Page 26 of The Sadist and the Brat

On Sunday, Sadie skipped family dinner at her parents’ house in favor of takeout Chinese and worked up a budget for the home improvements she’d been considering. Most of her regular massage clients preferred that she come to them, but enough wanted to come to her that it made sense to spruce up her single bathroom to give it a more spa-like feel, and to turn her tiny second bedroom into a dedicated treatment room.

Working the numbers—and hauling her desk and file cabinets out of the small bedroom and rearranging the rest of her furniture to make room for it—took up most of the day. The result was a slightly more cluttered than was comfortable living room, but she gained a seat with the addition of the desk chair, and it wasn’t like she needed room for dancing.

Drinking, yes—dancing, no.

On Monday morning she had her two early morning, start-the-work-week-off-right massage clients, then she went to the hardware store to look at paint chips. She narrowed her choices down to two and bought a sample quart of each before heading back out to meet a new client. It was the only other thing on her calendar for the day, but first appointments always ran long. There was paperwork to fill out, and the getting to know you chatter always ate up more time than it should. Sadie didn’t mind—the more information she got about a client’s lifestyle, the better, and sometimes things popped up in casual conversation that they just didn’t think to mention on the assessment form.

After the appointment, she went home and scarfed down a peanut butter and jelly sandwich—she really needed to remember to hit a grocery store or she was going to be down to hot water and bouillon cubes—then started prepping the walls in the newly cleared-out bedroom for paint.

With the walls washed and wiped down, she dug out a brush and painted a swatch of each sample to compare side by side. She was trying to decide which she liked better, the warm, pale gold with shimmery undertones or the light blue-green that reminded her of the ocean when she heard a knock on her door.

Wiping her hands on the too-many-holes-to-wear-in-public yoga pants she kept around for cleaning days, she headed for the front door. Her stomach rumbled, the peanut butter and jelly long gone, and she was contemplating her takeout options when she opened the door.

Olivia, Rebecca and Nikki stood there, Nikki balanced on a pair of crutches and Olivia and Rebecca each holding a paper sack.

“What are you all doing here?” Sadie asked, her nose twitching at the scent wafting from the sacks. “Is that Ph??”

Olivia sent Rebecca a smug look. “I told you.”

“Told her what?” Sadie asked, her attention on the takeout. Her stomach growled so loud it echoed in the hallway.

Rebecca stepped forward, handed the bag she held to Sadie, and headed for the kitchen. “She told me if we brought Ph?you’d let us in.”

“I’d let you in for Hot Pockets,” Sadie called after her. “I haven’t been to the grocery store in two weeks.”

“Where are your bowls?” Rebecca called back from the kitchen.

“Cabinet above the fridge.” Sadie eyed Nikki, swinging forward on her crutches. “Looks like you’re getting the hang of those things.”

“Yeah.” Nikki smiled. “But my armpits hurt.”

“And the ankle?”

“Sore, but better.”

“Good. Go sit.” Sadie shut the door and turned to see Rebecca coming back from the kitchen, her hands full.

“I found wine,” she announced, and set the bottle and a large bowl on the coffee table.

“Did you find glasses, or should we just pass the bottle around?” Olivia wanted to know.

“Keep your pants on,” Rebecca said, and trooped back to the kitchen.

Sadie dropped her bag on the coffee table next to the bowl then crossed the room to grab her desk chair. She wheeled it over in front of Nikki, now sitting on the sofa. “Here, prop your foot up.”

“It’s fine,” Nikki began.

“Don’t argue.” Olivia said, unpacking the takeout. “Or I’m not giving you your salad rolls.”

“That’s just mean,” Nikki complained, but lifted her booted foot onto the chair.

Rebecca came back in with glasses. “Somebody pour the wine. I’m going back for napkins.”

“Get me a spoon too, will you?” Sadie asked, and reached for the open bottle of red. She glanced at Nikki. “Are you still on pain pills?”

“Yes, and don’t worry.” She pulled a bottle of sparkling water from her shoulder bag. “I’m not drinking.”

“What about you?” Sadie asked Olivia.

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