Page 3 of Blame it on the Bet
I’ve got a good job, and I make decent—if not great— money. My overpriced apartment has a nice view of the Mississippi River and a sexy, hot, anonymous guy on the next floor up. What have I got to be unhappy about? It’s ridiculous.
I rub my temples, trying to push back the dull ache that’s starting to surface. That’s when I spot the framed pictures of us on the mantel. My father’s broad, easy smile shines back at me.
“What happened, Pops?” I ask the silence. “And how can I make it right?”
The silence has no reply.
Chapter Two
BRYAN
Truittism Number 2: Nothing is better than “boots on the ground” to properly assess an unclear situation.
The sun is in my eyes. It slips through the crack of space where the blinds end and the windowsill begins, stealthily creeping across the carpeted floor, seeking out the delicate tissue of my eyelids.This is why I have special blackout blinds and an added layer of insulated drapes in my bedroom. Unfortunately, I’m not in my bedroom. I know this because I feel the coarse grain leather of my office couch under my face.
I try to turn so that I’m facing the back cushions, but my body seems to be stuck, all six foot two of me wedged into the five feet of space between armrests. All I can do is squeeze my eyes shut against the burning glare. It makes
my eyelids look red, even when they’re closed. I groan in frustration, wanting nothing more than to just fall back to sleep. Suddenly, my world goes blissfully dark again. Something has inserted itself between the sun and me, like a beautiful eclipse. Did the blinds somehow drop all the way down? Did my desk somehow silently flip over onto its side? Maybe it really is an eclipse. Or a rogue asteroid.
Turns out it’s not a what, but a who. Helen.
“W-What are you doing here?” I mutter hoarsely.
“I work here,” my assistant says tartly as she looks down upon me with undisguised disdain. “It smells like a brewery in here,” she informs me. “And a locker room. Like the locker room of a brewery,” she pronounces with a disapproving tsk of her tongue.
“Huh,” is all I can manage, allowing my eyes to close again. But then she moves away, and I writhe like a vampire burned by the brightening dawn. Is that my flesh I smell burning?
“You have a perfectly lovely condo,” Helen says as she unfolds a white plastic trash bag. “I don’t understand why you feel the need to sleep here.” When she jerks the bag open with a loud snap, I wince.
“Please. Could you please, please, please keep it down?”
But she ignores me, chattering away as she moves around my office, tossing takeout containers and beer bottles into the bag. I can’t make out everything she’s saying, but I catch a word here and there. Something about my hedonistic lifestyle catching up with me someday.
“Why are you here so early?” I grumble. “And what are you doing?”
She stops and looks at me, one garish orange eyebrow quirked.
“Uh, well, let’s see…I’m cleaning up this pigsty that you call an office. Once I’ve gotten all the trash and beer bottles out of the way, I’m going to bring in a guy with a power washer to see if we can’t get the smell out of the walls. But I’m not holding out hope.”
I decide to ignore her and close my eyes again. But a few seconds later I experience a hellish glare. Helen’s opened the blinds all the way, and the sun is now streaming in, washing my wilted body in the unwanted light of day.
“Oh, come on, Helen…” I say.“I’m trying to sleep here!” She comes and stands over me again, peering at me over the blue-framed glasses, the ones that dangle from a chain around her neck when she doesn’t need them. From this angle, her bright orange hair is particularly puffy. She reminds me of one of those troll dolls. The ones that are kind of cute and creepy at the same time.
“Bryan, it’s after nine. You have to get up. I brought you a change of clothes and your shaving kit.”
I struggle to sit up, my hand acting as a visor until my heavy eyes can adjust to the light. Ugh. I feel like I’ve been hit with a bag filled with rocks. No…something bigger. Hammers, maybe. Yeah, great big hammers. Sledgehammers. “You let yourself into my place? How the hell did you know I wouldn’t be there? I might have been…you know…entertaining.”
Helen scoffs and rolls her watery blue eyes.
“Please. There aren’t even sheets on your bed. In fact, there’s nothing in that apartment. Not a painting on the wall, not a framed picture. You have exactly one set of dishes and silverware for four. But there’s no food in the fridge, and your oven still has the plastic cling label from when you bought it.”
With some difficulty, I haul myself to my feet so I’m now looking down on the troll doll.
“Helen, how I live is none of your business,” I hiss with an accompanying glare. But she’s unmoved. Clearly I’m not as menacing as I’d like to think. Finally I roll my eyes and go into the small private bathroom in the back of my office. When I get in there, I find a freshly dry-cleaned suit, clean underwear and socks, and my toiletries. After a hot shower and shave, I dress and comb back my damp hair before taking a look in the full-length mirror mounted on the back of the door.
“That’s better,” I murmur, taking note of the dark circles under my bloodshot eyes.
When I come back out into my office, I find a steaming hot latte on my desk along with a bowl of…what is that?
