I try to brazen it out. “Why would you assume I got fired? I could have quit.”
I’m honestly not in the mood to pick a fight with Myrna today, and am relieved when another resident joins us in the elevator. Maybe an audience will tone down her acerbic attitude.
“You’re not dumb enough to quit when you know that the association bylaws and your lease require that to be a resident in this building, you have to be gainfully employed or able to prove that you have regular and substantial income coming in every month from other means, or have a substantial minimum bank balance.”
Her words hit me like a subway train. “Excuse me?”
“Didn’t you read your lease?”
Of course I didn’t, but I can’t tell her that. “That can’t be legal.”
“It is if you agreed to it in writing. I was on the association board when we instituted the change after the dot-com bubble. Too many residents were losing their jobs and life savings, and we didn’t want them taking up space here while we waited to evict them through traditional means. If you’d purchased your apartment when you moved in, you wouldn’t have an issue.”
Jordana pops up on her back feet to paw at my thigh. I bend down to give her a pat, but my heart isn’t in it.
This can’t be right.And why didn’t I buy to begin with?Oh, right, because I thought having a mortgage sounded like a bad idea.
“What does regular and substantial income from other means mean?” I ask her.
“That’s for tenants who live on pensions and such. You have to prove you receive a deposit every month.”
Which wouldn’t be a problem if I’d budgeted for monthly deposits from my trust, but that’s out of the question now, and my bank balance isn’t going to impress anyone.
“Surely there’s some kind of grace period for that. They’re not just going to notify me tomorrow that I have to move out because I got fired.”
The elevator stops on the eleventh floor, and the other female passenger gives both Mrs. Frances and me the side-eye before stepping off.
Surprisingly, Mrs. Frances doesn’t come back at me with both barrels blazing. “I guess you better read the association bylaws and your lease then, because I don’t recall the grace period. That association board has always been cutthroat, and apartments in this building are highly sought after. Do you know how many people are hoping I’ll die so they can buy mine? It’s basically the only reason I get out of bed every day and go do that horrible yoga stuff—so I can live forever and screw them all over.”
I believe every word she says.
Meeting her faded blue eyes, I say, “Please, just ... don’t say anything to the association. I have a way to make a living. I just need a few months for it to all come together.”
She narrows her gaze on me. “You’re going to become a call girl, aren’t you? Not that you shouldn’t get paid for what you’re giving away for free.”
I choke on air. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying, if that’s how you’re going to make a living, I’m not keeping quiet for that.”
The elevator slows on our floor, and I answer as the doors open. “No. No, I’m not becoming a call girl.”
She harrumphs and trudges down the hall with her cane in hand. “I guess we’ll see about that.”
Before I can counter, Mrs. Frances is already halfway into her apartment with Irene shooting me sympathetic looks over her shoulder and Jordana yipping at the door.
I’m so screwed.
Chapter 17
Logan
Ireach into the top of my toolbox to find a pencil, and when my hands touch satin, I mentally kick my own ass. There’s seriously something wrong with a man who steals a pair of panties and keeps them in his toolbox. And probably a special place in hell for the fucker who stops to touch them in the middle of the workday.
Shoving them aside, I grab a pencil and write down the VIN of the car that I just agreed to restore. Something about it is rubbing me wrong, and not just the fact that I don’t know how Lonnie Benson got the cash to buy a ’69 Camaro. He’s gotta be cooking meth in his trailer because I would have heard if he’d won the lottery.
My job isn’t to speculate, and a basic restoration that promises to bring me at least five grand in profit isn’t something I can turn down, so I took the job. But first, I’m going to run the VIN to make sure the car isn’t stolen. That’s the last thing I need to get tangled up with.
When the lead on my pencil breaks, I reach back into the top of my toolbox and once again feel the fabric of the panties I’ve sworn every day I’ll throw away. And yet here I am, alone after another twelve-hour day, and they’re not in the bottom of my trash.