Page 91 of By A Thread

My ears turned on their whomp whomp whomp filter as the woman in Marc Jacobs explained about transposed numbers on the routing number.

“So what does this mean?” I asked, blinking out of my stupor.

“It means your paycheck won’t be deposited until Monday.”

In my head, I ran through every swear word I knew. Even some I wasn’t sure about.

“I can take a check. Or cash.” Or one of those sparkling bracelets she was wearing that jangled when she moved her hand.

Desperation sweat steamed up my armpits.Just so you know, folks, Dollar Store deodorant doesnotcut it in stressful situations.

Marc Jacobs Lady flashed me another sympathetic look. “There’s nothing I can do at this point. You’ll just have to wait until Monday.”

Wait until Monday.

I had stretched the nursing home’s grace period as far as it would go without snapping it like a rubber band. Tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. the late fees plus a good faith payment had to be made. I had to cough up $5,327.94. Or else.

I turned and walked out without another word. Into a hallway with beautiful people in beautiful clothes who had never been hungry, never had to choose between food and heat. Or food and their father’s well-being.

It was amazing how many people didn’t know what real desperation felt like. It was incredible that this was the first time in my thirty-nine years that I was feeling it. I’d had a life. A father who loved me. A career. Savings. God. That felt like ages ago rather than six short months.

I had almost $2,000 squirreled away. My paycheck was supposed to cover the rest.

What was I going to do between now and tomorrow to come up with more than $3,000 in less than twenty-four hours?

Maybe I could throw myself on Front Desk Deena’s mercy and beg for more time?

On cue, my cell phone rang. It was the nursing home’s office calling. Panic tickled at my throat.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Morales.” Deena’s wicked witch of New Jersey voice turned my blood to ice. “I was just calling to see if I needed to instruct the nursing staff to start packing your father’s possessions today.” She sounded downright cheerful.

“That won’t be necessary.” I choked out the words.

“Well, isn’t that good news?” she said, her tone making it clear that she didn’t believe me. “If it’s more convenient for you, I’d be happy to accept your check today.”

I gulped. “Tomorrow is good.” I needed every second between now and then.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at nine sharp,” Deena said. It might have been my imagination, but I thought I heard her cackle just before she hung up.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Reeling, blinded by unshed tears, I started to move.

I cut the corner short and bounced off a hard, vested chest like a pinball. But he didn’t catch me. It was the other man next to him that steadied me.

“Ally, right? Are you okay?” he asked. Christian James. Designer. Dimples. I bet he wouldn’t reject me if I handed over my panties. My brain was a roller coaster of confusion and then fear. I’d failed. Dad was going to lose his bed because of me.

“Fine,” I lied, the word coming out like I was being strangled. Choking on my own failure. My neck felt hot and itchy.

“Ally, what’s wrong?” Dominic was wrestling me out of Christian’s gentle grip.

I couldn’t catch my breath.Label’sclassy walls were closing in on me. Dominic’s blue, concerned eyes.

I wrenched free from him. “Nothing,” I wheezed. He reached for me again, and I shook my head before fleeing for the door to the stairs.

Afraid he’d follow me, I went up instead of down at a run. By the time I hit the roof and burst through the door into the biting cold, I was on fumes. Mentally, emotionally, physically. This was it. Rock bottom. If rock bottom happened on top of a skyscraper in Midtown in February.