Page 6 of Mr. Kelly

“Don’t just stand there, sit,” he commands, oblivious to the ‘bitch, I’ll kill you if you’re screwing my man’ looks I’m getting from his wife.

“I’ll just grab something at the bakery.”

“Shut up and sit down. You don’t have anything, and your stomach just growled like it had missed three meals.”

Two, but who’s counting.

Deciding Mr. Kelly is scarier than his Mrs., I sit where she’d have to crane her neck to continue to glare at me. I want to sing hallelujah when he places orange juice and a plate of French toast in front of me. I was happy with just that, then he returns with another plate of hash browns and an omelet covered in sausage gravy. If he weren't married, I would propose to him on the spot.

He puts plates similar to mine in an empty spot, then returns with a plate of egg whites and tomatoes for his wife. After handing her a mug with just hot tea, he grabs himself a massive cup of orange juice as well.

I should be eating like her, but all guilt dies when he slides something across the table and says the magic words.

“Hot sauce.”

I must have blacked out because I don’t remember anything from breakfast until he picks up my empty plates.

“Thank you. That was delicious!”

“We know. You moaned the entire time. Why are you here?” Mrs. Kelly cuts her eyes at me.

With a sigh, I answer her. “My boyfriend, well, now ex, has either borrowed or stolen money from Surly. He was staying at my place when he did it. Now Surly thinks I know where either Mario or the money is, but that’s not the case. Apparently, whatever he took wasn’t enough because he emptied my account to escape.”

It was not fun calling the banks, trying to get it reversed but them not believing it wasn’t me since my card and pin were used near my home. I have to wait for an investigation and security footage before they even consider compensating me. My tips from last night are all the money I have. How pathetic.

Mr. Kelly frowns as he stares at me, digesting what I just told them.

“Wow. You know how to pick ’em. Theo, pay off her debt so she can go back to her place. We don’t need her kind of luck in our lives.”

Mr. Kelly gives his wife a stern look. “Leave it alone. This doesn’t involve you.”

Her hair is in a perfect bun unlike my wild mess. It doesn’t move as she whips her head around to glare at her husband. They’re involved in an intense stare-down as I do a mental inventory of our differences.

All my hair products are at home and my phone is not accessible right now. She looks every bit as poised now as she does when she’s dancing. I used to look up to her because I loveto dance and it was great seeing someone who looks like me on television and billboards, but this feels like the worst case of disappointment from meeting your idol. It’s disheartening that the woman whose poster used to proudly hang on my wall is so cold. I know I saw her and her husband in an intimate moment, but it was an accident.

I keep my thoughts to myself because everyone knows how he feels about his Helena. If he’s going to help me in any capacity, I don’t want to step on his toes.

“I’ll just get started on the dishes,” I offer to cut some of the tension in the room.

“Leave it,” Mr. Kelly finally says. “The maid will get it. You need to put together a list of necessities.”

“Or you can let her clean it and earn her keep,” his wife volleys. I never thought I’d ever want to deck her the way I do now.

“Or you can go back to our house and stop trying to run my business life at my penthouse.”

I back up and into my guest room before I can hear her response. I heard rumors about trouble in paradise, but yikes. Their voices are raised, but I try not to hear what is being said. Bickering makes me uncomfortable, especially when I’m the source. I retreat into the bathroom and turn the music up loud on my phone. I should shower in case she wins this fight. I find some towels and new toiletry items in the closet then jump in while blasting “You Make My Dreams” by Hall and Oates. I need something upbeat to take my mind off the shitshow of my life. My muscles feel looser after my shower, and I take advantage of my hair being wet to try to control it. I have it detangled and up in a bun I made out of several plaits by the time I reenter the attached room wrapped in a towel.

I find a t-shirt and a pair of sweats waiting on the bed. Pulling them on, I wish I’d run with an extra pair of underwear. I’m okaywith putting my bra back on but unclean underwear is a definite no in my book.

Another knock beckons me to open the door. Again, I crack it in case Mrs. Kelly is feeling froggy. Mr. Kelly waves a laptop.

“Meet me in the living room.”

I withhold a groan since he’s trying to help me. The sweats drown me and I ignore how intimate it feels swimming in his clothes. Tugging at the pants, I follow him across the cool floor. The last thing I need is to trip and embarrass myself further. Although, that’ll be small potatoes compared to running in his office and hiding under his desk.

“What in the Single White Female is going on here?”

I turn to look at Mrs. Kelly, although I have no idea what she’s talking about. Mr. Kelly is equally confused as he looks between the both of us.

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