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  I giggled and nudged her with my elbow. “Definitely an old guy. They like pies.”

  I skimmed it again, looking at his user name and snorted. “Cycleman has a lot of ‘musts.’ The guy must be a control freak. Is he looking for an employee or a wife? Holy moly, the only thing not listed is bearing children and missionary sex.”

  She winked. “Maybe he likes anal. No babies that way.”

  I snorted in amusement. “I can’t believe anyone would post something like that.” I looked at the stats. “It has four replies! Oh my god!”

  “People.” She shook her head. “They are weird.”

  I shut the laptop and drained my glass. “That they are.”

  Chapter 2

  CHARLYNN

  Kelly left, and I locked the door, staring at the mainly empty apartment. The old sofa and a battered table were all that remained. Anything Trish had been able to lift and carry was gone. In the bedroom, my bed sat on the floor since she’d dismantled the frame and took that. The dresser that held my clothes was still there—no doubt she thought it was too old and ugly to bother with. She’d taken everything from the room she had stayed in.

  I was grateful that we weren’t the same size. Otherwise, I was certain all my clothes would be gone as well. Luckily, she hadn’t touched my closet, which meant the photo albums that belonged to my parents were safe. At least I still had those. I’d had my laptop with me that day. If I hadn’t, I knew it, too, would have been gone.

  With a sigh, I decided to take a shower. I was exhausted. I changed into my robe, stopping at the sound of a knock at my door. Laughing, I went to open it, wondering what Kelly had forgotten. She was scatterbrained and left her keys or phone behind all the time.

  But it wasn’t Kelly’s smiling face that greeted me. Terry was standing there, swaying slightly, the smell of liquor rolling off him. He leered at me openly.

  I pushed the door, leaving it ajar a few inches. “What do you want?”

  He eyed me through the narrow opening. “Wanted to see if you changed your mind.”

  “No.” I tried to push the door closed, but he shoved his foot in, stopping me.

  His voice was low and angry. “You think you’re too good for me?”

  “I am not trading sexual favors for rent. Get away from my door or I’ll call the cops,” I snapped.

  He leaned on the door, and I let it go. Unprepared, he fell into the apartment, and I jumped on his back, bending his arm. “How many times are we going to do this, you asshole? I said no.”

  I stood. “Get out.”

  He stumbled to his feet, fury in his expression. I dared him to do something. With the door open, there would be witnesses—I could scream with the best of them. He staggered closer, his stale breath making me want to gag. “I can get in your apartment anytime I want, you little whore. Think about that while you’re calling the cops.” He snorted. “My word against yours.” But he turned and stumbled away. “Bitch,” he muttered.

  I shut the door and locked it, then stared at the wood. He could get in. He had master keys to every door. There was only the one lock, plus the silly little chain I could slide across and use to peek out the door if I wanted. It gave me zero protection against someone like Terry. And I wasn’t sure the cops would do anything. I’d had enough trouble convincing them about Trish. It was only when another cop overheard me and knew of an additional complaint that they took me seriously enough to file a report.

  I shivered, deciding to forgo the shower, and sat down on the sofa. I opened my laptop, googling ideas for added protection for a door. Ten minutes later, I stepped back and admired my handiwork. I had slid the blade of a butter knife under the loose door trim, with the handle resting on the door, adding a small layer of protection. I added two more knives along the frame to be sure. Terry could unlock the door, but the knives would stop him from opening the door unless he broke it down. He would never draw that sort of attention to himself. It was a small thing, but perhaps with them in place, I would sleep a little.

  Rattled, I drank the last of the wine, the buzz catching up with me. Pissed off, angry at the world, and needing to stay busy, I clicked on the Solutions for You site, shaking my head in disbelief at how many people had contacted Cycleman about his fabulous job.

  Unable to resist, I sent him a message

  Charly: Is this a posting for a job or a wife?

  Cycleman: What kind of question is that? It’s a job. The duties are listed.

  Charly: Sexist. Girl Friday? Duties? How old are you? Get with the times.

  Cycleman: Forgive me for the insult. What would you suggest? Person Friday? You interested?

  I snorted.

  Charly: Person Friday would at least be better. But I don’t work for sexists. In this day and age, you need to be respectful. The position would be Assistant. Aide. Office Manager. Dude—get with the times.

  Cycleman: Not sexist—never done this before. I will change the wording, if I can figure out how.

  I laughed again. As I suspected, he was older.

  Charly: Good luck with finding someone to do all that for you. I suppose you had best add maid to the listing.

  Cycleman: If you are applying, your attitude needs some adjusting.

  Charly: I’m not the right type for the job.

  Cycleman: Because you’re male? I’d hire a guy. In fact, I would prefer it. Less trouble.

  I furrowed my brow. Why did he think I was a guy? Another burst of laughter left my lips. Charly was short for Charlynn. My friends called me Char or Charly. I always used a shorter version online. I shrugged since it didn’t matter.

  Charly: Guys can be trouble too. I should know. And few can bake pies.

  Cycleman: Now who’s sexist?

  Charly: Just keeping it real, unlike your posting.

  Cycleman: I’m too busy to keep chatting. If you aren’t interested, goodnight.

  I flipped the monitor the finger and closed the window.

  Interested? Not likely. Good luck to whoever went to work for him.

  I felt better after giving him a hard time, though.

  Not better enough to sleep well. I napped on the sofa, my cell phone and a kitchen knife close at hand. Morning took forever to arrive.

  I had to go out the next morning since I had a job interview lined up. I dressed carefully, checked to make sure the hallway was empty, and headed out. I was exhausted and still unsure what I was going to do but holding on to hope that if I got a job today, I could sleep on Kelly’s floor for a while and find a new place while I saved up for the first and last month’s rent. I certainly couldn’t stay at my place anymore. Even if I got this job today, I didn’t have the money to pay the back rent, and there was no way I was going near Terry.

  I arrived at the building ten minutes early, stopped at the washroom to make sure I was tidy, and headed up to the office number I’d been given. I smiled at the receptionist, giving her my name. She frowned at me.

  “I’m sorry, there’s been some confusion.”

  My heart dropped. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The position was filled yesterday. You were supposed to have been contacted.”

  I swallowed, my throat dry. “I didn’t get a call.”

  She huffed out a sigh. “I apologize for wasting your time.”

  “Is there anything else? Another position?” I asked, desperate. “I can do anything.”

  “No.” Her face softened. “I’m really sorry. I know it’s hard out there. Good luck.”

  I hurried away before she saw the tears gathering in my eyes. I returned to the bathroom I’d been in earlier and shut myself into a stall. I let the tears I was holding in go, sobbing into my hands. I had been counting on this—on something—to go right. This was the last interview I had lined up.

  I let myself cry, then wiped my eyes, and used the sink to wash my hands and splash cold water on my face. I walked aimlessly around downtown Toronto. I’d had such high hopes when I came here, the lure of the big
city fascinating me. Now, it seemed cold and scary. I had never felt as alone as I did right now, sitting on a bench, watching people bustle around, hurrying to and from work, busy living their lives.

  My dad’s face came to mind. “Keep your head up, girl. Tomorrow is always a new day.”

  I blew out a long breath. I had to figure this out and I had no one left to turn to for help. My mom had died when I was ten from a brain aneurysm. My dad passed two years ago, and the little money he’d left was now gone, thanks to that bitch Trish. Kelly didn’t have two dimes to rub together, and I was about to lose my apartment.

  Unless I whored myself out to Terry.

  Simply the thought of that made my skin crawl.

  I looked up at the sky.

  When had my life become this tragedy?

  I checked my wallet. I had twenty-seven dollars to my name. That was it. At the apartment, there was some ramen, the empty box of wine, some crackers, and a jar of instant coffee. Trish had taken the coffeemaker.

  I spent the day wandering around, applying for jobs, finally giving up when I ran out of resumes and smiles. I went to the store and bought a loaf of bread and the cheapest jar of peanut butter they had. At least I could eat sandwiches for a few days. Back at the apartment, I opened the fridge door to put the bread inside and froze. Sitting there on the empty shelf was a bottle of beer.

  I didn’t drink beer.

  Terry did. I recognized the brand from the bottles I had seen dangling often from his hand.

  Terry had been in here. He had left the bottle as a reminder he could get in whenever he wanted.

  Terrified, I grabbed the knife and searched the apartment to make sure he wasn’t still there. Once satisfied, I slipped the knives into the door trim and sat on the old sofa, drawing my knees up to my chest.

  I wasn’t safe here, and I had to go.

  The question was, where?

  I picked up my laptop, scanning the sites I had been on, hoping maybe there would be a message waiting, but there was nothing. I checked all my stats, but there had been zero new views anywhere. I had hoped for a call to fill in at a waitressing job, do some bartending, a temp job, but I had nothing.

  I wondered if I would qualify for welfare. Then I shook my head. I needed to find a job.

  Any job.

  My gaze fell to the tab I had open for Solutions for You, and I reread the posting I had made fun of last night. I chewed on my fingernail, staring at it. After last night, I was certain whoever posted this was a grumpy old curmudgeon.

  Girl Friday. Cycleman. How ridiculous.

  Something caught my eye, and glancing toward the door, I could see the shadows of feet outside the door at the bottom, and the handle was turning. Slowly. Silently. I watched, scared, as my lock turned, the metal glinting in the hall light. The door moved a fraction and stopped, the metal of the knives I had slid in stopping it. It moved again, then once more. The lock reversed back into place, the handle spinning back. There was a low curse, and the feet disappeared.

  But I knew he’d be back.

  My gaze went back to the screen. A grumpy curmudgeon was far preferable to a would-be rapist.

  Recalling what he’d said about my attitude, I was certain he wouldn’t even accept my chat request.

  Swallowing my pride, I clicked on the post and opened a chat window.

  Charly: Is the job still available?

  Chapter 3

  MAXX

  I sat at the old desk, running a hand through my hair. It had been another busy day—another day of falling behind on all the things that needed to be done. I grabbed a bottle of water and drained it, tossing it into the recycle bin.

  I clicked the mouse, checking the computer. I needed to order some parts and get to the bank. I needed to do a lot of things that I never seemed to have the time or energy for these days.

  I clicked on the job site, scanning through the messages. I’d had a dozen replies to the ad, all of which I dismissed quickly. Four were bogus, and one shared far too much personal information. A few wanted way more money than I offered. A couple frightened me, the women responding too old to be working. They were looking for a place to live, not a job. I didn’t have time to look after anyone. The others weren’t serious, which pissed me off. I didn’t have time to deal with idiots. The guy who had sent me a message last night had been a bit of a surprise. He certainly had an attitude and told me what he thought of my posting. He’d made me laugh, to be honest. It was a little sexist when I reread it, but I hadn’t had time to change it today. I disliked technology, mostly because I didn’t understand most of it. When I was younger, I was far more interested in the mechanics of an engine and spent all my time in the garage with my dad. I could use technology I was trained on for mechanics—the rest I found overwhelming and, frankly, annoying. Facebook, Instagram, websites—all of it. I used what I had to, but I also knew I needed someone with more experience to help me figure it out.

  I was surprised to see a new message from Charly. Even more surprised when I saw he was asking if the job was available. At least, I thought that was his question—part of me wondered if he just wanted to spar again. Before responding, I checked his profile, seeing it gave little information, except he had experience in office management and was seeking a job immediately. Both of those pieces of information were welcome. Otherwise, it was set to private with no picture or other personal details.

  Cycleman: Is this a general inquiry so you can criticize or a real question?

  Charly: It’s a real question. It is a job, right? I need to be clear on that.

  Cycleman: What else would it be?

  Charly: Your post makes it sound like you’re looking for a spouse. If so I’m not the right one for you. I mean, Girl Friday—a little outdated.

  He was right. It was outdated. But I didn’t want to waste any more time since I already knew his opinion.

  Cycleman: You made that clear last night. My first time posting. I need someone to look after my shop and the house. The title was something I was familiar with.

  Charly: Maid/Go-fer might be the best description.

  Cycleman: Okay, fine. I am not looking for a spouse. At all. How about Assistant? Can you work with that description? Are you interested? I’m a busy man.

  Charly: Busy—so you’ve said before. Keep your shirt on. I’m interested. I have a lot of experience in running an office and keeping a house clean. Been on my own for years. I can do both. Not a fancy cook, but you won’t starve. And I can bake a pie. How big is your dog?

  I pursed my lips. At least he was asking questions now. I replied.

  Cycleman: He’s a Golden Lab. Big but friendly.

  Charly: Okay. I like Labs.

  Cycleman: Do you have a resume?

  Charly: attached

  I opened and scanned it. It told me very little about the person, although I could see he had been working for over five years. The name on the top said C.L. Hooper and a phone number, but there was no address. The date of birth gave me pause. He was only twenty-five—twelve years younger than me. I rubbed my chin, deciding that didn’t matter. As long as he worked hard, I didn’t care. He was going to be an employee, not a friend. I was pleased to see a mechanic shop listed under past employment. I hated to admit it, but so far, he was the only viable candidate.

  Cycleman: You worked in a garage? You know engines?

  Charly: I get by. Not an expert. I was in the office more than under the hood.

  I grunted in satisfaction. I didn’t want a mechanic, but someone who understood what I did was a bonus.

  Charly: There is a reference from my last boss attached.

  I scanned the document from Peter Phelps. Loyal, hardworking, honest, bondable were the keywords I picked up on. Those were important traits to me—especially now. The fact that he stated he would hire C.L. Hooper again in a heartbeat spoke well. There was a phone number to call for further details, so I could check that this was legitimate. As soon as I had time.

&
nbsp; Cycleman: Why did you leave your job?

  Charly: Company folded.

  I paused, then made a decision. I needed someone, and Charly needed a job. He seemed like an okay kid. A little mouthy, but we could work on that.

  Cycleman: The hours are long, and I expect you to work hard.

  Charly: Hard work doesn’t bother me. You said board was included?

  Cycleman: Yes.

  Charly: Does the door lock?

  That seemed a strange question, but I supposed a valid one.

  Cycleman: Yes.

  Charly: Okay.

  Cycleman: You will have to drive to get groceries and pick up supplies.

  Charly: Heavy lifting?

  Cycleman: Is that a problem?

  Charly: Yes, I have a disc problem.

  I paused. I didn’t want some idiot I was going to have to baby.

  Cycleman: Okay, we can work around that.

  Charly: Where are you located?

  Cycleman: Outside of Lomand. A small town.

  Charly: Lomand is a small town.

  Cycleman: This one is even smaller. Not much around.

  Charly: No problem.

  I sat back and studied the screen. He seemed like a decent guy. He asked fairly intelligent questions and his profile had a good ranking. He’d never given anyone a problem, and the people he’d connected with had scored him high on ratings.

  Cycleman: Are you interested? Pay is $1000/month plus board. One-month trial.

  I waited a few moments as the screen remained blank, then the reply appeared. I was prepared to go a little higher but waited to see his reaction.