Page 242 of The Perfect Wrong
Welcome to my life in present day SoCal.
I’m not sure I’m going to find what I’m looking for out here in the plastic Ken-doll lineup of L.A. hotties, but I know Mr. New Money isn’t it. Not by a Tinder mile.
I’m not sure why I gave him a chance once he ordered his Cab with that shallow, overconfident smirk.
Maybe it was those blue eyes.
Empty as a bottomed-out glass. But they reminded me too much of someone I keep reaching for even though he’s forever out of my grasp.
Mr. New Money would’ve been easy, but I don’t do easy. I need more.
Although I wouldn’t mind Mr. New Money’s sleek Mercedes to come cruising by and rescue me, right now.
Half a block. Just half a freaking block around the corner from Skofé’s Wine Bar to my place, and I still managed to break a heel.
That’s the kind of luck I have.
Kenna Burke, human black cat.
At least it’s not Friday the 13th, or I'd be cursed double.
It’s a choice between walking barefoot on beat up L.A. sidewalks or limping along in one broken heel.
I choose limping – and regret it by the time I make it up the stairs to my apartment. I kick my shoes off with a little extra spite for the broken one, sending it rocketing across the entryway, and step forward. My aching foot comes down on something cool; an envelope. I pick it up and flip it over.
My name's on the front, neatly handwritten. Landlord’s letterhead logo in the upper left corner.
Oh, crap.
Just another thing I don’t want to open tonight.
I need something to fortify. Wasn't that the whole reason I went out, anyway? Not to meet some Cabernet-swigging wannabe Casanova.
I’ve been ignoring an email from my publisher all day. Subject line? “Re: His Royal Nuisance.”
Pinch me. I sent the manuscript in over two months ago. Normally I get a response back within weeks. The silence has been deafening, and I’m afraid the email will be damning.
If I’m going to author-hell, I'll do it on a five dollar bottle of pink Moscato.
Never trust a girl who drinks Barefoot Cellars, either.
She’s usually broke and chases her wine with straight up bad luck.
I drop myself on the barstool in front of the kitchen island, pour a glass, and toss it down. Courage comes in pink fizzy form.
I close my eyes, letting the tingles go to my head until everything feels a little floaty. Sweet distance. That’s what I need. That muting layer of mild intoxication that makes everything feel just a little farther away, and a little less likely to stab me in the heart.
Okay.Now for the envelope.
I slit the top with my fingernail, so not in the mood to care about my manicure. The single sheet of paper spilling out is obviously a form letter. The blue ink swoop of my landlord’s name gives it away. So does what’s supposed to look like a signature, but is obviously a rubber stamp smacked on by a tired secretary. A number in the middle of the top paragraph jumps out at me.
Two thousand dollars.
That’s what they want to charge me for rent, starting in two weeks.
I can barely manage the eighteen hundred I'm paying now for an overpriced shoebox of a one-bedroom walk-up.
“Holy shit,” I mutter to myself, the grim realization setting in. Two thousand will push me from living on ramen to living in the cardboard box the ramen was packed in.
