Wouldn't that make things easier? I needed to double super save now—more than I ever did before—just in case my blackmailer proved to be a diva and asked me to drive him all the way to Timbuk-fucking-tu. It was necessary to talk to him about his terms—and mine—and get all of it in writing. You can't fully trust people nowadays. Especially someone as slick as he was. I gripped my phone in my pocket. There had been no text, no call—nothing, nada, zilch—from him. I'd been looking at my phone on and off at work to the point of getting the stink eye from my manager Ramandeep. Couldn't blame her, really. It was driving me batshit crazy. When did he want me to pick him up? How often? Where? I'll let you know. What did he mean by that? Did he already have something in mind or his computer brain was still processing it? For him it was all about who had the upper hand. I would show him who had the upper hand. But first, I had to make him think I was following the rules. Thinking about him made me hungry. And when I was hungry, I was grumpy. Vlad said it would only take two weeks—three tops—for the parts to arrive and installed before his motorcycle was done. Then I'd be free. Can't wait! It was my mission in life now. I turned the corner, spotting Tala's house. It was an architecture beauty of stone and wood, with two tall pillars on the front porch. It would've been better if it wasn't painted the color of fresh salmon, and it could definitely go without the puke green trim. It needed flowers, I thought, pressing the doorbell. Colorful fat blooms on the porch, a couple of rocking chairs, traditional lanterns in bronze on each side of the door, repaint it a gorgeous shade of white and soft grey for the trim, and voila! Instant curb appeal. "Kara, honey, come in." Mrs. Bautista swivelled her wheelchair back as I stepped inside. "These are for you, Mrs. B." I handed her a box of her favourite donuts from the coffee shop, noting the dark circles under her eyes. Her black hair was pulled in a tight bun, accentuating the sharp angles of her thin face. Her clothes hung loosely on her body. "How are you feeling today?" "My arm's bothering me a little bit, but nothing I haven't dealt with before." She waved her hand in dismissal. "Tala's in the kitchen." "Over here, pimp!" Tala called out. "She didn't give you a massage today, did she? That lazy ass. Let's give you one in a few. Get the blood flowing a bit, huh?" She looked haggard today. She patted my hand and smiled. "You spoil me every time you come here." My mother had left me, but a lot of women had taken her place. Mrs. B was one of them. "I do this for a living," I said, referring to one of my many jobs. I had just quit my full-time position at the nursing home because it conflicted with my class schedule, but I told my manager that I'd like to be kept as casual. "I got mad skills. Mad massaging skills." I pushed Mrs. B's wheelchair to the kitchen, appreciating the delicious scent of Filipino food. Tala was at the stove, transferring food from a pot to a big bowl. "Ma made pancit." What Tala meant was that Mrs. B ordered her what to do while Tala cooked. Due to an accident, Mrs. B lost both her legs. She had full range of motion on both her arms, but her left one bothered her quite a bit. "Sit down, Kara. Tal, give her a plate." "I won't say no. I'm starving." "I made a vegetarian version just for you. Tal, pack some food for her dad and brother before she leaves." "Why don't we just give her the fridge?" "Your pantry too." I gestured my fork at Tala before taking a huge bite. Damn, this was good noodles. "Want some rice with that?" I looked at her plate which was a mountain of noodles on top of rice. I shook my hands. "Man, aren't you tired of rice? Even squirrels eat other shit"—I glanced at Mrs. B—"stuff, I meant stuff, Mrs. B. Aside from acorns." "Girl, don't you be throwing shade at my rice. I'd rather die than not eat rice. See, I know you're half Asian, but the problem is that your Asian soul never settled in your corporeal form. You're a fake Asian. Whatever. If you don't grasp my love affair with rice, you're a hopeless Asian." "That's because I'm part Spanish, Italian, French, and German too. I'm a mongrel. A mix. A kaleidoscope of everything unicorn-y." "Guess what? I wish I have unicorn blood. This way I can flap my wings away from your bullshit." "You love my bullshit. That's the truth." "Let me tell you the truth. I can eat meat the size of my finger, but my rice has to be the size of my head." "That's why she can't lose weight," her mom said. "She keeps on eating rice. I told her just one cup every meal. Then do it once a day as soon as she gets used to it, but she wouldn't listen. Talk to your friend, Kara." "Mrs. B," I said in a strict voice. I looked at her directly then I pointed at my ass. "Do you know how hard I wish I got her curves? Look at these babies,"—I shook my tits—"Look at hers. I wouldn't change a thing about her body." "You look like a model, Kara." "Why, thank you, Mrs. B. I do love how clothes look on me. That's why I have a love affair with them. Naked is a different story." Tala laughed and started cleaning up. "Don't clean up while Kara is still eating. You know what they say when you clean up while a single woman is eating." "What do they say, Mrs. B?" She knocked on wood. "You won't be able to marry." "Good! I'm finished anyway," I got up and brought my plate to the sink. If the image of my gorgeous as sin blackmailer's face came to mind, I told myself it didn't mean anything. "I'd just be a butterfly, hopping from one flower to the next." "Until someone catches you and breaks off your wings," Tala interjected. "Woah, woah. Such bitterness. What's wrong with you?" I wanted to talk to her about him, but it could wait until we were alone. Tala didn't talk until we were in her room and not before I helped Mrs. B use the commode, settle her on the bed, gave her a bed bath, a massage, and turned on the tv so she could watch her Filipino soaps. She was settled in for the night. I could do this in my sleep. When I was working at the nursing home, I had to get eight patients washed and ready before breakfast. In other nursing homes I worked at or the hospital, it was more. And night shifts could easily triple that number.