Nick sat in his apartment, the cushions of the sofa soundly molded to his bare ass as he drank his second glass of Pepsi and peanuts. Three days had passed since he lost his job. He hadn’t heard back from any of his applications.

After being fired by Mr. Hayman, he had dutifully sent out dozens of applications to every security firm in the D.C., Maryland, and Virginia area, determined to find another job. He wasn’t one to sit around and be lazy. But no one wanted him. After his seventh rejection, he dreaded answering his phone.

Instead, he left the phone in his naked crotch and he held his drink in his hand, balanced precariously on his knee. Eventually, Mary started calling him and kept calling every half hour. He enjoyed ignoring his ex-wife’s nagging phone call almost as much as he enjoyed the vibration that she kept sending through his limp member.

You’re giving me more play than you did when we were married.

He laughed at the caller ID on his phone. “Mary – Bitch.” He chewed on the soda soaked peanuts from his glass. His flaccid manhood vibrated again.

“Unknown Number.”

He wasn’t going to be fooled by a blocked number or whatever tricks she could come up with.

Sneaky bitch.

His privates vibrated again. This time, it was a text message.

Call me back. -W.

“Who the hell?”

He tried hard to focus on the phone in his lap as if his stare would force all the riddles to right themselves. He looked at his drink, wishing he had something stronger. Swiping the screen, he opened the text message and dialed the number. The phone only rang once.

“Mr. Quinn?” A familiar voice answered smoothly, full of confidence and power.

“Yeah, you… you texted me?” It was hard to hide his surprise, but he tried nonetheless.

“Mr. Quinn, Lilith White. Be at my estate tomorrow morning. Six. Sharp.” The line went dead. It wasn’t a request.

Nick stared at the phone. Lilith White? What does she want? He looked at his drink and back at his phone, trying to figure out if there was a connection. There wasn’t anything harder than peanuts in it. Where the hell is her ‘estate’? It was 10 at night, according to his phone. He figured he had time before he needed to search the internet.

She could have at least texted me the address.

Back in the kitchen, he poured another Pepsi. He rummaged under his cabinet for his old whiskey. He needed something more substantial tonight. He told himself he wasn’t falling off the wagon, he just needed to take the edge off for the evening. As he poured it into the soda, the phone on the cabinet vibrated, this time with an address.