Page 101 of Inflame

“Umm…”

“Let me tell you what you think of,” he goes on, making it hard to hide my smirk. “His name sounds wholesome, doesn’t it? It’s freakingHenry. Just hearing it, you’d think of a slightly immature sandy-brown-haired boy that has a golden retriever or—” He stops midsentence to hold up a finger in an ah-ha moment. “Maybe one of those doodle dogs with the curly hair. Am I right?”

“Sure.”

“Well, he may be the only Henry on the planet that has a devious, single-minded, pink taco addiction who doesn’t know the definition oftact. It is a game to him. How many ladies can he bag in a night, that is the—”

“You did not just say ‘bag.’”

He nods vigorously. “I did. I’ve been picking up my best lingo off that Urban Dictionary site.”

“Never again,” I say firmly. “Never again.”

“Oh and while we are on this disgusting topic, one more fun fact.” He makes an exasperated face.

I brace myself for the reveal. “What is it?”

“He has a monster footlong dong.”

“Is that part relevant to the story?”

“It most certainly is.” Blake holds up his drink into the air. “Hail to the Henrys of this world for being thrown into the box labeled ‘Underdog’ unfairly, just to prove us all wrong at the end of the day.”

I lift my drink into the air. “Hail to the Henrys.”

28

CLAIRE

I wake from the futon-esque couch feeling like it has aged me five years in just one night. My bones hurt and my muscles ache. My stomach feels like I did a hundred full crunches, and not the half-ass kind that my peers would get away with doing during my years of high school gym class fitness tests. No, these are the intense ones I would often do during cheering practice. I hated them then, and I avoid doing them at all costs now.

I slept like shit, but it was mainly from the street noise and the rain—that would have otherwise calmed me. The entire building must lack insulation. It felt like trucks were roaring through the living room every chance I would doze off to sleep. Then the flickering streetlight that Blake describes as “charming” was also buzzing and on a few occasions hissing.

I hoist myself up, and my once sweet-smelling hair is riddled with a dehydrated cheese stench. There is nothing I want more than a shower and a fresh set of clothes. Problem is, the washer isn’t quite working, so I have no other choice but to take a trip to the storage unit.

Blake has left for an early morning shift at the gym before he goes to his second job at the Boys Town store, where he is in charge of all of the clothing displays. It is his dream job to be able to create and rearrange the mannequins to model the outfits that the designer line puts out, catering specifically to guys who like to look polished but edgy with fashion.

I walk barefoot across the shiny hardwood floors and use his bathroom that is located just outside his room. The shower is tiny but at least the water is warm. It feels good on my sore back. I massage my neck and groan at the pull that I feel on my upper arm muscles. Today is going to be a physically rough day in the state I am in.

It feels counterproductive to put on worn clothes after being freshly washed. But it is what it is. I keep telling myself that this is all temporary, but the thought of having to find a new place to live is wearing on my brain. I’m definitely going to need a roommate—or five. How can I afford much of anything?

If only I can get on my feet by raking in some easy money. Then I will be able to put a deposit down and two months’ worth of rent. It is while I am staring out at the street below that I get an idea. How about I activate my Entice account and go on a few dates with some rich businessmen like I used to and get paid for it? The minimum is two hundred dollars an hour, and I am familiar with the protocols prior to meeting Ethan—who basically ended my agency job by taking me completely off the market.

That’s it. That is my short-term solution. I can work around my gym hours and still be able to manage my daytime hours while figuring things out with Angie. Eager to get the ball rolling again, I log into my Entice account and hit the button to activate my profile. Everything is stored in the database, so the only thing I need to do is wait and either accept or reject potential dates.

Feeling a bit perkier, I grab my purse and car keys and head out of the loft, locking the doorknob before shutting it. I am on a mission to reclaim a piece of my life back, and I don’t even need a vision board to help funnel my energy. I am that intrinsically motivated to have a chance at a fresh start.

* * *

When I arrive at Storage Plus, I am not surprised that the conditions of the units look to be less than adequate. It is a revelation to discover just how cheap Ethan is.

The guy working the office space is practically smoking indoors. Every time he grunts out a one-syllable word, it is followed by a puff of cloudy fumes that must be stored up in his lungs. Who even does this nasty habit anymore? It isn’t like he is trying to hide it by the two spares situated behind his ear. I feel dirty just from the way his fingers graze mine when he hands me my key. Sleazeball.

Unit 17 is on the far end of the quad and is sandwiched between two other units that appear to have doors with gunshot holes. My door has rust splotches across the metal surface and a dented frame. The protective weather strip is frayed, leaving an ample gap. I will not be surprised if there is a snake or mouse inside. This is not one of those prestigious climate-controlled businesses. The only thing that is controlled here is probably the amount of illegal substances that comes in and out. But then again, what do I know? This is just me, people watching and being slightly judgmental.

I use my key to open the door, and when I look at my pile of belongings, it is sobering to see just how little of the space they take up. I no longer own furniture. The items I did own from the college townhouse were sold or given to local charities. Ethan convinced me that he had everything that I needed. Maybe being a narcissist means getting someone to rely on you, just to gain that level of control over that person.

I step into the concrete box and look at the cracks marring the rough surface of the slab. Huddled in a corner, collecting the water drippings from the leaky roof, are my clothes. They are stuffed in black trash bags and not even tied to keep them away from the elements leaking through the cracks in the ceiling. Fuck. What is wrong with him? Ethan didn’t hire professionals to pack and move my belongings from his apartment. No, he basically handed some dude a twenty and a six-pack and said, “go move this shit.”

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