EPISODE NINE
THE ROUTINE
THE ROUTINE
The sunlight wakes me and I turn away from the window, which causes the throbbing pain in my head to explode. It feels like a hangover and a headache and a concussion all wrapped in a neat pain package. Pushing the covers off me, I rise from the bed to discover I'm naked and Peter sitting in a chair against the wall watching me.
"How did I get naked? What did you do to me?" I ask.
"Good morning to you too, sunshine," he says, lighting a cigarette. I grunt and stumble over to him and waiting for him to light me one as well.
Taking a deep drag, I look around the room. The only thing besides the bed is a small round writing desk in one corner. "Where are my notebooks? My computer?"
"George will have it set up this morning. He didn't want to wake you."
I smile and stretch my arms over my head. Peter's eyes are on my flesh and I growl and reach for the silk robe, covering myself. "Keep your attention on my business, not my body."
He nods, but keeps staring. I shrug and take a seat at the table, trying to make a list in my mind of all the things I'll need for my writing routine.
"I need marijuana. Like now," I say, looking up at him.
"Not my department," he answers, smiling at me. I must admit he is a handsome man. However, the bodyguards are off the menu.
With a sigh, I walk to my dressing room and put on jeans and a sweatshirt. Looks as if I'll have to find my own drugs. Men are so useless. I put my hand out towards Peter and wait for him to give me money. Without a word he puts a wad of cash in my palm and I storm out of the apartment. Slamming the door behind me, I make the short journey to the outside and stop on the steps. Scanning the parking lot in search of something, anything, I do not see the man sitting in a lounge chair on the gravel covered ground surrounding the building.
"What you looking for, shorty?" he asks.
I turn to see a young black man eyeing me, the tip of his tongue parting thin lips. I sigh again. I'm not in the mood. However, it occurs to me he might have weed.
Putting on my best smile, I flip my hair over a shoulder. "I need..."
"I know what you need," he says and motions for me to follow him inside. Standing, he holds the door open and stops at the first apartment. We are neighbors.
"How do you know?" I ask once he shuts the door.
Instead of an answer, I get a laugh in return as he raps a finger against the stereo to play music.
"How did I get naked? What did you do to me?" I ask.
"Good morning to you too, sunshine," he says, lighting a cigarette. I grunt and stumble over to him and waiting for him to light me one as well.
Taking a deep drag, I look around the room. The only thing besides the bed is a small round writing desk in one corner. "Where are my notebooks? My computer?"
"George will have it set up this morning. He didn't want to wake you."
I smile and stretch my arms over my head. Peter's eyes are on my flesh and I growl and reach for the silk robe, covering myself. "Keep your attention on my business, not my body."
He nods, but keeps staring. I shrug and take a seat at the table, trying to make a list in my mind of all the things I'll need for my writing routine.
"I need marijuana. Like now," I say, looking up at him.
"Not my department," he answers, smiling at me. I must admit he is a handsome man. However, the bodyguards are off the menu.
With a sigh, I walk to my dressing room and put on jeans and a sweatshirt. Looks as if I'll have to find my own drugs. Men are so useless. I put my hand out towards Peter and wait for him to give me money. Without a word he puts a wad of cash in my palm and I storm out of the apartment. Slamming the door behind me, I make the short journey to the outside and stop on the steps. Scanning the parking lot in search of something, anything, I do not see the man sitting in a lounge chair on the gravel covered ground surrounding the building.
"What you looking for, shorty?" he asks.
I turn to see a young black man eyeing me, the tip of his tongue parting thin lips. I sigh again. I'm not in the mood. However, it occurs to me he might have weed.
Putting on my best smile, I flip my hair over a shoulder. "I need..."
"I know what you need," he says and motions for me to follow him inside. Standing, he holds the door open and stops at the first apartment. We are neighbors.
"How do you know?" I ask once he shuts the door.
Instead of an answer, I get a laugh in return as he raps a finger against the stereo to play music.
The song isn't familiar and I listen to the lyrics as I watch him take a large bag of marijuana from a drawer under the stereo system. He takes the only chair in the room and begins rolling a blunt, while I stand and wait.
"This will chill you out, white girl," he says. He sounds confident. We shall see. He lights it for me and passes it, eyes scanning my body while I take a few deep hits.
In an instant the calm cloud spreads in my brain and I know he speaks the truth. After a third hit I feel a weakness in my legs and look around for a place to sit.
"How much do you need?" he asks, patting his leg for me to take a seat.
I don't argue, taking a spot on his lap and pushing the money I brought into his hands. Without counting it, he throws it onto a small coffee table before placing his hands on my waist. I look into his eyes, my mind swimming in a glorious haze. The touch of his fingertips against my arm feels like a million miles away. He slides a hand under my sweatshirt and I do nothing to stop him.
"I'll need this on the regular," I say, taking another deep hit while his hands roam and pinch and explore. "It's part of my writing routine."
"Whatever you say, shorty. They all gots reasons." He stops groping me long enough to jam a few large buds into a baggie and putting it on the table.
Pushing myself off him, I grab the bag and head for the door.
"Why you leaving?"
"Gotta do my writing," I say, taking the blunt with me.
"I'll give you something to write about, white girl," he says as I try to leave.
I stand in the entry, door open, contemplating his statement. Yes, he can give me something to write about today. With a smile, I close the door and lock eyes with him.
"Got any vodka?" I ask.
"This will chill you out, white girl," he says. He sounds confident. We shall see. He lights it for me and passes it, eyes scanning my body while I take a few deep hits.
In an instant the calm cloud spreads in my brain and I know he speaks the truth. After a third hit I feel a weakness in my legs and look around for a place to sit.
"How much do you need?" he asks, patting his leg for me to take a seat.
I don't argue, taking a spot on his lap and pushing the money I brought into his hands. Without counting it, he throws it onto a small coffee table before placing his hands on my waist. I look into his eyes, my mind swimming in a glorious haze. The touch of his fingertips against my arm feels like a million miles away. He slides a hand under my sweatshirt and I do nothing to stop him.
"I'll need this on the regular," I say, taking another deep hit while his hands roam and pinch and explore. "It's part of my writing routine."
"Whatever you say, shorty. They all gots reasons." He stops groping me long enough to jam a few large buds into a baggie and putting it on the table.
Pushing myself off him, I grab the bag and head for the door.
"Why you leaving?"
"Gotta do my writing," I say, taking the blunt with me.
"I'll give you something to write about, white girl," he says as I try to leave.
I stand in the entry, door open, contemplating his statement. Yes, he can give me something to write about today. With a smile, I close the door and lock eyes with him.
"Got any vodka?" I ask.
