Page 1 of Dirty Damage

1

SUTTON

“Another glamorous morning in paradise,” I mutter, peeling my thighs off the leather seat.

The dashboard thermometer reads 97 degrees as of 7 A.M., because Florida doesn’t believe in mercy.

Up ahead, the neon sign for the Pavlov Industries Daycare Center flickers like a dying star in the muggy morning haze.

My reflection in the glass door makes me wince—I look exactly how I feel after the red-eye from Vegas.

Like a waterlogged raccoon. Like microwaved death.

All I want is my bed and forty-eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. Instead, I get to go to work—which, for me, involves herding twenty bright-eyed, bushy-tailed children from activity to activity all day long.

Joy, oh, joy.

Inside, renovation chaos hits me full force. The employee daycare center is in the middle of a facelift. It’s badly needed,though whoever chose the end of summer to redo the faltering A/C needs a very stern talking-to.

White sheets drape over tiny tables and chairs like discount ghosts. The usual scent of Play-Doh and apple juice is buried under sawdust and fresh paint.

“Morning, sunshine,” my best friend and fellow daycare employee Mara calls from the craft table where she’s setting out supplies. “You look like absolute hell.”

Her dark curls are wilting in the heat. Above us, the AC’s death rattle echoes through the vents.

“Thanks, Mar. You always know just what to say.”

I dump my oversized bag behind the desk and collapse into my chair. The cheap foam cushion exhales defeat.

“What’s the temperature in here, a billion?”

“Close. Maintenance says they’ll fix it next week.” She eyes me carefully. “How was Vegas? How’s Sydney?”

The concern in her voice makes my throat tight. “She’s… Sydney. You know how she is.”

What I don’t say: that my sister is still with Paul, the shady asshole twice her age.

He bought her a diamond tennis bracelet while I was there, and she couldn’t stop touching it, like it was some kind of talisman.

She wouldn’t meet my eyes when I asked if she was happy.

I shudder and blink the memory away. The last thing I need is to relive our fight about my ex, one of Paul’s friends. Sydney thinksI should “hear him out” after he showed up at her place during my visit.

As if two years of manipulation and gaslighting weren’t enough of a hearing.

Mara nods, understanding all the things I’m not saying. That’s what I love about her.

“Well, welcome back to the swamp,” she says, gesturing around the half-demolished room. “Renovations are running behind, shocking absolutely no one.”

“Is there any good news?” I ask hopefully.

“Nope. But there is coffee.” She slides a paper cup across the desk with an apologetic smile.

“You’re an angel.”

I gulp it down, not caring that it scorches my tongue. Between the heat, the renovation noise, and Sydney’s relationship advice, I need all the chemical courage I can get.

“At least someone recognizes it,” Mara agrees sagely.

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