Page 33 of Am I the Only One

“Then fire her and give me her schedule.”

He leans back in his chair with a resigned expression on his face, and I know the decision has already been made. “I’m sorry, but I have to let you go.”

I see no point in wasting any more time here, so with an audible huff, I push myself out of the chair, grab my belongings from my locker, and slam it shut.

“Emma,” he says when he steps out of his office.

“Just let me be pissed, okay?” I throw the words over my shoulder as I walk out and straight to the parking lot.

As if this week couldn’t get any worse.

I sling my purse and coat onto the passenger’s seat, shut the door, and drop my head into my palms, completely at the end of my rope.

Here I sit, desolate in my private misery. Without a sound, I beg for a sign. For guidance of any kind. I know it’s a pointless effort, but I do it anyway because how many more blows can a person take? I upturn my purse to find my stupid keys, which have undoubtedly sank to the bottom, and a small avalanche of crap spills everywhere. I find them sitting right on top of the small folded piece of paper that Mrs. Montgomery gave me the other day. I pluck it from the mess and unfold it, only to stare at the ink for a moment.

Blinking back tears, I replay everything she told me—everything about her past. Maybe she’s just as desperate as I am right now. I wonder if she’s sitting alone and crying like I am. If she’s pleading with her deceased parents as I am.

Was she really that out of line for coming to me for help? I mean...all she’s asking for is exactly what I do with guys anyway, only I’m not getting paid. It isn’t as if I wear my heart on my sleeve or that I wouldn’t know exactly what I was walking in to. It would just be a fleeting moment with a man I’d never have to see again.

Was I truly offended by what she was asking of me, or was I merely pretending to be offended in a subconscious attempt to pretend I was on some moral high ground because society says I should stand there? The one that says having sex for money is distasteful. What about the sanctity of marriage? Society can excuse her husband’s disregard for his vows as little more than ... expected. Why? It’s unfair for him to be held to a different standard because he’s rich and attractive. Where are the people standing in her corner, willing to have her back when she’s been wronged? She asked me to help her oust her husband, and she’s willing to help me in return.

So, what’s my hang up?

After all, she’s offering me a solution. A way out. Fifty thousand dollars would guarantee Matthew wouldn’t have to leave the home he’s in. It would buy me time to get on my feet and figure out a plan to get back into Georgetown.

Hell, I’d probably do the exact same thing she’s doing if I were in her situation.

Looking down at the phone that’s now in my hand, I wonder if this is a sign. As screwed up as it is, what if this is my only way out?

It isn’t as if she’s asking me to kill someone. It’s sex.

Simple.

Easy.

Not wanting to think about what I’m about to do for fear I’ll talk myself out of it, I plug in her number and type out a quick text.

Me: I’m in. –Emma

Emma

Merrifield, Virginia—that was where Carly suggested we meet when she texted me back yesterday.

Me: Why Merrifield?

Carly: It’s inconspicuous. Can you meet me at 4:00 pm at The Rusted Cup Diner?

Me: Yes.

My head is foggy as I nurse my second cup of coffee. I barely slept last night, and by the circles under Mrs. Montgomery’s eyes, I suspect she didn’t either.

When my empty stomach growls, I take another sip of my coffee, but it’s gone cold.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat? And, please, you don’t have to continue calling me Mrs. Montgomery. I think we’re far past formalities at this point.”

I shake my head. “I’m fine.”

A young waitress, who stinks of stale cigarettes, comes around with the coffee pot and gives me a much-needed refill.

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