CHAPTER 1

C H A P T E R O N E

I was using my computer at my home office the next morning.

I ought to have been at my job. In the upcoming two weeks, I had three deadlines, and I hadn't even started the job yet. I worked as a contract editor. I was paid per hour, and I didn't get paid if I didn't work that hour.

I had my own mouth to feed. I needed to dress a body that enjoyed wearing many types of clothing and sought them; else, bad things may happen. I am addicted to cosmo, and the cosmos was not really cheap. In addition, I am remodeling a house.

I, therefore, had to be compensated.

That wasn't exactly accurate, but... I wasn't doing any housework. My Dad helped with part of the labor. My pal Enrico worked on other projects. I should clarify that I had a house that I had people fix up by using emotional coercion, guilt trips, and begs.

However, it still required repair, and the tile and cabinets that came from Home Depot, Lowe's, and other retailers did not march into my home and announce, "We would really like to live with you, Giabella Gomez, fix us to your walls!"

That only occurred in my numerous, often daydream-like dreams, of which I had many.

I was fantasizing about my Mysterious Lover, the Great ML, and fantasized about altering our first encounter while I sat at my computer with one heel on the seat, my chin resting on my knee, and my eyes fixed on the window. He professed his eternal love for me because I was smarter, funnier, more mysterious, seductive, and fascinating. I also hooked him with my rapier wit, conversational skills, ability to talk politics and current affairs intelligently, and my humble stories of extensive charitable work.

Or at the very least, give me his name.

I was obviously not any of those; instead, I was intoxicated.

My complex daydream, which was starting to become nice, was interrupted when my doorbell went off, first with a chime and then a clang.

I then stood up and left my office, making a mental note to phone Enrico and ask him to fix my doorbell in exchange for a six-pack and a handmade pizza. Though I had originally planned to contact my Dad, I changed my mind because this may imply that he would bring his unpleasant, whining, continuously complaining new girlfriend.

When I reached the bottom of my stairs, I entered my spacious living room and proceeded to ignore the state of it. Fix Up Chic had been used to decorate it, so there were dust rags, paint brushes, power tools, not-so-power tools, cans and tubes of practically everything, all of which were disorganized and dusted with dust. I considered it progress when I managed to go across the area without raising my hands to my head, clutching my hair, or yelling.

I arrived at the entrance, which was bounded by two slender walls that were each adorned with exquisite stained glass.

That stained glass was my downfall two years ago.

I took one step inside this dilapidated wreck of a house two years ago, around six months and two weeks before I met my Mysterious Lover, noticed the stained glass, turned to the agent, and said, "I'll take it."

The realtor's expression had changed.

Even before entering the home, my father raised his eyes to the sky. He prayed for a very long time. His speech was lengthy.

I nonetheless purchased the home.

I should have actually listened to my father as usual.

I peeked out the door's thin side window and noticed Arlene, my sister's friend, standing there.

Shit.

Holy shit, Holy shit, Holy shit.

I despised Arlene, and she despised me. What on earth is she here and ringing up my doorbell?

I looked behind her to check whether my sister was hidden or lurking in the shrubs. I wouldn't be surprised if Isabelle and Arlene jumped me, tied me to the stairwell, and looted my house. This was how Isabelle and Arlene spent their days in my darkest fantasies. This, I was certain, was not far from the truth. It's not a joke.

Her eyes came to me at the window, her face screwed up, making what might be attractive, if she used a lighter touch with the black eyeliner and blush, and her lip liner wasn't a completely different shade than her lip gloss, not so pretty.

"I see you!" she said, and I moaned.

Then I walked to the door because Arlene would yell at the house, and I loved my neighbors; they didn't need a ten thirty in the morning, biker bitch from hell standing on my doorstep and yelling at the house.

I opened it only little and walked to stand between it and the jamb, my hand on the handle.

"Hello Arlene," I said, trying to seem nice and happy with myself.

"F*ck 'hello,' is Isabelle here?" said Arlene.

See! She spent her entire day looting.

I had to work hard to keep my eyes from rolling.

"No," I said.

"She's here, you better tell me," she cautioned, then turned to face me and yelled, "Isabelle! Witch, if you're in there, you better get out here right frickin' now!"

"Keep your voice down, Arlene!" I yelled.

She craned her neck and jumped on her toes, shouting,

"Isabelle! Isabelle, you crazy, foolish witch! Get your butt out here!"

"Seriously, Arlene, shut your freaking mouth up! Isabelle isn't here. Isabelle is never here. So shut up and leave," I said as I shoved out the door, pushing her back.

"You shut up," she snapped back. "And you get smarter. You're helping her..." She lifted her hand, pointing her finger at me, thumb extended upwards, then hooked her thumb and produced a gunshot noise that blew up her cheeks and made her lips tremble.

If the serious as shit expression in her eye wasn't frightening the snot out of me, I would have taken a time to think about how wonderful she was with vocal sound effects.

So, instead of praising her on the one genuine gift I knew she possessed, I said, "What?"

She dropped her hand, stood up on her motorcycle boots, and muttered softly, "D-e-a-d, dead. You and your sister, if you don't get wise. You get me?"

Then I asked a stupid question because it was commonly asked and there was always just one answer, yes.

"Is Isabelle in any sort of trouble?"

Arlene looked at me as if I had a loose screw. Then she elevated her hand, made the gun sound effect, and aimed her finger at my head. She then turned around and walked down my front stairs quickly.

I was standing on my front porch, looking at her. She was dressed in motorcycle boots, a snugly tank top, an unzipped, black leather motorcycle jacket, a short, tattered jeans skirt, black fishnet tights, and motorcycle boots, all of which are illegal in some countries due to various reasons, including fashion and decency. It was also about twenty degrees outside. Not even a hoodie was worn by her.

My sister and Arlene's sound effect sounded in my remainder of my mind as well.

Shit. Shit. Shit.