Page 13 of A Quick Buck

“I don’t know how,” Noah confessed.

“Rich boy problems are not my problems.” Crybaby eyed him. “I bet you don’t even know how to run a dishwasher, do you?”

Noah scoffed. “So?”

“You ever washed a load of clothes?”

“Ew. No.”

“You even fuckin’ cook anything?” Junior asked.

“I dunno. Maybe some ramen.” Noah didn’t like how they were looking at him. “Fuck off! Come on. I never learned any of that stuff, okay?”

No one was around to teach me.

A pang of sadness struck Noah, and he buried it deep.

Dead parents and an uncle who would rather write a check than spend a second of his precious time pretending to be a family hadn’t exactly given Noah much access to learning any important life skills. He knew what brands were in style, what celebrities to follow on social media, and how many shots were in a fifth, but actual adulting?

Not so much.

It hadn’t bothered Noah before now. He had never hung out with people who cared about whether or not he knew what buttons to push on a washing machine. They were more concerned with how much money he had or what kind of clothes he was wearing. He didn’t understand why Crybaby and Junior were snubbing him, and he hated the sense of inadequacy it created.

“Come on,” he pleaded. “Help a guy out. I’m being held prisoner by psychopaths, and I’m hungry. Like, so very hungry. Look at me. I’m wasting away.”

“Boohoo.” Crybaby snorted. “This psycho is having a lot of difficulty feeling any pity for someone who’s never known what it’s really like to be hungry.”

“What are you talking about?” Noah opened the fridge. “I’m hungry all the time.”

Crybaby shook her head and grabbed a frying pan. She poured the egg mixture into the pan, pausing to check her phone.

A phone!

Noah tried not to stare too hard. He might not be able to get to his phone, but maybe he could swipe one of theirs. He grabbed an apple from the fridge, taking a bite and eyeing his potential targets.

Crybaby was effortlessly making an omelet, texting, and still giving Noah the stink eye.

Probably not her.

Junior, meanwhile, was chewing on his nails and spitting them on the floor.

Gross, but maybe? He didn’t seem that smart, but he was also sort of angry.

Noah chewed thoughtfully. If he was patient, an opportunity would present itself. He just had to wait for the right moment and take it.

“Who are you texting?” he asked Crybaby casually, still munching on his apple.

“The fuckin’ Pope.” Crybaby looked at Junior. “Scout says hey.”

“Tell her I said ‘hey’ back and thanks for thepasticciotto.”

“Pasticciotto?” Noah frowned. “The hell is that?”

“It’s a pastry, you dumb fuck.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you, you slick dick pretty boy ball suckin’ fuck!” Junior suddenly raged.