Page 31 of The Tenant
Kenny is still looking at me, an unreadable expression on his face. It’s making me very uncomfortable. I shift my weight and try not to scratch absently at my arm. Why is he quizzing me about how many sandwiches or cups of coffee I got? I’m not a waiter.
“Is there a problem?” I finally ask.
He looks at me for a moment, then finally nods his head. “Yeah, actually. I was so impressed by the insights you showed at the meeting yesterday, and I remembered seeing Coble & Roy on your CV. So I made a few calls…”
Shit. I know where this is going. So much for landing a permanent position here.
“I can’t believe you ripped off your own company.” Kenny shakes his head. “No wonder you’re still working as a temp at your age.”
“I didn’t rip off my company,” I say tightly. “It was a misunderstanding.”
“That’s not what Wayne Vincent said. I’ll bet you made a pretty penny doing that.”
I flinch. My chest is itching like crazy, but I can’t scratch it. Not now. “What happened to innocent until proven guilty?”
“That’s in a court, Porter.” Kenny takes the lid off his coffee and takes a sip. “This tastes terrible. You got the oat milk mocha for me?”
“I didn’t brew it myself.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass.” He slides the coffee back across the desk. “Bring this back to Starbucks, and exchange it for another one.”
I don’t want to spend another half an hour at Starbucks to indulge a twenty-something middle manager’s power trip. But I can’t quit this job. I don’t know the consequences of quitting a temp position, but I’m not sure if they’ll place me again. Or if they do, it might be scooping french fries at a fast-food joint.
“I’ve got my eye on you, Porter.” He narrows his gaze at me. “You try to steal anything frommycompany, you’re not going to work in this town ever again. Even for a temp agency.”
I don’t know if this guy has the power to make a threat like that, but the truth is I don’t want to find out. So I grab his coffee and head back outside. But not before I run to the restroom and scratch my chest for five straight minutes. I scratch until I bleed.
19
I don’t knowwhat is going on with my clothes.
I’m afraid to wash anything anymore. I sterilize the washing machine the best I can before using it, and I don’t add anything besides a capful of my hypoallergenic detergent, and still, I’m having a terrible allergic reaction to everything that comes out of it. I’m losing my ever-loving mind.
“What are you cleaning the washing machine with?” Krista asks me as we discuss it while getting ready for bed. It’s sadly become one of my favorite topics of conversation. She must be bored out of her skull, but I can’t help myself.
“A hypoallergenic cleaning spray made with all natural ingredients,” I say, feeling about as manly as an eight-year-old girl. “I don’t understand it, because cleaning the machine seemed to work for a while, but now it’s just as bad as it ever was.”
“Do you want me to bring your clothes to the dry cleaner?” she asks. “I can clean them for you there.”
“I don’t want you to get in trouble.” God knows we don’t need Krista losing her job on top of everything else. “Maybe I’ll try taking it to the laundromat.”
It makes me furious that I have to take my clothes to the laundromat when I have a perfectly good washer and dryer right in the house. I even got the most expensive stackable model they had. And now I can’t use it.
“I don’t mind,” Krista tells me. “Nobody will even know. Really, just let me wash your clothes for you. I can’t stand to see you suffer like this.”
I start to protest again, but Krista is already picking up my laundry basket. She retrieves a mesh laundry bag from the closet and starts throwing my clothes inside.
“Krista, it’s really okay,” I say. “You don’t have to do this.”
She doesn’t answer. She’s holding up one of my dress shirts, a strange expression on her face.
“Krista?”
“Blake,” she says, “what’s this on your collar?”
I have no idea what she’s talking about. I come around the side of the bed so I can get a better look at whatever’s bothering her so much. I still don’t quite know what she’s so upset about, but then I see it: a bright red stain on the collar of my white shirt.
She rubs her finger against the red smudge, and some of the color comes away. “It’s lipstick,” she says sharply.
