Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Deciding to give her a few moments to herself, I stayed back at the warehouse, cleaning up the fluff from the lamb, but leaving the toy itself on the bed, refilling the water, and waiting for them to return.
Clearly, Saylor had a lot of frustration to walk off, because she was gone for forty-five minutes before she came back with an exhausted-looking Fury, who came over to get a big drink before dropping down on her bed.
Saylor moved around, preparing food that Fury was too tired to eat before finally turning toward me, but I was pretty sure her gaze was on my chin. “I want coffee. Then I will show you my idea,” she said, brushing past me to pet Fury’s head one last time before moving outside, not even waiting for me as she took off down the block.
Coffees in hand, we took a subway back to Washington Heights, then a cab that drove us right down the street where the row houses were.
“Saylor, the fuck? We can’t be here,” I said, voice low so the cabbie didn’t hear.
“Trust me,” she said as the cab idled next to a car parked on the street two buildings up from the row houses, but across the street. “Come out this side,” she said as I slid money to the driver, then followed her out.
She strode up to the door of the building, not so much as glancing backward toward the row house, and knocked on the door to the building.
It opened maybe a moment later.
“Sam!” the woman greeted, making my brows shoot up as Saylor offered her hand.
“Thanks for meeting us on such short notice,” Saylor told her, all smiles that didn’t meet her eyes.
“Of course! I don’t even know how you heard about the vacancy so soon,” the woman said, and Saylor shot me a smirk as the woman turned to guide us toward the elevator.
I had a feeling I knew how she’d heard about it so soon.
And I wondered if she had to promise to choke down some awful pizza rolls to get that information.
“It’s a cozy studio,” the woman prattled on as we rode the elevator up to the third floor, “with an updated bath and partially furnished,” she told us as she produced a key, then pushed open a door that likely had a killer fucking view of the row house we wanted to keep an eye on.
In real estate terms, ‘cozy’ was just a nice way of saying miniscule. I was pretty sure the entire studio could fit into the bedroom of my apartment, and my place wasn’t all that roomy either.
There was a bare mattress sitting on an ancient metal frame against the wall and a cheap gray big box store couch, all too-stiff cushions and cheap stitching, pushed up against the windows to the street. We both moved in that direction as the woman talked about the kitchen appliances that we wouldn’t be using at all.
“Oh, yes, lovely view, isn’t it?” she asked, coming up behind us when she realized she’d lost our attention as we both watched as someone moved out of the front door of the row house, puffing casually on a cigarette, completely oblivious that he was being watched.
Eventually, we both followed the woman and her clicking heels to the kitchen, then bathroom she’d mentioned that looked like it was maybe updated in the nineties.
Not that it mattered for our purposes.
“We’ll take it,” Saylor declared as we moved out into the studio again. “I believe I heard that short-term rentals were preferable.”
“Well, the owner is thinking of selling,” the woman admitted, nervously tucking some of her white-blonde hair behind her ear.
“That’s perfect for us,” Saylor declared. “Do you want me to pay for three months up front?” she asked.
“Oh,” the woman said. “Oh, my. I will have to draft up the paperwork,” she said, flustered.
“That will be perfect,” Saylor agreed, nodding, eager to get it over with.
“How much was it for the three months again?” I asked, wondering if I had enough cash on hand to pay it.
“Oh, yes, uhm, it was sixteen-ninety per month. So that’s…”
“Five-thousand-seventy,” I said, getting a brow raise from Saylor. “Will cash work for you?” I asked.
“Yes, of course. Of course. Okay. How about you two meet me in the office in an hour? I should have everything ready for you by then.”
“Perfect,” Saylor said as we all moved back out of the apartment and rode the elevator down to the main level.
The woman, Rhonda, said her goodbyes, then rushed off to work on the paperwork as we stood in the entryway.
“There’s a back exit,” Saylor told me, moving down the opposite hall that led to the mail and laundry rooms, then out into a small back alley where the trash cans were all lined up. “Five-thousand-seventy, huh?” she asked as we started to walk away from the street where the row houses were located.