When I enter the brownstone I live in, I unwrap Ingrid's scarf off my hips. Earlier, I showed Ingrid what had happened to my skirt, she didn't laugh and I love her for that. Serious concern replaced her usual cheery disposition, and she worked fast, using her silk Italian scarf to cover my exposed bottom. I promised to return it as soon as I got it dry-cleaned, but she waved the idea away.

"Hello? Stella?" I call out for my friend and housemate...er, landlady. If Stella hadn't taken pity on me when my last relationship had ended, I'd be living in the streets. Instead, I'm renting a room out of her three-bedroom Victorian house in one of Chicago's hip neighborhoods.

Stella's spiky heels tap on the wooden staircase. "Hey, how was work?"

"SSSD," I say, shrugging.

A confused but entertained look crosses her face.

"Same Shit Same Day...oh, except for this." I turn around and show her my bum.

"Oh no! Not the cute skirt! What happened?" She continues to descend the stairs, swinging a leather crop in one hand. Her hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, and her breasts are presented well in a leather corset. My landlady moonlights as a Dominatrix. I've never seen her in action but I'm guessing she's great at it, since she owns this enviable piece of property in Lincoln Park.

I shrug out of my jacket and slump on the couch, while Stella props one long, lean leg on the ottoman and fixes one thigh-high boot. The first time I found out what she does for a living, I was more than shocked to say the least, but I got over it quickly once I got to know her. Stella's as sweet as they come. She's never brought home a guy since I moved in with her, but I guess all the action happens at her work, a BDSM club downtown. She's a private girl and I respect that. It comes with the Domme title, I suppose. Some days Stella regales me with funny stories—never about her or her clients, but about other members of the club.

"It was horrible, Stel. Remember the new ARC owner?" I drop my head on the back of the sofa.

"Yeah, big, fat, balding guy?"

I snicker. Right, I forget I shared my thoughts to Stella. "Well, he's none of that. I think he shaves his head, but he's so hot the sun would kneel before him."

My description captures Stella's attention. "Oh?" She flicks the end of the riding crop on her palm.

"Like you wouldn't believe. I think I drooled when I saw him. Anyway, we had this staff meeting, and I was late." I pause and huff. "So he made me stay after the meeting."

Stella's eyes twinkle with interest. "This doesn't sound horrible."

"You just wait." Trying to hide my shame, I prop my arm on my forehead and tell her the rest, finishing with, "Bam! I fell flat on my face! And that's when my damn skirt ripped."

"Bum up? You must have given him quite a show."

"Puh-lease. It was so embarrassing. Good thing I always wear clean undies. But...I still have my job, so yay." I feign excitement, shaking my fingers in the air.

"That's good." Stella slips on her trench coat, tightening the belt with a perfect square knot around her small waist. "I made goulash and opened the bottle we bought the other night."

"Thank you. You're a goddess!" I push myself up, ready to strip out of my clothes and spend a night in my jammies, appeasing myself with said goulash and wine.

She gasps. "What's that?"

I look down at what she's pointing at, and laugh. "Oh yeah. This...is Taco Tuesday."

* * *

Cotton jammies on, red wine in hand, I pull an afghan over my naked feet and prop my laptop on my thighs. As great a housemate Stella is, she doesn't believe in TV. I get my daily dose of entertainment online. But nothing holds my attention tonight. My mind is further away from zombies invading the great U.S. of A.

I click open a browser and start a Google search I shouldn't even be thinking about. Call me rebel.

Theodore Solomon, 521,000 results.

This could take a while. The images show mostly the bald, fat, old men I'd originally expected. Buying ARC did not come cheap, I know that much. Theodore Solomon's net worth has to be in the multi-millions, if not billions, so why can't I find a thing on the man or the acquisition? Did I dream him? Heat ebbs in my belly when the memory of another body's warmth pervades my mind. He's not even here and I can still feel him.

Stubbornly, I continue my search, trying out different word combinations, until finally, something promising appears. However, it's not what I expect to see.

FIERY CRASH KILLS TWO, SERIOUSLY INJURES CHILD

It's dated twelve years ago. Is this what I want to find out? I hover the cursor over the headline. As I'm about to click on the link, I get a new email notification. Despite my mind's warning that I would regret it, I open the email and read a panicked message from Ingrid:

Can't find the contracts. I need it tonight. Help!

What would people do without my devotion to this temporary position? Instead of answering her email, I grab my phone and send her a quick text.

What happened? I left it on your desk.

Her reply comes just as quickly.

It's not here. I looked everywhere!

This is, unfortunately, nothing new. Ingrid is one kick-ass designer, but she's highly unorganized. I blame it on her growing up constantly dependent on other people—maids, nannies, drivers, gophers, and now me. What's she even doing at work this late? I vaguely recall her making dinner plans...with Teddy, no doubt.

Before I can stop myself, I tell her I'll come help find the missing contracts. My other search will have to wait.

***

End of Chapter Two, part one. Please let me know if you're liking it. It helps me decide how often I should post new chapters.