Positively Pricked

by Sabrina Stark

  "For what?" she asked.

  "For ruining the celebration."

  "You're not ruining it," she said. "You're making it more interesting." She leaned forward. "Tell me. Is Paisley still claiming to be a psychic?"

  I had to laugh. "Probably."

  I turned and pulled out two of my best dessert plates, along with a couple of forks and a big knife. I set everything on the table and then went back for two mugs of coffee.

  Finally, I claimed the seat across from my sister and asked, "So what are we celebrating?"

  "Oh, stop it," she said. "You know what. Your promotion."

  "Oh, that? It's not really a promotion." I couldn’t help but sigh. "And it's still just a dead end job. I mean, it's not like I'm using my degree."

  "So? You're still meeting interesting people, right?"

  Instantly, a vision of Zane Bennington popped into my head. Oh yeah. He was definitely interesting, in a giant rich prick sort of way.

  I gave an epic eye-roll. "Sure. And I'm serving them crab cakes. I mean, it's not like we're rubbing elbows or anything."

  "Eh, who cares?" she said. "At least you're not making donuts anymore."

  Well, there was that. In truth, I loved donuts, but getting up at the crack of dawn to make them wasn't my idea of a good time, especially after working a late-night catering gig.

  But forget the donuts. I had cake. And a wonderful sister who'd made a special trip to make a celebration out of nearly nothing. If that wasn't a reason to smile, what was?

  I was just about to cut into the cake when I heard a noise that made me pause. It was a thud. And it had come from somewhere inside the house.

  Paisley?

  Or someone else?

  Chapter 8

  I leaned across the kitchen table and whispered, "Did you hear that?"

  Charlotte's coffee cup was halfway to her lips. She froze in mid-motion. "Hear what?"

  I listened more carefully. Somewhere inside the house, a door creaked. I glanced toward the sound. "Shh! I think it's her."

  Silently, Charlotte returned her cup to the table and whispered, "Paisley?"

  I nodded. It had better be Paisley. If not, I had bigger problems than a deadbeat roommate.

  Charlotte whispered, "And why are we whispering?"

  "Because I'm trying to think of a plan."

  "Screw planning," Charlotte said. "Just march out there, grab her by the hair, and say, 'Pay up, bitch. Or else.'"

  I stared at my sister. In my whole life, I'd never heard her call anyone a bitch. Ignoring that pesky detail, I asked, "Or else what?"

  Charlotte hesitated. "I don't know." She glanced away. "You could always slap her around or something."

  I was still staring. My sister wasn't the violent type either – or at least, not that I knew of. I asked, "Is that a serious suggestion?"

  She gave a small shrug and mumbled, "Well, it's how they do it in the movies."

  I rolled my eyes. "Good to know."

  And yet, Charlotte was correct about one thing. I didn't really need a plan. I just needed the money. And I wouldn't get it by sitting around the kitchen table while Paisley snuck out to who-knows-where.

  As quietly as I could, I pushed back my chair and stood. I looked to my sister and whispered, "Wait here."

  "No way." Already, Charlotte was pushing back her own chair. "I want to see this, especially if it gets slappy."

  "It's not going to get slappy," I told her. "The last thing I need is more drama."

  "But what about backup?" she asked. "You need that, right?"

  I looked at my sister. She was twenty-one years old and barely over five feet tall. And yet, I was pretty sure she could kick Paisley's ass all by herself if it came down to it – not because my sister was a brute, but because I knew Paisley. She'd crumble like a cookie at the first sign of any real threat.

  I whispered, "I'll be fine. Let me handle this. Please?"

  With obvious reluctance, Charlotte sat back down. "Oh, all right," she muttered. "But I'll be listening, just in case."

  Silently, I turned and tiptoed away. A minute later, I found Paisley with her hand on the front doorknob and an oversized tote bag slung over her shoulder. The way it looked, she was on the verge of leaving.

  I felt my gaze narrow. Not so fast, buttercup.

  I called out, "Going someplace?"

  The question had barely left my mouth when it occurred to me that this was the exact same thing that Zane Bennington had said to me last night, when I'd been trying to make my own escape on the street outside his house.

  But this was totally different. Paisley owed me money. I owed Zane Bennington nothing.

  Paisley was still facing the front door. Her long blond hair was in a loose ponytail and was dyed pink on the edges. She was wearing black skinny-jeans and a red flannel shirt several sizes too big.

  Probably, the shirt belonged to the professor. The guy dressed like a lumberjack and screwed like a donkey – or at least, that’s what he sounded like when he climaxed.

  Yes, the walls were that thin.

  And why was I thinking about this?

  In front of me, Paisley still hadn't moved. Either she was planning to bolt, or she was busy thinking up her next excuse.

  I crossed my arms and waited.

  With a loud sigh, Paisley finally turned around. "Actually, yes," she said. "I am going someplace. And I'm in a hurry, so—"

  "Great," I chirped. "If you wanna toss me the money, I'll grab it fast so you can be on your way."

  She put on her confused face. "What money?"

  As if she didn't know. "The rent money."

  She frowned. "But I already told you, I'll get it to you on Wednesday."

  "Uh-huh." I gave her a look. "Because you were supposedly out of town."

  Her mouth tightened. "Are you calling me a liar?"

  "I don't know," I said. "Are you out of town?"

  "Oh, so now you're making fun of me?"

  Was I? Probably, a little. But seriously, she had it coming. "Listen," I said, "I don't want to be a nag, but the rent was due five days ago. And I can't keep paying your share on top of my own."

  "What are you saying? That I'm a deadbeat?" Her voice rose. "I've always paid. You know that."

  "Maybe," I admitted. "But you've never paid on time."

  At this, she had the nerve to look insulted. "I have, too."

  Now, it was my turn to sigh. "Fine. Other than the very first month, you've never paid on time."

  "Oh, so you're keeping track? Is that it?"

  "Of course I’m keeping track. I have to. The lease is in my name."

  "So?"

  "So if it's not paid, I'm the one in trouble."

  "Oh, please," she said. "You are not. You act like someone's gonna drag you off to jail or something." She rolled her eyes. "God, you are so dramatic."

  My mouth fell open. "Me? I'm the dramatic one?"

  "Well, you don't see me giving you a hard time, do you?"

  What the hell? "You don't think it's hard when you don’t pay your share of the rent?"

  "Oh, for fuck's sake." Paisley hurled her tote-bag onto the floor. "I have paid. Every single month. Do we seriously need to go through this? Again?"

  I eyed her bag. It was open at the top, and I spotted a familiar-looking wine bottle nestled among her clothes.

  I felt my gaze narrow. "Is that my wine?"

  She looked down. "What do you mean?"

  I pointed. "That bottle of cabernet. Is that the one I just bought?"

  "How would I know?" she said. "It's not like we go shopping together."

  I considered the empty pantry and equally empty fridge. "It's not like you go shopping at all."

  "I do, too," She pointed down at her legs. "I just bought these jeans." She gave me a thin smile. "Goes to show what you know."

  Well, that was rich. I gave the jeans a good, long look. I wasn't a huge shopper, mostly because I was always broke. But I did know that whatever she spen
t on those jeans could've contributed at least something toward this month's rent.

  Through gritted teeth, I said, "And when did you buy them?"

  "Yesterday." She gave my sweatpants a scornful glance. "I mean, I’m not gonna go around like that."

  Paisley was like a machine with two settings – bitch or crybaby, with very little in between. It was pretty obvious where the dial was set today.

  I told her, "These are my sleeping clothes."

  She gave a derisive snort. "Yeah, and no wonder you're alone."

  Stupid or not, her words stung. It shouldn't have mattered. After all, this was Paisley, the perpetual grad student who was sleeping with her professor. Correction, her married professor.

  Still, I didn’t know what to say. I was still searching for the perfect comeback when I heard a familiar voice behind me call out, "And no wonder you're about to get slapped."

  I whirled around to see my sister glaring at my roommate. I gave Charlotte a pleading look. "I'm not going to slap her."

  "Oh yeah?" Charlotte said. "Well maybe I am." She looked back to Paisley and said, "Now, pay up." She hesitated for a long moment before mumbling, "Or else."

  I tried to look on the bright side. At least she hadn't called Paisley a bitch. Well, not yet, anyway. I looked back to Paisley. Trying to tone everything down, I said, "Look, just give me what you can, okay?"

  Paisley looked from me to my sister. I looked from Paisley to Charlotte. Charlotte looked from me to Paisley. The tension in the room crackled like a firework about to explode.

  It was Charlotte who finally broke the silence. She looked to my roommate and demanded, "And where's the message, Paisley?"

  Paisley said, "What message?"

  "When I called yesterday, you promised to give Jane the message. You even claimed you were writing it down."

  Paisley was glaring again. "I did write it down."

  "Oh yeah?" Charlotte crossed her arms. "Then where is it?"

  As an answer, Paisley turned and stalked toward the kitchen. I followed after her, with Charlotte on my heels. At the kitchen counter, Paisley lifted the phone's charging station and sure enough, underneath it were a couple of scribbled notes.

  Paisley grabbed them and thrust them out in my direction. "There." She turned to Charlotte and said, "You can apologize any time now."

  Charlotte gave a bark of laughter. "In your dreams."

  I spoke up. "But Paisley, I don't get it. Why'd you put them there?"

  Paisley replied, "That's where we always put them."

  "No, we don't." In truth, we didn't put them anywhere. No one ever called for Paisley – well, at least not on the landline. And, as far as I knew, these were first actual messages that Paisley had bothered to write down.

  Paisley said, "I'm not talking about you and me. I'm talking about my parent's house, when I was growing up."

  "And you didn't think to tell me?"

  "I shouldn't have to tell you," Paisley said. "It's common sense. And you know what else?"

  "What?"

  "I'm getting a little tired of being your secretary."

  Next to me, Charlotte muttered, "Good thing, since you suck at it."

  I turned to my sister. "Charlotte, please. You're not helping."

  Across from us, Paisley threw up her arms. "You know what? Screw this shit." She elbowed her way between me and Charlotte and then kept on going, heading toward the front door.

  I didn't try to stop her. Why bother? It was pretty obvious that she wasn't going to pay up, at least not right now.

  I looked to Charlotte. I adored my little sister, and I was fully aware of how lucky I was that she cared enough to stick up for me. But still, I had to say it. "You promised to stay in the kitchen."

  She gave me a shaky smile. "I am in the kitchen." She pointed toward the kitchen counter. "See?"

  I sighed. "You know what I mean."

  "Oh, all right," she muttered. "But she was a total bitch to you." Charlotte's tone softened as she added, "And in a way, this is all my fault."

  I shook my head. "It's not your fault. It's Paisley's."

  Still, I knew what Charlotte meant. Paisley was the sister of Charlotte's ex-boyfriend. This connection was how Paisley and I had become roommates in the first place. It all happened just seven months ago, when I'd found the perfect rental house, this house in fact, a cute little two-bedroom in a decent neighborhood with lots of old, stately trees.

  The house even allowed pets.

  In my dreams, I had time to grill hamburgers in the shaded back yard and walk a cute little fuzzball of a dog to the nearby park. In those dreams, I could also afford plenty of dog food and the occasional vet bill.

  But reality had turned out to be so very different.

  Now, I could barely afford food for myself, much less medical care of the human variety. Good thing I was healthy, or I'd be really screwed.

  And here, my roommate – someone recommended by my own sister – had turned out to be a deadbeat drama queen.

  As if reading my mind, Charlotte said, "She was a lot nicer before. Honest."

  I gave Charlotte a look. "And how many times did you meet her?"

  "I dunno." Charlotte glanced away. "A couple."

  I didn't push the issue. In reality, it was mostly my fault, not Charlotte's.

  To think, I'd actually believed Paisley's assessment of her prior roommate. Supposedly, the former roommate had been, in Paisley's words, a total downer.

  Since I was on the cheerful side, it sounded like Paisley and I would be a perfect fit. Now, I'd become the downer – the one who nagged about the rent and griped about the groceries.

  Still, I tried to look on the bright side. I'd finally gotten my phone messages. That was something, right?

  The crumpled notes were still in my hand. I looked down and scanned the top one. It had only three words. Charlotte. Noon. Tomorrow.

  Charlotte snatched the note and gave it a quick read. "Talk about vague," she said. "It doesn't even say where. I mean, what if I were meeting you for coffee or something? I'd still be there waiting."

  I tried to laugh. "And I'd still home be in my jammies."

  In unison, Charlotte and I looked down to my sweatpants. I couldn’t help but recall Paisley's snide comment. Oh sure, it was easy for her to talk when she spent her rent money on herself, while I spent mine on, go figure, actual rent.

  Pushing that thought aside, I glanced down at the second note. It took me only a split second to read it. And yet, I felt compelled to read it again, and then a third time afterward.

  I was shaking my head. This note was even more concise than the first. In fact, it had only two words. But they packed a wallop.

  You're fired.

  Chapter 9

  Seven hours later, I was standing on Zane Bennington's front doorstep. For the third time, I reached out and slapped at the doorbell. With growing impatience, I listened as the deep, melodious chimes echoed from inside the mansion.

  The doorbell was obnoxiously loud, and yet, I could barely hear it over the happy yips of the two hounds pawing at the nearest front window. They'd nudged aside the curtains and were slobbering all over the glass.

  Good.

  If I was lucky, they'd leave some nice scratches, too.

  When they saw me looking, I swear, they smiled. They weren't huge, but they were definitely hounds – or whatever someone called short-haired, floppy-eared dogs that were completely out of control.

  When I leaned in for a closer look, the darker one gave a particularly happy yip.

  Any other time, I might've smiled. But not today. And not here. Still, a very tiny part of me couldn’t help but feel at least a little guilty, because I'd gotten their hopes up for nothing.

  I called out, "I don't have any freaking meatballs!"

  The dogs stopped yipping for only a split second before starting up again. I told them a second time, but they still looked happy.

  Goobers.

  I tried to look on th
e bright side. Maybe if they got really excited, they'd pee on the curtains. And if I got especially lucky, Zane wouldn't even notice until next week, when the stink really set in.

  That would show him.

  I pulled my attention from the dogs and smacked the doorbell again. Hell, I could do this all night. I mean, it's not like I had a job to go to or anything.

  Jerk.

  In the back of my mind, I realized that the odds of him actually answering his own door were slim to none. But surely someone would answer eventually.

  And whoever that someone was, they'd need to fetch the ass-hat who'd torpedoed my catering job. Or, they'd need to call the police – because I wasn't going anywhere until I saw Mister Fancy Pants in person.

  And then what? Honestly, I wasn't quite sure. But I did know that if nothing else, he deserved a piece of my mind. He wasn't a customer anymore – not to me, anyway – so I could be as rude as I wanted.

  As I continued slapping away at the doorbell, his words from last night echoed in my brain. "Call me when you're fired."

  Oh, I was going to call him all right.

  Already, I had a good selection of names. On impulse, I decided to work my way through the alphabet, starting with asshole.

  I slapped the doorbell again and started making a mental list.

  Bastard.

  Cockwaffle.

  Dick.

  I hesitated. What begins with the letter "e?"

  I tried to think, but nothing came to mind. Damn it. This was no good. If I was already stumbling on "e," what would I do when I reached "x"?

  While pondering this, I kept slapping away at the doorbell.

  Eater of shit?

  No. That was cheating.

  Enema…? I paused. Bag?

  No. That was just stupid.

  Praying that inspiration would strike later, I skipped over "e" and moved on to "f."

  Happily, this was an easy one. Fuck-face. In the spirit of things, I awarded myself bonus points for using the right letter twice.

  By now, I had a pretty good rhythm going. Slap, wait. Slap again. My palm was stinging, and my breath was coming in short, angry bursts. By now, I was so angry that I barely heard the dogs even as they yipped away in the background.

  On some level, I realized that I was about to make a spectacle of myself, but I couldn't bring myself to care.