Page 9 of Heartless Boss
“Thanks.”
I didn’t think he heard me, but before he slams my door he says, “Welcome.”
After I inform Kirk of the change, I shoot Izzy an email, updating her on what’s going on in my boring life. She probably won’t reply because she’s somewhere in Africa posing half-naked in front of a camera, chasing her dreams of being a famous model.
I spend the remainder of my workday drowning my sorrows by listening to Halestorm.
* * *
I rented out a hotel room for two weeks; it cost me two legs and a kidney. Now all I have to do is worry about stretching my paycheck until next week, and unless I want to die of starvation, I need to spend my money on food wisely. So I’ll buy noodles, lunch meat, and bread.
After I finish packing the remainder of my clothes in a trash bag, I perch on the flimsy mattress and glue my eyes to the television while wolfing down a mayo sandwich. A knock on the door makes me jump out of my skin, and I drop my sandwich on the wooden floor. The only people who knock at this time of night are crackheads or hookers. Picking up the half-eaten sandwich, I set it on the counter and grab a pair of pink jeans from my trash bag and wiggle into them. The pounding on the door grows loud and angry, like the person is trying to break it down.
“Coming,” I yell.
As I rush to the door, I snatch up the steel bat that’s leaning against the peeling wall. I don’t have a peephole, so I slowly unlock all five deadbolts, swinging the door open. I see Gunner standing in the arch of the frame.
The dim hallway light flickers, outlining his sharp jaw. He’s giving me a wolfish grin, the one that makes me melt. He’s no longer sporting the Armani suit he did at the office but a black cotton shirt and gray basketball shorts.
Gunner’s favorite colors must be black and gray, because those are the only colors he ever wears.
“My day keeps getting worse by the second.” I exhale, resting the bat against the wall. “If you’re looking for a hooker, they live in the building across from this one.” The cool draft from the hallway causes goosebumps to sprout on my arms.
“I’ll have you know I get pussy for free,” Gunner says, shoving the door wide open and strolling in, ducking his head like he owns the place.
He eyeballs my tiny studio apartment, probably thinking this is the poorest place he’s ever been in. He looks like a G.I. Joe in a poor version of Barbie’s dream home. The only thing I own is a raggedy mattress, cheap clothes, and bright-colored heels. My apartment is a studio with a rusty tub and half a kitchen. It can hold only two people; it’s that small.
“Why are you here?” I shift on my feet, planting my hands on my hips.
“Grab your stuff, I found you somewhere to stay,” he says, placing his left foot over his right with his hands shoved in his pockets.
“Wait. What?” My mouth hangs open. “No. Shut the door on your way out.”
He wants something in return. People don’t help others unless it’s going to benefit them. I learned that the hard way.
“Now.” He jerks his chin in the direction of the door.
“I already have a place to stay.” I twirl my hair around my finger. If I had enough money to go to a hairstylist, I’d get my ends clipped. I really need a trim.
“You’d rather live in a hotel than let me help you?” He tilts his head to the side, not giving me time to respond. “Swallow your little pride and take the offer.”
I don’t like being a burden on people, and I don’t want to be in debt to him. My ex made me feel like I was a burden when we were living together, and I will not repeat that again.
“Wait a sec. How’d you know about my situation?” I cock a suspicious eyebrow.
“I hacked into your email. I wanted to make sure you weren’t in real trouble.” He removes his hands from his pockets and twirls his thumbs together.
How noble,I want to say, but I bite back the sarcastic remark.
“What’s in it for you?” I ask. “We hate each other.”
“Two things are wrong with your statement.” He puts up his index finger in the air. “One, I don’t hate you, and two”—he puts up his middle finger—“I don’t do shit for people and expect something in return.”
“Why are you helping me?” I whisper.
“Believe it or not, we’re not that different.”
I snort at his answer. We’re not even remotely on the same level.
