“Right? But he’s still her boss and she’s still the employee he screwed his wife and family over for. I think it’s rather ironic that he deals in erectile dysfunction medications. Of course he needs a trophy wife to parade around so everyone knows he can still get it up. It’s embarrassing.”

“I can see why New York would’ve been alluring, and still is.”

“Honestly, I probably would have murdered her had I stayed in Rhode Island, so moving was really the only viable option.”

“Very practical, and far less complicated than murder,” Bancroft says. I almost wish we were on video chat so I could see his smile.

“Exactly. I don’t think I’m designed for murder. I mean, I love watching horror movies, but I can barely manage preparing meat, so I think I probably would’ve sucked at getting rid of the body.”

Bancroft laughs. Then yawns.

“Am I boring you with my tales of murder?”

“I’m so sorry. I think the carbs and the jet lag are finally hitting me.”

“I’ll let you go so you can get a few hours of sleep before you have to be up for meetings.”

“It’s probably a good idea. I’ll touch base later in the week, okay?”

“Okay. Bye, Bancroft.”

“You know, you can call me Bane.”

“Like the bane of my existence?”

That gets me another sleepy, gravelly sounding laugh. “Is that what I am?”

“Not even a little. You’re my white knight in shining armor, saving me from living in a box on the corner, singing on the subway to earn a living.” As much as it’s supposed to be a joke, he really is the only thing keeping me from having to move back to Rhode Island for at least the next month.

“I’m not so sure I deserve that title, considering my role in sabotaging your last audition,” he says ruefully.

“I’m confident this makes up for it.”

“That eases my guilty conscious more than you can know. Night, Ruby.” The warmth in his voice wraps around me like a hug.

“Night, Bane.”

Chapter 10: Luckless

RUBY

I don’t hear from Bancroft for the next two days apart from a few text messages asking how things are going. So he’ll know they’re alive, I send him pictures of Francesca and Tiny, with little thought bubbles proclaiming their love for me. Bancroft thinks it’s funny.

After that the phone calls come almost nightly. Bancroft has taken to calling me around dinnertime—well, dinnertime for me, but since he’s across the ocean it’s more like bedtime for him. Which I don’t mind in the least. Especially since, two nights ago, he video called instead of voice called because he missed seeing Francesca. If I put him on speakerphone while she’s in the room she goes nuts, and I wanted him to see how cute she is.

Both times we’ve video chatted he’s been wearing a white undershirt that hugs the muscles in his chest and outlines the incredible abs hidden underneath the thin fabric. I don’t get to see what he’s wearing from the waist down since we’re clearly not staring at each other’s crotches while we talk, but I like to picture him in boxer briefs that also hug all the good parts and outline his package nicely.

Dinner conversation usually starts with Bancroft asking about Francesca and Tiny, then I ask him how his day was, he tells me all about things his brother does to drive him insane and I point out he does a lot of the same things.

When he asks how the job hunt is going for me I tell him it’s great. I’ve managed to line up two auditions for next week, but both of the roles are small, and not likely to be enough for me to come up with a down payment for any kind of apartment, let alone allow me to start paying down my debts.

Two days ago I secured part-time employment in a bar serving drinks. I had reservations about the place, partly because the manager hired me on the spot with barely a glance at my résumé. Apparently my “bad plan” radar was accurate.

I lasted all of one shift. Not because I’m incapable of serving drinks and bar food, but because being propositioned by the manager during my first shift did not bode well for the long term. I pocketed the $120 in tips and walked.

I’m trying to stay positive. I have the auditions. I still have time. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

* * *

Over the next week, I take the job-hunting business seriously. When I’m not playing with Francesca, or letting Tiny crawl up and down my arm, I spend most of my days scouring the Internet for potential auditions and seeking agent representation or passing out my résumé at every damn place I can think of.

I bomb the first audition. Just choke. Like literally. I’m in the middle of my audition, singing my heart out when all of a sudden I’m choking on something. I double over coughing and spit out a giant housefly, covered in my saliva. It’s everything I can do not to throw up on stage again.

The night before my second audition I get nervous. For good reason. I feel like I’m jinxed. I’ve been practicing my dance routine all afternoon and I have it down perfectly. I know every step, every word to the song. I can perform it in my sleep. I don’t take any chances with food. I eat Cup-a-Soup and drink hot lemon water. Bancroft tells me to break a leg. It’s supposed to be good luck. But I go to sleep feeling uneasy anyway.

I wake up in the middle of night screaming bloody murder because I have a nightmare that I left the lid off Tiny’s terrarium and she escaped her habitat. In my dream I felt something crawling on me and I jumped out of bed stepping on something warm and squishy. In reality I do jump out of bed, but the warm and squishy thing is a wet washcloth I left on the floor after I’d given myself my nightly pre-bed Bancroft-inspired orgasm. In my haste to get away from the terrifying washcloth I slipped on the floor and landed on my ass.

I should’ve known from the lack of sleep, the bad dream, and the bruised bottom that the audition was going to be a failure.

The next day I nearly do break a leg, just like Bancroft told me to. The dance routine I know so well goes sideways when I faceplant on the stage in the middle the routine thanks to a rogue puddle of water. I go home—or back to the condo—feeling doomed. It’s as if karma is giving me the middle finger.

When I get home from my epically terrible day where I not only embarrass myself on stage, but also get turned down for not one, but three cashier positions—word to the wise: a Triple-Threat Award does not make one universally employable—all I want to do is curl up in bed and forget this day ever happened.