Page 4 of Landon (In Safe Hands)
“Morethan I should have.” My head thumps in tandem with my heart.
“Youlook like shit. I’m going to Zach’s to swim, okay? I might stay the night.”
“Haveyou eaten?”
“Yes,mother,” he groans good naturedly.
“There’sa ten on the dresser. Take it in case you want to grab a burger later.”
“Thanks.”He hops off the bed.
“Andtake your phone!” I call to his retreating back.
“Gotit.”
I’mtempted to go back to sleep, but it’s nearly noon and I need to do laundrytoday. After a hot shower, a couple of ibuprofen and a ton of ice water, I feelalmost normal. The apartment seems too quiet since the boys left, so I turn onthe T.V. for company while I gather the dirty laundry.
Whew,Ethan’s clothes reek. The boy takes two showers a day and I still have toFebreze his room. Teen boys produce a stench that would put any skunk to shame.After stripping the beds, I drag the three filled laundry baskets to the livingroom. I’d give anything to have a washer and dryer, but our apartment doesn’thave hook-ups. If my car was running, I’d take them to the laundromat, buttoday I’m stuck with the crappy little laundry room provided by management. IfI can snag a washer.
Luckily,all four washers are free. I plunk in a boatload of quarters and set the timeron my phone so I know when to come back. My stomach growls, reminding me Ihaven’t eaten.
Aftera nutritious lunch of gourmet toaster waffles, I set to cleaning the house. Byevening, the laundry is done, the apartment’s clean and I have no idea what todo with myself. Maybe Frannie’s right. I do need a boyfriend, or at the veryleast, a fuck buddy.
Visionsof Landon looming over me, naked and sweaty, invade my thoughts. The feel ofhis lips, how his tongue moved over mine. He may be a rude Neanderthal, butI’ll bet he’s a monster in bed. He just looks the type.
Isettle for a bag of popcorn and a new book on my Kindle. Tomorrow, I have tofind a new job.
I’mup early the next morning to begin the grueling task of job hunting without adiploma. It doesn’t seem to matter to employers that I was homeschooled myentire childhood. As far as they’re concerned, GED equals dropout. Of the threehelp wanted listings I circled, one was only part time, one was cleaning up astrip club—ew—and the last went to an automated voice mail message sayingthey’d be accepting applications after four this afternoon and to call backthen.
Thelatter is for the evenings and nights job, and since there’s an address listed,I decide to apply in person instead of calling back. I don’t want someone tobeat me to it. After throwing on some slacks and a blouse, I grab a cab and I’mon my way.
Iexpect to pull up outside a business, but the cab stops in front of a sprawlinghouse. Not big enough to be called a mansion, but enough to announce to theworld, “I’m rich.” They must be looking for domestic help. The cab drivershakes his head at the tip I give him, grumbling as he drives away, probablyassuming I live here and can afford more. Yeah, right. I’m applying to cleantheir toilets.
Boardscreak under my feet when I climb the steps to the wraparound porch. The placecould use some upkeep. Maybe it’s been empty for a while. “Come in,” a deepvoice calls when I knock. “Close the door behind you.”
Ittakes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimmer environment, and when theydo, I blink, sure I must be hallucinating. “I’m impressed, Ms. Difficult. I’vehad women regret turning me down and want a second chance, but never had oneshow up at my house.”
Fucka duck. Landon smirks at me while I gape at him. How unlucky can I be? When Ifinally find my brain, I turn and head back toward the door. “This was amistake.”
Hishand clamps onto my shoulder. “Wait, Zoe…”
“Icame to apply for the job, not to feed your ego. I didn’t realize you livehere.”
Comprehensiondawns on his face and he asks, “The cleaning position?”
“Yes,only the phone number and address were listed, not your name.”
“Isee. Well, the position is still open. Why don’t you come in and we’ll talkabout it?” He gives me a smile I’m sure usually gets him his way.
“Uh…nothanks. I’m going to go.”
“Thestarting rate is twelve dollars per hour,” he states as I reach for the door.My shoulders slump. I only made eight-fifty at the hotel and I’ll be lucky tomake that anywhere else. Twelve dollars would really help Ethan and me out ofthe hole.
Steelingmyself, I turn to face him. We need to get one thing straight. “I won’t fuckyou or provide any sexual favors. I’m not a whore.”
Hissmile stretches. “Are you willing to clean, organize, wash laundry, and runerrands?”
“Yes.”
