Shacking Up

by Helena Hunting

  “This?” I look to where his eyes have gone and circle the little jewel dangling from the barbell with a fingertip.

  “When’d you get that?”

  “When I was a teenager. My father forbade it, obviously.” I give him a cheeky grin. “See how well that worked.”

  “Of course you didn’t listen.”

  I shake my head and lift my tank higher, past my ribs.

  “Such a naughty girl, aren’t you?” Bancroft asks, eyes following the increasingly visible skin.

  I pause when I graze the underside of my breast and let out a little moan. It’s not fake. Bancroft’s full lips are parted, his stare is rather intense. I imagine if we were in the same room I’d already be naked and under him. And I still have no idea what’s going on with his hand that’s disappeared. And that’s when I realize what I’m doing probably isn’t a great idea. What exactly am I going to do if I follow through on getting naked? He’s not here to help me out and there’s no way I’m going to masturbate for him on video chat. We’re not exactly at that stage in our relationship. We’re not even in a relationship.

  I let the tank drop.

  “Wait. What the fuck.”

  My shorts snap back into place.

  Bancroft’s expression is the most comical thing I’ve ever seen. “No, no, no. Babe, what’re you doing?” He reaches out and snatches up the phone, as if he can climb through it. “Why’re you stopping?”

  “It’s after midnight. I need to go to bed and you need to go to work.”

  “Fuck work. You need to get naked like you said you would.”

  “I never said I’d get naked, you just suggested it.” I pick up the phone and roll onto my back, I pucker up and give him an air smooch. “Have a great day. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Wait, wait!” His eyes are wide and darting around. “I—I forbid you to take your clothes off.” His smile screams of victory.

  I laugh. “That’s not how it works, Bane.”

  “Come on, Ruby, that’s not nice.”

  “I’m not always nice.” And then I hang up and put my phone on airplane mode.

  I spend the next twenty minutes making myself feel good. I have the best damn dreams ever.

  * * *

  Over the next few days Bancroft and I play phone and message tag. He makes no mention of what went down the other night, or what didn’t, and neither do I. Conversation timing shifts again. Instead of talking while he’s getting ready for work, we talk while he’s eating dinner, usually at a desk with a noisy background that makes real conversation impossible. It’s lunchtime for me, which means I’m stocking up on carbs so I can manage to make it through hours of dancing in heels.

  As the weekend approaches I become increasingly anxious and giddy. Anxious because Sunday night I’m being given my first shot at the third set. Sunday is the quietest of the weekend nights, but it still pulls in a decent crowd.

  I’m giddy because Bancroft is scheduled to return at the end of next week. I have his flight times marked on the calendar. I’ve made sure to schedule the cleaning lady early and order groceries so his fridge is stocked for his return.

  My job at EsQue is going well. As I gain more hours the tips get better and better. If I can keep making this kind of money consistently for the next few weeks I might actually be able to get a down payment for an apartment together. So, when I’m offered a small part in an Off-Off-Broadway production, I have to seriously weigh what I’ll make against what I’m pulling in at EsQue. It’s not comparable, so I end up turning it down.

  On Monday I get up at a reasonable hour and make a quick trip to the mini-grocer down the street. I woke with a hankering for s’mores. Not the best in terms of breakfast food, but since I’m burning a lot of energy at my new job, I can afford the sugar consumption.

  I’m juggling my purse, and three bags of groceries, while stuffing marshmallows in my face as I walk down the hall. I adore marshmallows in a terribly irrational way. I splurged on the name-brand graham crackers and I have a jar of Nutella waiting to be cracked. My plan is to make microwave s’mores because I’m starving and impatient.

  I shove two marshmallows in my mouth while I punch in the code to the condo. As soon as I’m inside, the phone starts ringing. Not my cell, which is stuffed in the back pocket of my jeans, but the real phone attached to the vintage answering machine at the far end of the kitchen.

  It’s the first time I’ve heard the thing ring. There are a couple of messages on there, but I haven’t bothered to check as per Bancroft’s instructions. I allow it to ring since it isn’t going to be for me.

  After five rings a beep sounds and Bancroft’s deep, masculine, panty-dissolving voice booms through the condo. Okay, maybe not booms, but it sounds like he’s somewhere on the other side of the room.

  “You’ve reached the voice mail of Bancroft Mills. I’m unable to take your call, but if you leave your name, number, and a message at the tone, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  It’s pretty standard as far as messages go, but I’d listen to it on repeat just to hear his voice. I drop the bags on the counter, apart from the marshmallows, which I keep shoving into my mouth, and walk over to the answering machine. I stare down at the little tape, waiting for it to start whirling. I don’t know why I’m so fascinated. I think it’s sweet that Bancroft misses his grandma enough to keep this ancient thing around. It’s so out of place in his condo, much like my horribly ugly lounger—which I haven’t sat in once since Bancroft left.

  I’m disappointed when no one leaves a message. Shrugging I give some attention to Francesca, who’s skittering around her cage. Flipping the latch, I pick her up and give her a snuggle. “Did you have a good snooze, pretty girl?” She makes her little happy noises then jumps out of my arms and bounds across the room to the answering machine, pawing at the leg of the table. I should probably do some organizing over there. I’ve been dumping Bancroft’s mail on the table and the pile is heaping and messy.

  “Did you hear Bancroft? I bet you miss him like crazy.”

  I go back to my groceries and unload my glorious booty. I locate the graham crackers and tear open the box. Arranging four on a plate, I top each with a marshmallow and put it in the microwave. I hit the start button just as the phone rings again. I pause in my quest for a s’more breakfast to listen to Bancroft’s sexy voice again.

  I think he’s supposed to call soon, but I can’t remember exactly what time we agreed upon today. He was wearing a suit with the tie hanging loose when we talked yesterday, speaking words and all I heard in my head was Take off all your clothes, Ruby, and I’ll let you take off mine. I’m pretty sure he made no mention of clothing removal this time, but my imagination has been working overtime since the night I was rolling around in his bed, in a camie and shorts.

  The message plays again, and in my mind, I change the words to something more along the lines of:

  You’ve reached the voice mail of Bancroft Mills. I’m too busy orally pleasuring the gorgeous woman living in my condo, so don’t bother leaving a message because I won’t be able to get back to you for at least another week, maybe two.

  My daydreaming is brought to an abrupt end when a high, nasally female voice cuts in:

  “Hi, Banny! It’s Brittany. I know you’re away on business, but since you’ll be back soon I wanted you to know that I’ve been thinking about you while you’ve been gone and I’m really hoping we can go out on another date when you’re back in town.”

  “Date?” I scoff. “Like Bancroft wants to date you.” I pick up the jar of Nutella with the intention of throwing it at the machine, but then I consider the vintage-ness of it, and its sentimental value, along with the probability that replacing it will either be expensive or impossible.

  Brittany rambles on about how it’s so nice to spend time with someone so grounded and in control of their career and how she really hopes next time he’ll be feeling better so they can find out if their chemistry’s compatible. />
  “Bancroft is not interested in your chemistry!” I fire a marshmallow at the machine, then another and another. It’s not nearly as satisfying as the Nutella jar would’ve been.

  A huge pop startles me and I drop the bag of marshmallows on the floor. “Oh shit!”

  The ones in the microwave have exploded like the Stay Puft marshmallow man in Ghostbusters. It appears I set the time for two minutes instead of twenty seconds. I hit end but it’s too late. Marshmallow coats the window of the microwave. That’s going to be one hell of a mess to clean up.

  “ . . . Okay. Well, I’ll talk to you soon, Banny. Byeee!”

  “His name is Bancroft, you stupid cow,” I grumble.

  I give the microwave a few seconds to cool down before I open the door to check the damage. Oh, yeah. It’s marshmallow carnage in there. I swipe a finger across the plate and yelp because it’s burning hot.

  As if there isn’t enough going on, my cell rings. Except it’s not a phone call. It’s a video chat. And it’s Bancroft. I don’t know why I don’t let it keep ringing. It’s a lot smarter than what I do, which is answer the call.

  “Hey! Hi! Hello!” I’ve covered every possible greeting.

  “Hey. Did I catch you at a bad time?” He’s wearing a white dress shirt and a black tie. It’s pulled loose and his hair is a little messy, like he’s run his hand through it recently. He’s yummier than s’mores.

  “Oh no. Not a bad time. I’m just making breakfast and having some play time with Francesca.”

  “How’s my girl? Where is she? Can I see her?” The my girl part makes me all swoony. I think it’s adorable how much he loves his ferret. And that’s not even a euphemism.

  “Of course you can. Hold on and let me get her.” I leave the phone on the counter and call for her. I find her over by the answering machine, nibbling on a marshmallow. “Oh, no, Franny! Those aren’t for you!”

  She jumps off the table, scattering mail all over the floor as I confiscate the treat. An envelope opens and a pile of twenty dollar bills flutters across the tile floor. I don’t have time to manage the sudden money storm because Francesca is going after another marshmallow.

  “Is everything okay over there? Did she get into something she shouldn’t have?”

  “It’s fine! I just dropped a couple of marshmallows on the floor when I was unpacking groceries.” I scoop up the marshmallow bombs before Francesca can get her paws on another one. They’re a little goopy, as if she’s tried to taste them all. I dump them in the garbage so she can’t get to them. I carry a slightly disgruntled Francesca over to the phone, wiping marshmallow bits off her whiskers on the way.

  “Here we are!” I pick the phone up while awkwardly trying to hold a squirming Francesca. She’s not having it, though. She wants to explore the grocery bags I’ve yet to unpack.

  “Let me set this up better.” I rearrange the phone on a bunch of bananas so I don’t have to hold it and reclaim Francesca. “Say hi to Daddy!” I wave her little paw at him and mumble a high pitched. “Hi, Daddy.”

  The smile that breaks across Bancroft’s face could light all the panties in the world on fire.

  “Is she making mischief on you?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “I figured. How’s Tiny?”

  “She’s good. Ate a big fat cricket yesterday for dinner and she’s been chilling out ever since.”

  Bancroft laughs. It’s probably one of my favorite sounds ever. “What about you? How are you?”

  “I’m good.” I glance at the bills scattered over the floor. Now that I’m not so discombobulated and marshmallows aren’t exploding in the microwave, and slutty Brittany isn’t whining into his answering machine, I can see that it’s not just twenties. There are fifties and hundreds on the floor as well. Who sends that much cash in the mail? “So . . . I have a question for you.”

  “Oh?” His eyebrows rise. “What kind of question?”

  “Not a dirty one, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Mmm. That’s unfortunate. Is everything okay?”

  “I think so, but I was moving the mail around and there’s a pile of cash on the floor. Can you explain that?”

  He frowns. “A pile of cash?”

  “Yeah. Francesca knocked the mail on the floor and all of a sudden it was raining large bills. I thought you might want to know, just in case some crazy drug dealer shows up here looking for his brick or what have you.”

  “Can you show me?”

  “Sure.” I hold the phone over the pile of mail and money.

  “Can you find the envelope it fell out of?”

  “Give me a second.” I prop the phone against the answering machine, drop to the floor, and gather the letters and cash. All the envelopes are sealed, apart from one, which has my name and #2 scrawled on it in what looks like Bancroft’s writing. It’s not sealed, and there are a few lingering twenties still inside. I hold it up so he can see it. “Why does this have my name on it?”

  Bancroft’s brow furrows. I don’t know how a brow furrow can be so sexy, but it really is. “Shit. Because I left it for you. It was in the notes from the morning I flew out.”

  It takes me a moment to understand what he’s referring to. “You mean your hieroglyphics?”

  “My writing really isn’t that bad.”

  “That’s debatable. I still don’t understand why you left me another envelope of cash, there was already too much in the first one.” I filter the bills out from the mail. There are a lot of them.

  “It seemed better than a check.”

  “A check for what?” I sort them by denomination. I can’t count and listen at the same time.

  “For taking care of Francesca and Tiny. It’s the weekly stipend we agreed upon.”

  I pause to meet his two-dimensional gaze. I have the urge to mock him when he uses words like stipend and phrases like agreed upon. “But the first envelope you left already had double the amount we agreed upon for the entire time I’m here.”

  “No, it didn’t.”

  “Yes, it did.”

  “There was two thousand dollars in there,” I argue.

  “Exactly. Two thousand a week for five weeks.”

  “Two thousand a week? For taking care of your pets? That’s insane. I thought you meant two hundred.”

  Bancroft’s expression is intense as he adjusts his tie. His gaze shifts away and then back again. “It’s not insane, it’s reasonable. You’re taking care of the things I love while I can’t, so I, in turn, will take care of you.”

  All the sensitive parts of my body feel like they’re being stroked by his words. Normally the whole I’ll take care of you line would get my back up, but the way he frames it makes it sound sexy instead of douchey.

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Yes I do. And I still owe you for the last two weeks. If you give me your bank account number I can wire more.”

  “That’s unnecessary. More is unnecessary. This is already too much.” I could actually make a real dent in my credit card debt with this, if I planned to take it, but I don’t. The first two-thousand is more than enough.

  “How have you been surviving if you don’t have an income, Ruby? Please tell me you didn’t stick to the two hundred dollars a week.”

  “I didn’t have to pay for groceries, so it was totally manageable, and you left the first envelope, remember?”

  “Did you use it though?”

  “Some of it.” I focus on unpacking the groceries so I don’t have to look at him. This conversation makes me uncomfortable for reasons I don’t quite understand.

  Bancroft huffs. “Look at the money like a salary.”

  “Two thousand dollars a week for pet care is not a reasonable salary.” That Bancroft doesn’t even bat an eyelid at parting with two thousand a week reminds me of how vastly different our financial situations are. The minimum scale on Broadway isn’t even that high.

  “I disagree.”

  “
You’re welcome to your opinion, however wrong it may be.”

  “Ruby.”

  “Bane.” I walk away from the phone so I can put away the boxes of sugary cereal I splurged on.

  “You’re not going to use the money, are you?” He sounds frustrated.

  “No.” I’m being unreasonable about this. I should take some of the money. It would go a long way in helping me manage some of the debt I’ve gotten myself into, but the amount is excessive for five weeks of pet sitting, especially since it comes with a bedroom in a luxury condo and a meal plan.

  Part of me is also reluctant to grow accustomed to having money again. The idea is actually somewhat terrifying. I’m also tired of handouts. Accepting them from a man I’d like to get naked with feels wrong.

  “You know I’ll find a way to get it to you.”

  “Not without my account number, you won’t.”

  “And you don’t think I can get that?”

  I turn around to face him again, propping a hand on my hip. Oooh. He looks annoyed. This must be the uptight side of him Armstrong was talking about. I think I might approve of it. “What are you? A professional hacker on the side?”

  “I don’t know why you’re so intent on fighting me on this, but rest assured, I’ll find a way to make it happen.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “You do realize you’re being difficult, babe.” He taps on the table, drawing my gaze to his restless fingers.

  “I’m being reasonable. You’re trying to give me too much money for doing not enough.” I check the time. It’s already after one. I need to clean the microwave and get myself together so I can be at work on time. “I have to go. Work calls.”

  I reach across to end the call.

  “Wait!” Bancroft says.

  “I really do have to go.”

  “Are you angry with me?” he asks.

  I sigh. I’m not angry with him at all. I’m embarrassed to be in such a predicament that the money he’s offering seems massive. It’s an important lesson to learn. To know what it’s like to struggle, and not just have things dropped in my palm because I hold it out.