Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 92336 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92336 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
I collapsed back and managed to fall asleep for an hour.
The mid-morning sun streamed through the window. Blinking my groggy eyes open, I noticed the barking had stopped. The animals must have been out for a walk.
I had a couple of hours before I was due to report to work, so I decided to look up the phone number for the building owner. There was a management office in the building, but the woman who worked there was pretty lax. Suspecting she wouldn’t take my barking complaint seriously, I figured I’d go straight to the top. I’d only ever dealt with the woman in the rental office and had never spoken to the landlord.
An internet search pulled up the name D.H. Hennessey, LLC. There was a phone number to contact them, but it opened to a general voice mailbox with an automated greeting. I wanted to talk to someone in person, so I hung up without leaving a message. I noticed that the address listed was on the first floor of this building. Deciding to head down there, I slipped on a dress and some shoes and brushed my hair.
Knocking on the door, I took a deep breath then waited. When the door opened, the sight of him nearly made me fall over.
Angry Artist was standing there, shirtless and wearing that damn beanie again. My heart was pounding. Sweat was pouring down his chiseled chest, and I swore my mouth actually watered.
“Can I help you?” It was the same thing he’d asked me when he opened his apartment door. This felt like déjà vu, an episode of The Twilight Zone or a bad dream where no matter which door I opened, he would be there.
“What are you doing here?”
“This is my place.”
“No. Your apartment is next door to mine.”
“That’s right. That’s my apartment. This is my place. My art studio and gym.”
“This was the address listed for the landlord.”
A wry smile spread across his face. Suddenly, I felt like the stupidest person in the world as it dawned on me: he was the landlord. That was why the prick had encouraged me to issue a formal complaint.
“You’re D.H. Hennessey…”
“Yes. And you’re Chelsea Jameson. Excellent credit, great references…chronic complainer.”
“Well, this explains a lot…how you’re able to get away with defacing the property and being an overall asshole to your neighbors.”
“I would hardly compare my creating art to defacing property. Have you not looked around this entire neighborhood? It’s an art mecca. Mine is far from the only mural. And you’re overreacting about the dogs. So, the real asshole in this situation? Debatable.”
Behind him, I could see multiple canvases of spray-painted artwork as well as a weight bench and other workout equipment.
“Where are the dogs now?”
“They’re napping.”
“Dogs nap?”
“Yes. They nap. They’re catching up on sleep because your bitching kept them up this morning.” He cracked a smile. That made me realize just how much this exchange was actually amusing him.
“Clearly the D stands for dick?”
He didn’t immediately respond, and a little staring contest ensued before he said, “The D stands for Damien.”
Damien.
Of course he had to have a hot name, too.
“Damien…like from that movie The Omen? Fitting.” I looked around. “Why do you list this space as your address for tenants?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I don’t want crazy people who compare me to the anti-Christ showing up at my residence at all hours.”
I couldn’t help but laugh a little. This was a lost cause. “Alright, well, clearly this visit was in vain, so enjoy your workout.”
***
That afternoon, members of the San Francisco Symphony paid a visit to the youth center. They put on a small performance just for us. Watching the smiles on the kids’ faces as they toyed around with the fancy instruments served as yet another reminder of how much I loved my job.
While everyone was focused on our guests, I noticed one of the teens, Ariel Sandoval, hiding crouched down in a corner with her phone. Wireless devices were against center rules, since this was supposed to be a place for learning. The teenagers with phones had to leave them in a bin at the front desk and retrieve them on the way out.
“Ariel, is everything alright? You should really be engaging with everyone else.”
She shook her head no. “I’m sorry. I know I’m not supposed to have my phone. But I need it. And no, I’m not okay.”
I sat down on the ground next to her. The floor was cold against my butt. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Kai. I’m stalking Facebook now to see if anyone’s tagged him.”
Her boyfriend, Kai, was also a regular here and played on the center’s basketball team. He was the object of more than one girl’s affections. When I discovered Ariel and Kai were dating, it worried me, not only because of their ages—they were both fifteen—but because of Kai’s popularity.