But then I thought of my new apartment—of the next rent payment, due in just two weeks. If I lost my job right now, I wouldn’t be able to pay it. And I couldn’t imagine Nicole keeping me on if I blabbed about her affair.

I continued upstairs and went inside Chanel’s room where I hid, like the chicken I was, until it was time for me to go home.

22. Have Morals, Will Sell

I stood in the doorway of the west guest room in shock. The bedroom furniture gone, there was a couch, doggie bed, and basket of toys to the left. To the right, against the window, a large desk, fresh roses, and a new MacBook. It was an office.

“This is for me?” I asked, confused. I had walked into the Brantley house a bundle of nerves over Nicole’s cheating and the broken crystal. I’d been terrified to see Nicole and worried over how she’d act. I certainly didn’t expect an enthusiastic welcome, her arm looping in mine and tugging me up the stairs. I half expected, when she dragged me toward the bedroom, that it would hold shackles and an ultimatum. Not this.

“Well.” Nicole clasped her hands together and turned slightly, surveying the room. “You certainly deserve a work space.” Then she beamed at me, this horrible fake smile with stretched cheeks, thin lips, and gleaming teeth. For a smile, it held no friendship, no kindness, no goodwill.

I said nothing, walking over to the desk, my hand drifting over the items.

“Plus,” she continued, “Filming will start soon on that new movie … the uh … you know…”

“Boston Love Letters.”

“Yes!” She snapped her fingers. I thought of her kiss with the stranger and looked away, focusing on the stapler. It was hot pink with sparkles, appropriate for a preteen girl. How could she forget the name of the movie? She wasn’t Angelina Jolie, juggling six projects at a time. It was the only thing on her plate. Then again, I couldn’t remember my middle name when I’d stared at the two of them. Maybe being in his presence killed brain cells.

“Also…” she started slowly, “I’ll need you more. On set, you know. The hours are long. Sometimes ten-hour days and I’ll need you to run errands, get me food, that sort of thing.”

I nodded and braced myself for whatever bullshit was about to come.

“Would thirteen hundred dollars work?”

I looked up from the stapler. “What?”

“A raise. Thirteen hundred a week. Would that work?”

She called it a raise, but I understood what it was. A bribe. I’d keep her secret and get paid. And she—she’d keep her affair.

The path to take was clear; I should gather up my dignity and leave. Ride the subway home and feel all self-righteous while doing it. Only … I needed this job. Needed the raise. An extra twelve hundred bucks a month? I’d be able to pay my new rent without holding my breath that the check cleared. I could take taxis and order more than soup when I went out with my friends. I could breathe a little more and stress a little less.

I could sell my morals.

Two months ago, I would have grabbed that raise with a squeal of pleasure and hit Nordstrom on my way home. Now, I hesitated. I did.

Her eyes were arrogant; they watched me as if she already knew my answer, her confidence in my ability to be bought depressing. I wanted to refuse, to hold my head up and march right out of there. Instead, I nodded. “Okay.”

It took a full month, but I finally unpacked the last of my boxes. Finally, no more digging through suitcases and boxes looking for a flat iron. No more wearing the same heels three days in a row because all the other options were “in a box somewhere.”

I plopped down on my couch, picking up my phone. A celebration felt due, and since neither of my friends had surprised me with a housewarming party, I’d throw my own.

Twenty minutes later, after listening to Benta bitch about her boss, and Cammie swear on Jesus that she missed my face, we had a plan in motion. A plan that gave me about an hour to change out of my sweats, grab food from the Italian place three blocks over, and be back in full hostess mode. I called in the order and hopped in the shower.

I adjusted the shower’s spray and thought about the super. I hadn’t seen him since he’d fixed the showerhead, though it wasn’t for lack of looking. I should have taken Nicole’s wrath and been late that day. I could have leaned against the bathroom door and watched him work, his hands lifted above his head … dangerous thoughts to think about while naked, in said shower, with a convenient handheld showerhead right there. But I avoided temptation, jumping out with only a slight edge of sexual frustration (it’d been a year!) and yanking on skinny jeans, a Free People tank and cardigan, and some flats. I grabbed my keys and headed out the door.

I might have taken too long in the shower. Or we could blame my delay on the restaurant, who didn’t have my order ready, then had issues with their credit card machine, then took their dear sweet time packing everything up for me to carry out.

But whatever the reason, I jogged up the building’s steps at 10:17, seventeen minutes late in a city that was never on time. Tell that to Benta and Cammie, whose voices I heard the minute I got off the elevator. Loud voices, Benta’s even louder than normal, Cammie’s chiming in with equal vigor. Were they … fighting? My steps quickened down the hall, nearing the bend where I’d actually be able to see them. Fighting between the three of us was rare, especially when unprovoked. I winced at the slur in Benta’s voice. Drunk Benta could be hostile. I rounded the corner, a shhh already hissing from my lips when I stopped dead, the food bag swinging wildly from the abrupt stop, my eyes fixed on the two girls who were camped out in my hall, legs sprawled on the hardwood, a wine bottle on the floor between them, a second one open between Cammie’s thighs, their hands aggressively waving, scowling up at the man who stood over them.

Standing between my two best friends, his hands on his hips, a T-shirt stretched tight across his chest, worn jeans snug on his hips, was the super. Who, if you missed my earlier swoonfest, was gorgeous. But right then, in the middle of my hall, with both girls screaming, he looked pissed. And pissed was an even hotter look on his face. If I were his girlfriend, I’d make it my mission in life to piss him off every day of the week.

Apparently, the best way to do that was to get drunk in the hallway of his building.

“Hey.” I stepped closer and was completely ignored, no one’s head turning my way. “Hey!” I whisper-yelled the word, setting the food down and righting the tipped bottle. Then I stepped into the fight, waving my hands in the air. “Shut up!” I hissed.

That worked. The girls stopped, Cammie blinking up at me as if wondering who I was and what I was doing there. I looked at her warily and wondered how much of the bottle between her legs she’d had.

“You’re late,” accused Benta, pushing off the wall and dragging herself to her feet. “And this asshole is trying to kick us out.” She glared at him. “You know my dad could buy this whole building.”

“I’m impressed,” he scoffed, and I wanted to smack her myself.

“I’m sorry, the restaurant was backed up.” I dug in my pocket and pulled out my keys.

“I don’t need drunk girls waking everyone up. I thought this was explained to you during the interview process.”

“Waking everyone up?” Cammie yelled and I winced, her voice five decibels higher than necessary. “It’s ten o’clock.”