by Piper Lennox
My footsteps stab all the way upstairs. The elevator felt far too passive. I wish I could make the earth itself shake—rattle his floors and knock every photo off his walls, all those stupid bottle caps on his dresser dancing like rain.
I settle for slamming his apartment door shut and throwing the suit across his couch, instead.
“Nice, Durham. Really mature of you.”
He looks up like I slapped him on the back of the head. Maybe I should have. “What?”
“Making me pick up your suit? Are you kidding?” I grab the hanger again and toss the entire thing into his lap. Too bad it’s not a concrete block, instead of Italian wool. And silk, if you count the double-stitched button holes.
Too bad I still vividly remember every last detail of the entire thing.
“You were picking up my dry cleaning,” he says after a minute. He does it slowly, like I’m stupid. “What did you think it would be?”
“I don’t know—a winter coat? A duvet? Maybe any other formalwear on earth besides this?” Calm down. I feel the sting in my eyes again. It’s from pure, unbridled anger, but still. I don’t want him thinking he’s got that much of a grip on how I feel.
He’d love it way too much.
“Hurley.” He sets down the screwdriver he had in his hands and stands to face me with a long, slow blink. “Did it ever occur to you that I was getting the suit cleaned not because I’ve got nothing better to do than fuck with your head, but because I only own one suit?”
“That you just happened to need cleaned the same week I started as your goddamn servant?”
“Unpaid personal assistant.” He hangs the suit in the doorway to his bedroom. “And,” he adds as he returns, “yes, I needed it cleaned this week, because I’m wearing it this weekend.”
I step back when he crosses in front of me to a ladder I didn’t notice before, tucked against the wall by the kitchen. “To what?”
“A Broadway show.”
My eye roll calms me down. “Fine, don’t tell me.” I notice the toothbrush on the coffee table and pick it up like it’s my pickaxe in the convict line. “Which vent do I do first?”
“You take the ones in the floor. I’ll handle these.”
I look up. He’s already ascended the ladder, unscrewing the grate from a vent near the ceiling.
“Am I....” My voice is too soft. I miss being angry. “Am I cleaning those ones in the sink?”
“No, I’ve got these. You just do the bottom ones. Oh, make sure you sanitize them after the dust is off—there’s disinfectant wipes under the sink.”
“Wipes,” I repeat, even though that’s not the part I wanted to repeat: that would be I’ve got these. “You’re helping me clean?”
“You’re helping me clean.”
“Why aren’t you making me do all this myself?”
Throwing an impatient glance my way, he rattles the ladder with his legs until I panic and hold it steady. “Would you rather be up here?”
“No. And stop shaking it, you scared me.”
“Twelve-foot drop wouldn’t kill me.” He groans as he pries the grate loose. It looks like it was painted with the rest of the apartment, the edges lifting like sunburned skin. “It’d probably just put me in a coma or something.”
As he descends, he gives me another look. For whatever reason, I can’t let go of the ladder until his feet touch the ground, when he jumps off the third-to-last rung and lands right in front of me, panting.
“Though I’m sure you wouldn’t mind that,” he says.
“Believe it or not, I would.”
“Everyone wants their enemy to suffer.” He lifts his eyebrows as he says it, like it’s a joke.
His tone doesn’t sound like one, though.
“Start in there,” he says, nodding to the only door I’ve yet to look behind. “That room’s got to be the cleanest—baseboards, ceiling fan, all of it. Move whatever you need to, just be careful.”
I blink as he stacks the cleaning supplies in my arms before moving the ladder to the other upper vent, in the opposite corner. “Uh...okay.”
The door, which until now I assumed led into a storage closet, reveals a music room.
Five guitars hang in wall-mounted holders, each like artwork under the track lights, and a white drum set resides in the corner on a plywood platform with casters. Up-close, I realize the drums aren’t white: they’re silver. Flecks transform into rainbows, whenever I change my angle. It reminds me of the eye shadow palette design I picked.
There’s a microphone booth set up in the closet, and a beanbag chair underneath the window. I set the cleaning stuff in it and move some crates and a keyboard until I find the vent.
While I work, I hear Wes humming out in the living room. I still can’t believe he’s cleaning with me, much less find a reason for his relative generosity—or why we’re doing all this in the first place.
When I’ve finished the music room, he comes in to inspect. “Looks good,” he nods, hands in his pockets. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” This is reflexive; he’s not welcome, because this wasn’t a favor. It was forced. “What else?”
“Kitchen. I’m still working in the living room. You okay if I put on some music?”
I nod, wondering why he even asked my opinion, and follow.
His kitchen is semi-open to the living room, so I hear him adjusting his stereo under the television for what feels like hours. Finally, music starts.
“Circa Survive,” I call, popping my head over the counter to look at him. “Nice. I saw them back in 2013 at the Shrine.”
“For real?” He sits back on his heels when I nod, a wad of disinfectant wipes in his gloved hand. “I was at that show. Front row.”
“Nosebleeds,” I shrug. “Still incredible, though.”
“Oh, for sure. No bad seats.” Wes watches as I sink back behind the cabinets.
Suddenly, he appears over my head, leaning across the counter to peer down at me. “I’m gonna be honest, I never would’ve expected you to know this band. I figured you only listened to that poppy shit you guys play on your channel.”
“You watch our channel?”
“I’ve seen your channel. Two, three times tops.”
“Mm-hmm.” A piece of an old rawhide is under the cabinets; I pick it up and throw it at him. He deflects, both of us laughing when Bowie rockets from his spot on the floor to snatch it.
“What else do you listen to?” Wes leans down farther, almost flat on the counter. The shadows of his face and the hair swooped over his eyes make me feel like I’m on top of a ladder, readying for a twelve-foot drop.
“Everything.”
“Please. Everyone says ‘everything.’”
“Well, I actually mean it.” I scrub a spot of dried jelly on the tile. “Try me.”
“Norwegian black metal.”
“Oh, like Mayhem?”
Wes laughs. It rains across my back.
“All right, all right, uh…” He thinks, then snaps his fingers. “Neofolk.”
“Death in June.”
“Yacht rock.”
“Christopher Cross. Come on, Durham, give me a challenge.”
The way his teeth pull across his lip, eyes sparkling, is challenging enough.
“Cloud rap.”
“Do you have a set of microgenre flashcards, somewhere?” I pause and shut my eyes, concentrating. “I’m guessing you’re a purist and won’t count this answer, but—Projectile Aeneas.”
The whistle he gives makes me excessively proud. I tell myself I don’t care that he’s impressed. It was just nice to stomp on his skepticism.
“I saw them in concert once, too,” he says, while his arms dangle over the counter. “Wasn’t as good as Circa.”
“Even in the front row?”
“What makes you think I was in the front?”
My knees ache as I move to a new spot on the floor and start cleaning. It doesn’t need it, but I suddenly feel the need to get
out from under his stare.
“Cut to the Chases is syndicated on two cable networks, streams on at least three platforms in rotation, and,” I say, yanking some fresh wipes from the canister, “just released that limited edition Blu-ray box set. Between all your residuals and your mom being the Billie Durham, I can’t imagine a guy like you ever settling for the second row.”
“Ah, that’s it, then. You think I’m rich.”
“Aren’t you?”
“I do all right.”
When I scoff, he slides off the counter and steps around, sitting in front of me. I stop cleaning and sit up.
“Would you believe me if I told you I have a regular day job now, like anyone else,” he says, inspecting his nails after he flings off his gloves, “and that I donate every last residual check to charity?”
“No.”
It hits me again, that laugh like cool water scattered down my skin.
“Good call. That’s complete bullshit.”
When I laugh, I think I see Wes showing the same reaction: shocked, but a little refreshed.
“I do have a day job,” he adds seriously. “A few times a week I help out at this music store, giving kids guitar lessons.”
“Why?” I pull my knees to my chin and rest it there. “If you’re still getting money from the show, it’s not like you need to work, right?”
“Work’s not just about money, Hurley. We’re humans. We need that sense of accomplishment—like what we’re doing matters, somehow. Otherwise we feel empty.”
“Did you, after the show ended?” I keep my voice soft, like he’s a cat I’m afraid of spooking. It’s a widely known fact Wes hates talking about Cut to the Chases, and I want him to know I’m not mocking him. I’m actually curious.
“When you didn’t have anything going on yet,” I say, “no guitar lessons, no music channel...did you feel empty?”
The song fades. In the thick silence that follows, his stare feels like it burns straight through my skull.
“All the time.”
Eleven
“Why are we doing this? I thought all you child stars had maids.”
“Just the ones who stayed cute.” While Clara cracks up, I explain, “I actually do have a cleaning service—oh, God, don’t give me that look; it’s built into the rent—but they’re not due back until next week. And I need this place absolutely spotless by Saturday.”
“Why?” With the bottom half of my bedroom window doused in Windex, she drops the bottle and reaches for the paper towels. I tear off a bunch and hand them to her. “You having a party?”
I try not to watch her ass when she stands on my armchair, scrubbing the glass as high as she can reach.
I try. I don’t succeed.
“Kind of,” I answer, after a minute.
“Birthday party?”
“Oh, right, I forgot you were obsessed with me and secretly knew every detail of my life.” When she shoots me a glare, I smile to show her I’m kidding. She relaxes, even if the way she bites her lip makes it obvious she kind of wants to kill me.
However I get her biting that lip is fine by me.
“And...no, not exactly a birthday party. Though I do have someone flying in to celebrate with me.”
“I’ve never cleaned a place this thoroughly in my life.” Sitting down again, she dabs the sweat on her temple with her forearm. “Is your guest a germaphobe or something?”
“Or something.”
“Did anyone ever tell you you’re really good at answering questions?” When I consider this a long time, then just shrug my shoulders in response, she hits my foot with the used paper towels. “I have one more question, actually, if you wouldn’t mind giving a real answer.”
Bowie wanders between us and pants happily, like we’re sitting on the floor for his benefit. I throw an empty paper towel roll into the hall so he’ll bolt, and I can get an unobstructed view of Clara again.
Her shorts vanish where her thighs meet. I can’t see the crotch of them, even when she sits cross-legged. She’s also got leggings underneath, God only knows why. I never have understood the way she dresses. It’s like if a Hot Topic exploded next to an Anthropologie—both of which I know she loves, thanks to all those bouncy updates on her channel—and then mated with the bastard son of a thrift store and craft supply outlet.
It must be insanely tight in there, all that fabric layered together. Undressing her sounds like some medieval headache. Unless I didn’t even need to undress her.
All it would take is one brush of my hand....
“Hello? Earth to Durham.”
My stare rises to her face, with a microscopic pit stop at her chest. Her tank top is baby blue, has some anime penguin stitched in the center, and barely covers her bra. I see the edge of it every time she leans forward to trace the grooves in my floor with her fingernails. It’s something lacy I’d really love to inspect up-close.
“What?”
“I asked,” she repeats, “why you’re cleaning with me, instead of making me do everything. The ladder and upper vents, I understood, kind of. A chivalry thing.”
“If you think I’m chivalrous, you’ve breathed in way too much Clorox.”
“But why the rest?” Her bracelets clatter as she motions to the sparkling window beside us, then in the vague direction of the hall. Between the two of us, we’ve scrubbed and disinfected every piece of this place.
I’m still not done; I’ll be putting Bowie up in a kennel for the weekend, and hitting the music room and bathroom with another sanitizing spray first thing Saturday morning. Overkill, sure, but it makes me feel better.
“I wasn’t joking when I called you an assistant.” I flick a bottle cap at her that we found under the laundry chair. “Making you clean the entire place alone crosses a line.”
“Funny. I would have thought that line got crossed much earlier.”
“For someone like you, it would have.”
She sighs, the way you would when an automated menu keeps dragging you back to the beginning.
“Like I said,” I tell her, “this is just business. Seizing a good opportunity. I want some help with a few things, and you....”
She waits, patting down her hat and glancing away like she just remembered we’re not supposed to have pleasant conversation. I’m the enemy, here.
Maybe she’s not a prisoner. But I’m still the one who’s locked her up where she doesn’t want to be.
“And I,” she finishes as she gets to her feet, “have no choice but to give you what you want.”
My silence answers for me. It’s not the way I’d prefer to sum up the situation, but I guess it’s the only accurate one.
I brush my hands off on my pants and follow her to the living room. The sight of her gathering her stuff to leave bugs me. “Not like you didn’t know I was an asshole, Hurley.”
“You don’t have to be.”
“Cute that you think I have a choice.”
Her expression goes flat again. I miss when I was making her laugh.
“Sad,” she says, grabbing the door handle like it’s her lifeline out of here, “that you think you don’t.”
I hate getting pedicures.
Actually, I love it. I just hate the looks the techs give me when they haven’t worked on me before. At least my regular girls know not to mention the pinprick-sized scabs on my legs.
Well, I’m sure they mention them—just not to me. And not in a language I can understand.
“Eczema?” the tech asks, scrubbing the exfoliant over my calf gentler than she did for the lady before me.
“Sure.” I’m too tired to tell the truth, and too tired to even feel guilty about it.
Besides, does it really matter if a total stranger thinks I’ve got a skin condition, instead of some imbalance in my brain that leaves its mark on my follicles?
During the brief but torturous exchange, Georgia glances at me. She knows I hate when strangers ask questions.
She also knows I pull out m
y leg hair whenever I’m sitting at my desk and need to concentrate, and that I get horrible ingrown hairs as a result.
She doesn’t know—though I’m sure she suspects—that I dig at those ingrown hairs with a sewing needle, on nights I’m really stressed, to pull them out again.
That’s where most of the little scabs come from. Not the initial damage, but whatever sick compulsion I’ve got to perpetuate it.
“How was the shelter today?” she asks, flipping through a People magazine that looks like it’s been dropped in the footbath more than once. “You were there longer than usual.”
“Was I?” Cleaning Wes’s apartment took longer than I planned, but mostly because we’d spent so much time talking. It was mid-afternoon when I finally got back to my place. “Guess time got away from me.”
“Uh-huh.” She gives me a look. To anyone else it’d be a neutral expression, but I read it instantly. She knows something.
“What?”
“Oh, come on. I know why time got away from you.”
If my feet weren’t being scrubbed to oblivion, I’d be tapping them, ready to bolt. Every inch of my throat dries out as I ask, “Yeah?”
“Yeah. You were with him.”
My mind brings up Wes like a hologram.
I think of this afternoon in his bedroom. He stared at me with a look I recognized, yet couldn’t name—until I focused only on his eyes and the shadowed lower half of his jaw. The only parts I’d been able to see the night of the party, when he was wearing his mask.
Hunger. That’s what I’d seen when he took my hand to lead me to the beach. That man had wanted to consume me, wherever he could, for as long as he could—and I wanted to let him.
That’s also what I saw this afternoon.
Of course I wrote it off. Maybe Wes wanted to get me in his bed again. Maybe not. It didn’t matter, because I wasn’t going to let it happen.
And even if it did, it wouldn’t mean a thing. Not to him.
“How’d you find out?” Palpitations stab my chest. Good thing we haven’t eaten yet, or I’d be ruining this pedicure with one lurch of my stomach.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Something’s wrong—namely, the fact Georgia isn’t raging pissed and stomping out the door to tear Wes Durham a brand-new orifice. She’s smiling.
