awake. And I don't sleep much at any rate.

When the cab pulls up to my apartment, I tip once again, mentally counting down how much—or rather how little—money I have left. I slink into the building, hoping the manager isn't around. It was a nice place once upon a time, and the architecture is still breathtaking, but lack of care has worn it down. You can feel the spirit within has given up the fight. Even still, the rooms weren’t cheap to come by. New York is New York, no matter what neighborhood you live in.

At my old job the cost was no big deal. In fact, I had my sights set on something much grander once upon a time.

Now…

I'm just about to make it to the elevator when I hear his voice. "Miss Oliver, I was hoping to run into you. Can we talk privately in my office a moment?" he asks, while placing his hand at my elbow and giving me a pointed stare.

It's not a question, it's a command, and I resent him and myself for the fact that I feel like a misbehaving child as he leads me to his office and closes the door. He sits behind his desk, and I stand, giving me a good view of the balding spot on his head, the light bulb overhead flashing against pale skin. Roger Lemon's parents own this building, which is his only qualification for managing an apartment complex. He's got a skinny mustache across a thin lip that makes him look Hitleresque but without the gravitas to lead a country.

"Miss Oliver, your payments are now several months past due. You have gotten my notices, I trust?"

"Every single one of them," I say, through gritted teeth.

"Then you know this cannot be allowed to go on. We will have to take, dare I say it, drastic measures if you do not get your account in compliance."

Compliance. I've always hated that word.

"I should have the money to you soon. I had a job interview today that looks promising."

His thin lips pinch together, forming a crease between his eyebrows. "I sympathize with what you've been through, but I think we've been patient long enough."

"I'll get you your money," I say. "I just need a bit more time."

His dark beady eyes bore into me. "You have until the end of the week, Miss Oliver. If you are not caught up on all your payments—including interest, you will be locked out of your apartment and all of your belongings will be confiscated and sold to pay your balance."

I seethe with rage boiling inside me, but I can't act on it. Not yet. "I'll get you your money by the end of the week," I say, then I turn to leave, but he grabs my arm, and when I turn to face him, he licks his lips.

He hands me an envelope with a red "PAST DUE" stamp on it. "There are other ways you could work off what you owe," he says.

It's not the first time he's pulled this shit, and it likely won't be the last. I yank my arm out of his grip, knowing his fingers will leave bruises. "I'll get you your money."

I can feel his eyes watching me as I go, and I force myself not to shiver.

Once in my apartment, I triple lock the door behind me, draw the curtains, and head to my bedroom. It only takes me ten minutes to change into my pajamas, scrub my face, and warm up a blanket in the dryer. While the blanket warms, I dig through my bag of goodies and pull out my current romantic threesome. Ben & Jerry. My rebound guys. Always here for me. Never disappointing. I grab a spoon and fill a glass generously with red wine, then head to the couch.

But the past due envelope snags my attention, and I rip it open in frustration, my eyes burning when I read it through once, then twice.

That bastard is charging an insane amount of interest. I owe twice what I thought, which was already more than I know how to get.

Not only will I lose my home, I'll lose everything in it.

Once I have my blanket, I tuck in for a night of watching horror movies as I try to mentally process what I saw, heard, and now suspect about my job interview, and what I'm going to do about this new deadline.