Page 4 of Blackmail
Two
SIMON
Nico: Holy shit. You guys would not believe what happened to this guy I fucked last month.
Am I allowed to say it’s been a long week when it’s only Wednesday? The drama with my fellow whores on group chat isn’t helping.
Adam: Did he get busted for dealing drugs? I heard a lot of those rich kids like to party like they’ve got no consequences
PJ: That’s because they’ve got no consequences. BTW has anyone heard from Christian? He hasn’t replied to my texts in a couple of days
“Give me your money.”
A light flickers in the hallway, stabbing me in the eye. I ignore my fellow whores’ group chat while I deal with my latest catastrophe. Two nurses stare me down—a petite Filipino named Bernadette, and a freckled redhead named Marissa. Marissa towers over me, shoving an envelope in my face.
“Patricia, on the night shift. She had a heart attack,” she says.
“I heard it was gallstones,” Bernadette counters with a raised eyebrow.
Marissa pops her gum. “Whatever. She’s in the hospital. We’re sending flowers.”
Right. Cool. “If that isn’t the most cliché thing to send a sick person. Sucks you’re maybe dying, but here’s some pollen to help you out.”
Marissa rolls her eyes. “She doesn’t have any family, dumbass. We’re letting her know we’re thinking of her. If you were in the hospital, you’d want to know someone was there for you, right?”
The thing is, nobody would be. Aside from the occasional message from my brother, I haven’t seen or heard from my family in years. And I’m not exactly buddies with my coworkers.
To avoid answering the question, I pull out the only money in my wallet; a crisp twenty-dollar bill. My apartment isn’t in the greatest neighborhood, so I try to walk around with a small enough amount of cash that I’m not likely to be some lousy man’s payday, but enough to get out of a pickle if necessary. Or, in this case, get out from under the disapproving stares of two pretty but mighty nurse aides who are not to be fucked with.
As soon as they leave, I return to my previous problem: trying to do something about my destroyed scrubs, while trying not to think about a certain hard-jawed, coffee-scented businessman.
Usually, I enjoy my job at Belle Argo Assisted Living. Today’s been a real challenge. Four hours into my shift, I’ve already had to send one patient to the emergency room, been yelled at by another patient’s adult children, had my foot run over by a tired orderly pushing a meal cart, and now, thanks to an agitated dementia patient, I’ve got grilled cheese sandwich splooge on my favorite scrub top.
It’s got pictures of puppies all over.
The top, not the sandwich.
My phone buzzes again, and I make the mistake of pulling it out.
PJ: Please tell me you didn’t catch something from him.
Nico: From Christian?
Tony: He means the guy you bonked at some party. And doesn’t Christian have a second job with weird hours? Probably just busy.
Nico: Nah, but I saw my hookup’s picture in the Times this morning. Cam something. Funny thing is, he went missing last month. Disappeared the same night we smashed in the butler’s pantry at one of those rich kid parties. Weird, right?
Simon: Doing it in the butler’s pantry is weird. Having a butler’s pantry is funny.
I mean, come on. Who the fuck has a butler anymore? Not even rich people in the movies.
Michael: You’re lucky you didn’t get brought in for questioning. Does Brennan know?
Brennan is our fearless leader. Some would call him a father figure. The fine folks in law enforcement would call him our pimp.
Brennan: Brennan does know. There is nothing to do unless he’s found and he mentions Nico to the police. Nico, if anyone shows up to question you, call me. And if any of you hear anything else about this shit, you fucking call me.
Brennan’s command sends the group chat into silence. We’re all wary of him enough to avoid getting on his bad side. Especially me.
