JENNIE
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Never in a million years did I think I'd be running down a sidewalk, bag of steaming dog shit in my hand with one pissed off owner and one really fast Golden Retriever on my heels.
People in Chicago take shit way too seriously.
What kind of person decided it was a good idea for everyone to make a habit out of picking up a hot dog turd? The park here even provides these little complimentary bags in a dispenser that has a picture of a dog holding a plastic bag in his mouth filled with his own shit.
In my small hometown of Mt. Olive, Mississippi, nobody cares where your dog craps. If you happen to step in some, you just scrape your foot on the grass until you get most of it off. If you walk in a store and see people sniffing the air, saying, "I smell dog shit" it's a natural reaction for everyone to check their shoes. Then it's a courtesy for the victim to say, "It's me." And everyone else nods in acknowledgment and points to the nearest grassy spot around.
Right now, home feels like a million miles away.
I dodge a parking meter and nearly mow down a woman with a stroller. "Sorry!" I hold my hands up and jog backwards as I continue to apologize to the woman. She glares back at me as she squats down by the stroller and unzips the screen to check on her baby. I feel ten kinds of terrible. Until the little Chihuahua cranes it's tiny, scarf swaddled neck toward me.
For fuck's sake…
Stupid Chicago.
Stupid dog.
Stupid shit.
Stupid Jeong Jaehyun.
It's been years since I acted a fool in Target and had to take an anger management course. But I can still hear the voice of my coach in my head every time I get pissed.
"Now Jennie, it's not anyone's fault but your own that you're in this situation. Let's reflect on your actions that got you here."
Yeah. Let's do that.
Jeong Jaehyun stole my best friend's heart while she attended a summer internship program here in Chicago. Six months later he crushed it when she caught him with his dick in another woman's asshole. She moved back to Mississippi. In with me. And I've had to hear her cry and sniffle and sob and watch her drink all of my damn wine for the past two weeks.
So when she told me Jaehyun had a dog shit phobia, I knew what I had to do. I had to max out my credit card. Fly to Chicago on the eve of the biggest damn blizzard the state of Illinois has ever seen. Put some dog shit in a bag, set it on fire on Jaehyun's porch and video him stomping it out.
I upload the video. It goes viral. I ruin Jaehyun's life. Make my best friend, Chaeng, smile. We go to a bar. She retells the story to a guy who's hotter than Jaehyun. They bang in the parking lot. Chaeng gets over her broken heart. And then she moves the fuck out of my apartment.
Simple, right?
Wrong.
Why?
Because it's a struggle to find dog shit in Chicago, Illinois.
When I closed in on the huge pile of crap, my arm rolling six complimentary plastic bags deep, the owner asked me what I was doing. So I told him.
"Look man, I just really need this dog shit, okay?" I didn't think he would chase me through the city, yet here we are. And there's no damn way any of that is my fault.
Stupid anger management.
The dog's bark becomes louder. I chance a look over my shoulder and they're close. Too close. I take a quick left at the corner onto an even busier street lined with cars. The direction of the wind hits me head on and I'm blasted with arctic gusts of air so damn cold I swear I can feel pneumonia in my lungs.
Out of breath, cold, legs burning, chest hurting, I make a bad decision. I yank open the back door of a black limo and dive onto the back seat. No sooner than the door closes behind me, the owner and dog pass the car. I breathe out a sigh of relief.
That lasts all of two seconds.
I'm in someone's car.
It's all rich black leather and soft seats. Clean carpet and blacked out windows. Fancy decanter filled with amber liquid. Tinted partition. Is the driver on the other side? Of course he is.
"Miss Sims?" The voice booms through the speakers and I freeze. "Ms. Manoban asks that I drive you back to her apartment once you've finished shopping. Would you like to go there now?"
Manoban? Ms. Manoban?
My eyes move to the intercom. To the door. Back. "Yes, please."
Why did I say that? In that accent? I am not British. Or Australian. And I'm not sure which of the two I replied with. I always get them confused…
"Very well, Miss. We'll be there soon."
The car pulls into traffic and I have a three-second freak out.
What have I done?
I'm so stupid.
This car is so warm.
I could use a drink.
Fuck it.
The bag of dog shit hits the floor and I squat-wobble to the bench seat across from me. The decanter is heavy and hard to manage. I wrangle it between my legs and pull hard on the cork. When the suction gives way, my hand flies back and smacks me in the face.
"Son of a bitch!" I clear my throat. "Son of a bitch!" I repeat, in accent.
The whiskey is so strong it singes my nose hairs when I take a big sniff. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing but I pour a glass anyway. Or a finger. Whatever they call it. I contemplate adding ice, unsure of how this is supposed to be served.
I wish they had beer.
This gasoline they call liquor burns all the way to my toes. But it has a nice, smoky flavor that lingers on my tongue. Anxious for the next sip, I finish off the glass and by the time it's empty, I feel warm all over. And a little more confident in the bad decisions that placed me here.
I mean, what's the worst that can happen? I rode in a car. There's no law against catching a ride to escape the blistering cold. If I get caught, I'll just frown and tell them I'm poor.
That's not a lie.
I am poor.
Which is another reason I made this trip—though I'll never admit that to Chaeng.
In addition to my seek-and-destroy plan, I'm hoping to find my perfect muse so I can finally write that sexy, cliché romance I've been attempting for months. The kind of romance with the hero who I refer to as That Girl. The GP girl.
You know, the super-rich, powerful CEO who is beyond sexy. Lives in a penthouse. Is wicked in bed. Has a driver. A big cock. Is kind of an asshole, but really she's not because she harbors some major secret that you find out at sixty-five percent, which explains all her past demons that reveal why she is the way she is—therefore completely redeeming herself and making all the readers who hated to love her swoon.
The car stops.
"Miss Sims?" It's the intercom voice again. "Would you like me to walk you up?"
"N-no. That won't be necessary."
Why do I keep using that accent?
"If you don't feel comfortable with the concierge—"
"The concierge is fine. Thank you."
On cue, the door opens and a gloved hand reaches inside. I take the offered hand, grab my bag of shit and exit the car.
The sudden blast of strong winds causes my eyes to water. My fingers squeeze and I cast a side glance to the man next to me. He offers me a polite smile and a nod. I look up, up, up at the massive building, then back at him.
"What kind of apartment has a concierge?" My voice carries away in the wind as he pulls me into the lobby. I stop just inside the door and stare. The snow and ice on my ruined Uggs melts into the dark rug as I take in everything. Mouth hung open like an idiot, I scan the entry and all its opulence.
Soft, cream-colored furniture arranged in a semi-circle faces a gray stone fireplace that stretches all the way to the top of the high ceilings. The orange and red flames inside the hearth dance and sway to the faint sounds of classical music that plays throughout the room. I want to stick my hands and frozen ass to the fire, then sprawl out like a cat on the thick rug in front of it.
"This way, Miss Sims."
I follow the man through the room. My boots squeak against the marble floors and leave a trail of dirty water in their wake. I twist my head up and around. Everything is gold and glass. Accented with hints of yellows and grays. From vases to hanging lights, sculptures and paintings, the place radiates a magnificence far fancier than anything this small-town girl has ever seen.
"If you need anything at all, don't hesitate to ring me." Alfred—I shit you not that's what his name tag reads—comes to a stop in front of a massive elevator door. The solid, flat black color is a stark contrast to the other four elevator doors that are mirrored glass tinted in gold. As he slides a card through the little back box next to the door with a big "P" over it, I chance a look into one of the mirrors.
My curly brown hair sticks out all over my head like broken twigs and falls over my shoulders to the middle of my back. My "all weather" jacket that's appropriate in Mississippi is nothing more than a raincoat in Chicago. And my once fashionable skinny jeans, are now soggy and sag heavily on my hips. Stretched out from being worn so long, one might think a covey of quails just flew out of the ass of my pants.
The elevator door glides open and Alfred gestures with his hand for me to enter. I snap back to reality.
"Alfred…" I reach out and grab his arm.
The corners of his mouth dip to a frown and his eyes widen.
"I have a confession to make."
He pats my hand and his anxiety disappears, replaced with a warm smile. "Say no more. I already know."
"You do?"
"Of course. And don't worry…Miss Sims." He leans in and drops his voice to a whisper. "Your secret is safe with me." He straightens and winks at me. "Ms. Manoban won't be back until noon tomorrow. You'll have the place to yourself. Enjoy it."
Is it possible that this man knows I'm not Miss Sims?
Does he often let strangers invade this woman's home without question?
What kind of person is this Alfred?
I step inside the elevator. The doors close and I skyrocket to the top of the building so fast, I have to reach out and hold onto the railing for support.
I hate elevators. There's something terrifying about being in an enclosed space, dangling above the ground in a heavy metal box suspended in the air by nothing but wires and pulleys and…what if the power goes out?
My nose finds the wall. I close my eyes and hold on tight, humming my favorite song to keep from passing out. Finally, there's the telltale ding and the doors are opened. I step out into a small hall with a table decorated with the biggest damn vase of flowers I've ever seen. A solid wood door with a sleek, golden handle stands beyond the table.
Without the pressure of a driver or a concierge or a man and his dog, I have the time to stop and think about this shit.
If I open that door, I could go to jail. And though I know jail is a possibility in the event Jeong Jaehyun catches me on his property, trespassing won't be near as serious of an offense as breaking and entering.
I call Chaeng.
"Yeah?"
Damn. She sounds awful.
"Hey Chaeng. How you holding up?"
She sniffs a couple times and I hear what might be a laptop closing. "Jaehyun just posted a picture of him and his new slut on Facebook."
"Yeah? Well, she's ugly."
"No she's not."
"Want me to punch her in the face? Make her ugly?"
Chaeng sighs then blows her nose. "No. They're on a date. Looks like our prank isn't going to work. They'll probably be out all night." Her voice cracks on the last word.
"I can still do it tomorrow." The hopeful hint in my tone does nothing to ease her. She wants me to abort. To come home so we can drink wine and eat chocolate. But I can't leave. My curiosity demands I find out what's on the other side of the door. Research demands it. The good Lord does too.
My eyes zone in on the golden handle of the door. It shimmers like an angel's halo.
Things like this don't happen without help from a man like God. Maybe this is His plan for me. Maybe that dog was in that park for a reason. Maybe the owner was an angel who chased me to the very place I needed to be. That car? It wasn't waiting for Miss Sims. It was waiting for me. Alfred? He may be an angel too. What if Ms. Manoban is my That Girl?
Now, I understand.
I've been divinely favored.
I'd explain this to Chaeng, but she just wouldn't get it. She'd tell me I needed to stop allowing my imagination to take over. Why did I even call her? She's way too emotional to be of any help.
My mind is made up.
"I gotta go, Chaeng. I'm at my room."
"You have a room? When did you do that? Why? How?"
I roll my eyes at her questions.
Chaeng likes to stick to a plan. She's one of those people who keep a calendar. She never strays from it. If Jesus shows up on the same Thursday as her dentist appointment, I have no doubt she'll tell him he has to wait. "Sorry, Jesus. You're not on the calendar."
I don't own a calendar. My plans change depending on the conditions. I'm supposed to wait out my flight in a crowded airport. Fate has decided that I stay in a luxurious apartment instead. The circumstances have been altered in my favor and I refuse to ignore them and deny myself this opportunity.
"Jennie…"
"What?"
"You can't afford a room."
"Sure I can."
"How?"
"I called and got a credit increase on my card." A lie. But the truth will bring questions I don't want to answer. Which will turn into more lies.
"But…how?"
"Don't question the unexplainable, Chaeng. Just go with it, okay? I have to check-in now. I'll call you tomorrow. Fuck Jeong Jaehyun."
There's a pause before she releases a breath. "Fuck Jeong Jaehyun."
I end the call.
Put my hand on the door.
Offer up a quick prayer of thank you, an apology for all the bad things I've done and a promise to not curse as much in the future to show my appreciation for what I'm about to receive.
Then I turn the handle and walk inside…
"Holy-motherfucking-shit."
I'd like to go on record and say that I lied.
But really…what did God expect?
I'm standing inside the minds of millions of readers. This place is the penthouse of every rich hero in every romance novel. Open floor plan. Floor to ceiling windows overlooking downtown Chicago. Hardwood floors. Spiraling staircase with glass rails. Artsy shit hanging from the ceiling that I'm pretty sure is just a fire hose that's been sprayed with gold paint.
I toss my jacket to the floor and kick off my boots and pants. Wearing nothing but a sweater, I pad further into the room. My hand slides along the back of the white, leather couch, dips to touch the mahogany table beside it. Then flattens against the curved glass that stretches the length and width of the entire wall. It's warm to touch. Not cold, as I thought it would be.
The view.
OMG the view.
Lights twinkle and blaze against the backdrop of a clear, black sky. Buildings staggered in height and lit in an array of colors loom high over the streets dotted with the smaller lights of moving cars. It's almost overwhelming. The idea of waking up to this in the morning—watching as the sun rises behind the buildings...
This is so worth going to jail for.
If the rest of this place is as miraculous as the view, I might have to stay until Ms. Manoban gets home. Then I'll make her fall in love with me. Shouldn't take long. I'm a good catch.
I toss my bag of shit on the bar and open the massive, stainless steel refrigerator. It's stocked with the type of groceries that can only come from one of those fancy whole food stores.
Both doors opened wide, I snap a picture. I close them and get a few more pictures of the kitchen and all its state of the art appliance glory. Then I take a picture of the view. The living room. Long, glass dining table.
"Yeah, baby." I drop to one knee for a different angle. "That's the one. Smile for the camera."
To the right of the kitchen, there's a small bathroom that really could be a little more elaborate, but it's nice enough. Another door off the living room leads to an office. I recognize the aroma of spice and the hint of eucalyptus. Ms. Manoban smokes cigars.
Visions of my That Girl sitting behind her desk wearing nothing but a cigar and a smile causes desire to pulse through me. I want to dry hump her chair and rub my vagina on the walls to mark my territory.
Chill, pervert.
My eyes drift to the tall shelves lined with endless books that stand on either side of the door. A massive, wooden desk sits across on the other side of the room facing the entrance. I take a seat in the thick, leather chair. I spin until I'm dizzy, then check all the drawers. They're locked.
No computer. No stationary. No personalized pens. I lift the big, gray rock on the corner of the desk that I guess is a paper weight. I touch the lamp and it lights up. I touch it again and it brightens. Six touches later, it starts to dim. Then I have to touch it eight more times just to turn the damn thing off. The only other item on the desk is a sleek, black phone with no cords that must be from the future.
I take a picture.
Upstairs, there's a guest room with more of the same fancy décor shit. I roll across the bed that's probably never been slept in—messing up the pillows as I do. My elbow bangs on the light gray nightstand that matches the other furniture in the room. It hurts like a bitch.
I trail my finger across the soft, white curtains on the wall opposite the bed. Behind them is another view of downtown. It's a different part of the city but is still just as pretty as the view from the living room.
Back in the hall, I pass a door bigger than the rest with a small keypad next to it. I squeal when I try the handle and find it locked.
OMG…
It's a sex room.
I just know it.
Filled with all sorts of torture devices and spanking benches. Walls the color of red. Shackles and crosses and nipple clamps, oh my!
I skip to the last door and nearly piss myself. It's the master bedroom. Or suite. Whatever. It's the epitome of a CEO's bedroom. King sized bed. Navy, silver and wood accents. Another view. An oversized chair and ottoman where That Girl sits and reads the paper. Puts her shoes on. Or cradles a sub after she spanks the shit out of her.
There's a walk-in closet lined with CEO suits. I sniff them. Drawers of ties and watches and folded socks and white button downs and boxer briefs. I touch them all. Shoes that I can see my reflection in. I smudge them with my fingers.
"Ray Donavan, meet Christian Gray."
I take a selfie with all the cool shit in the background. I'll put it on Instagram later.
#guesswhereIam
Nothing can compare to the master bath. Of course there's a shower that will easily accommodate twenty people. A massive Jacuzzi tub. A towel warmer. Double vanity. Linen closet big enough to sleep in. But no one ever talks about the toilet.
Ever.
And this toilet?
It's a toilet fit for a king.
Not only does it sit at just the perfect height, but it's in a small nook all to itself with a door for privacy. There's a magazine rack. An iPad. The fanciest damn toilet paper holder I've ever seen. And if you close the door, there's a T.V. behind it.
A T.V.
A damn T.V.
In the bathroom.
The damn bathroom.
I spend the next two hours of my life in the bathroom. First, on the awesome toilet that comes equipped with a censored courtesy flush. Then in the shower. Then a long, hot soak in the Jacuzzi.
Every once in a while, my nerves get the better of me and reality infiltrates my mind with stupid questions.
What if the real Miss Sims shows up?
What if Ms. Manoban comes home early?
With each worrisome thought I find something new to distract me. Like the button on the side of the tub that illuminates a touch screen which allows me to control the temperature of the water, the lighting, the music and the pulse of the jets.
I let the sweet, instrumental music take me away and the jets lull me nearly to sleep until I'm like a raisin. Then I get out. Put on a little Maroon 5. Grab a towel from the warming rack. Almost die from a heat stroke. Lie down on the floor in the hallway to cool off because the tile in the bathroom is heated. And then I saunter naked into the closet and pick out one of the white, button down shirts that is a million percent cotton and feels like clouds on my skin.
"Sugar" plays—my jam.
I jump on the bed like it's a trampoline. Fall flat on my back and look up. I wonder if this is what Miss Sims would do. She obviously doesn't live here. Or if she does, she doesn't dress here. Unless her room is the locked room. What if she comes home?
Don't think like that.
She will not come home.
This is God's plan.
He will not let her come home.
But what if Ms. Manoban isn't the Ms. Manoban whose babies I want to have? She might be ninety. Batshit crazy. And smell like mothballs—which I highly doubt considering her clothes smell like the richest, most wonderful scent of clean with just a hint of the kind of cologne you can't even get at Macy's.
She's not old.
She can't be.
Remember….
This is God's plan.
I trust God. Really, I do. But I search the apartment for a picture of Ms. Manoban anyway. Just to be sure. After digging through every drawer and looking in every room, minus the locked one, I come up empty handed.
In the office, I use the phone and hit the button labeled, concierge, and Alfred picks up on the second ring.
"How can I help you, Miss Sims?"
"Y'all got a restaurant here that's open?"
"No, Miss. We don't have a restaurant on site. But I can certainly refer you to one in the area."
"Well, I don't really feel like going out. And it seems the only restaurants in this part of town are really expensive…" What kind of apartment has a concierge but not a restaurant?
I flip my hair over my shoulder. This place is so cheap.
"No worries there, Miss Sims. I can assure you there's not a place in the city that I can't order from. Whatever you want is available."
Wow. Ms. Manoban has the hook-up. Which means as her guest, I do too.
"Might I suggest Alinea? They have the finest salmon and terrine Chicago has to offer."
What the fuck is terrine?
"Um…well I had that at lunch. You know any good pizza places?"
"Of course, Miss Sims." I can hear his smile. "Tell me what type of pizza you prefer and I'll give you my opinion of the best."
"Yeah, I just like pepperoni with lots of cheese. And lots of pepperoni. And Dr. Pepper."
"Very well, Miss. I'll put the order in right away and will ring you before I come up."
I hang up with Alfred, take a spin in the chair, stumble into the living room and curl up on the couch with the big fluffy blanket that's draped across the ottoman. A scary movie seems fitting. But I can't figure out how to turn this damn T.V. on. I'm still struggling with it when Alfred arrives with my pizza.
He turns on the T.V., shows me how to dim the lights and even offers to get me a glass from the kitchen for my drink. Then he leaves with his signature instruction for me to call him if I need anything.
That damn Alfred…such a nice guy.
If I ever decide to write one of those age-play stories with the hot, older man who plays "Daddy" to the chick in her twenties, I'll use him for my muse.
It only takes me an hour to figure out it is not a good idea to watch a scary movie in a place that has floor to ceiling windows with no blinds or curtains.
Every few minutes, I look over my shoulder and have a mini freak out thinking the creepy bitch from the movie is staring back at me. Then I realize it's only my reflection—not some grotesque woman who could use a shower and some leave in conditioner.
I settle back into the couch that looks like something from the Star Trek Enterprise but is actually quite comfy. I throw my leg over the back of it and pull the blanket up to my chin—ready to cover my eyes the next time something or someone in the movie jumps out of a dark hallway.
I'm fully prepared to have the shit scared out of me. But I'm not at all prepared for the voice I hear on the other side of the door, or the soft click of the lock as it opens.
You know that moment when terror seizes you? When your stomach drops and your heart stops and you hear a faint whistling deep in your ear because you're straining so hard to figure out just what the noise that has you so terrorized actually is?
That's where I am.
"What the…"
I can't be any more afraid than I am in this moment. Perhaps because of that, my brain takes on survival mode and focuses on something other than my fear—like the deep tenor of the booming voice radiating around me. Then a light comes on, temporarily blinding me, and after I blink through the shock, my brain begins to process the person that voice belongs to.
And holy mother of fuck.
It's her.
That Girl.
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