I find my phone under a shattered picture of my brother and his girlfriend and call Anne Evans.

  “Mom,” I say.

  “Roxie,” she responds with her worried voice. “Are you hurt, baby? What’s wrong?”

  “I got fired. And I’m pretty sure someone is trying to ruin me.”

  “Ruin you? Roxanne, what are you talking about.”

  “I don’t know, Mom. I tried to help this client, and she ended up lying and saying that I committed mortgage fraud,” I respond, explaining the entire situation with tears falling down my face.

  “Roxanne, it’s time to come home.”

  “Come home and do what?” I scream. “What about my lease? What about my life here?”

  “Roxanne, it’s time to come home,” she repeats in the same voice.

  I look at the phone. Annoyed. Sad. Pissed. Wanting her to just listen and not try to fix the situation.

  “Mom, Max is calling me. I’ll call you right back. Love you. Bye,” I say, hanging up the phone before she can get another word out. Max isn’t calling; I just can’t talk to her for another moment.

  DING. It’s another text from Michael. He’s been blowing me up since last night. But I haven’t had the strength to talk to anyone since being walked out of Excel Loans.

  Michael: Hey. Are you there? Did I do something to piss you off? Are you okay? Call me, I’d love to see you.

  Instead of responding, I log into Facebook and head to Michael’s Facebook page. There’s a new post. It’s a picture of me sleeping the night we met. The caption reads #newbae. I smile, double tap the home button, and look at his text messages.

  Me: Hey babe. I’m really sorry I ghosted you last night. I got fired from my job—long story. Would love to see you tonight. Come over around 7pm. I’ll cook dinner and we can watch Star Wars. K?

  Michael: Can’t wait to see you.

  My phone starts buzzing. It’s Mom calling again. I hit ignore. Drop my phone and roll back over in bed.

  ***

  I make a grocery list before heading out the door. I plan on making spaghetti with vegan meatballs. I hope Michael will like it because it’s my favorite dish and I make it at least once a week. I attempt to remote start my car before heading out, but for some reason it won’t start.

  Inside the car, I hit the brake pedal and push the button to start the car. But nothing happens. “FUCK!” I shout. This is turning out to be one of the worst weeks ever.

  Looking at the list, I really only need a few things—like noodles and tomato sauce. I decide to order an Uber. I have a $100 gift card for Uber from some random raffle that I need to spend before it expires.

  ***

  A car pulls up. “Roxie?” the driver asks.

  “That’s me,” I say.

  “I’m Jake, and I’ll be your Uber driver. I noticed we’re going to Kroger. Are you heading to work?” he asks.

  “Nope, I’m just heading there to grab a few things,” I say, looking at him through the mirror. Jake’s an older gentleman—probably 60 or 70 years old. Gray hair. Super skinny. Driving with his hands on the wheel at the ten and the two.

  “Well, ma’am, I don’t mind waiting for you and bringing you back home. All you have to do is send another request. I’ll respond and wait in the same spot I drop you off,” he says.

  “That would be awesome, thank you so much,” I respond.

  We arrive in less than seven minutes. I really probably could have walked to Kroger. “I’ll put in the new request, and I’ll be right back,” I say.

  I run in and grab a few items, then head to the self-checkout line. It’s really amazing how people can go through life now without speaking to another human being. Technology is insane. I ring up my items and go to pay, but my card is rejected.

  “Ma’am, your card was declined,” the store clerk says aloud in front of everyone.

  NO FUCKING SHIT. “I’ll try again,” I respond.

  “Knock yourself out,” she says, walking over to my station. But my card is rejected for the second time.

  “You can try up here,” she says, motioning for me to head up to her station.

  “Okay, thanks so much,” I say, handing her my card.

  “Nope, this card isn’t working. Would you like to try another one?” she asks.

  “No, I’m sorry,” I respond, then quickly walk out of the store. I have a cold sweat, but my face is burning hot from embarrassment. I know I have money in my account. I can’t be broke yet. What the hell have I been spending my money on?

  I jump back into the Uber driver’s car and ask him to take me home. “Where’s your groceries?” he asks. “I accidently forgot my wallet at the apartment,” I lie through my teeth to avoid feeling the humiliation of having had a rejected card all over again.

  “Oh, I’ll just take you home and bring you right back,” he says sweetly.

  “No, it’s okay. If you take me home, I’ll just order pizza. I don’t have time to cook anymore, unfortunately,” I lie, because it’s easier than telling the truth.

  My face is still hot from embarrassment. In the back of the car, I open up my Chase account and see that all my accounts have $0 balances. Instead of freaking out in the back of the Uber, I patiently wait the seven minutes it takes to drive back so that I can freak the fuck out at home. “Thanks so much. Have a great night,” I say while waving and jumping out of the car.

  I run into my apartment. It’s a flat on the nice side of town. I pay $1,850 a month, so it better be nice. I have two bedrooms, a giant living room, and a beautiful kitchen area where the window looks out at the river and New York City.

  I call Chase immediately, pressing “0” a million times instead of listening to the prompts.

  “Hello, this is Bridget with Chase, how may I assist you today?” a pleasantly voiced woman says over the phone.

  “Bridget, my name is Roxanne Evans, and all my money has been taken out of my accounts!” I bellow.

  “I’m so sorry that this happened to you, Roxanne. Do you mind if I get the last four of your social to verify your account?”

  I punch a wall. “9870,” I say back.

  “Thank you. I’ll also need you to verify your address.”

  “1740 Riverwood Drive. Apartment 5C. North Bergen, New Jersey.”

  “Thank you very much, Roxanne. So you’d like to report that your money was stolen?”

  “Yes, Bridget, my money was stolen out of my account.”

  “Roxanne, it appears there was a large withdrawal of $12,340.52 yesterday at a bank in North Bergen, New Jersey. Did you make that withdrawal?”

  “NO!” I scream, “I did not make that withdrawal! Otherwise I wouldn’t be calling you.”

  “Okay, Roxanne. Please hold one minute while I file this claim.”

  The hold music begins, and she puts me on hold for what seems like an eternity.

  “Roxanne, are you still there?”

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  “Okay, I filed a claim stating that $12,340.52 was withdrawn from your account, but you did not make the withdrawal. Within the next few days Chase will put the money back into your account while an investigation is done into what happened. I’ll also be sending you a new debit and credit card and changing your accounts. Those cards will arrive within two days,” Bridget tells me and continues to explain everything that will happen next.

  “Okay, thank you.”

  “Okay, is there anything else I can do to help you today?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Well thank you for being the best part of Chase. I hope you have a great day, okay?”

  I hang up the phone. Speechless.

  ***

  The doorbell rings. I look down at my watch and it’s already 7 p.m. I look through the peephole and it’s Michael.

  “Hi, baby,” I say, giving him a kiss and fighting back tears. “I’m sorry but we’re going to have to order pizza. Something is wrong with my bank account. All my accounts are empty.” I thought the words would flow out of my mouth sarcastically, but I’m really five seconds from having a meltdown.

  “What?” he asks in disbelief.

  “My life is just blowing up right now,” I say as tears start running down my face. He puts his arms around me and holds me tight.

  “Well, good thing is, I stalked your Instagram and brought your favorite movie so you don’t have to suffer through another Star Wars film,” he tells me as he pulls out a Just Wright DVD from behind his back.

  “How are you so perfect?” I say, grabbing his face, giving him a wet kiss from my tears.

  Michael takes it a step further, grabbing my face and sliding his tongue to the back of my throat, moving his hands down to my waist. He pushes me backwards, through the doorway, to my bedroom. Still kissing me, he slides off his shoes and starts unbuttoning my shirt.

  “Is this okay?” he asks innocently. I reach up for more kisses, whip off his belt, and slide down his pants.

  I push him backwards onto the bed and open the hole in his boxers, pulling his dick out. Kneeling in between his legs, I give it a kiss. I then put my mouth around the tip of his dick. I twirl my tongue around and then deep throat his penis. He’s gripping the bedspread, and I’m going up and down, switching between sucking and kissing his dick. Michael lifts me up by my underarms and throws me on the bed. Completely surprised by his strength, I push myself back on the bed, trying to regain my composure. He pulls off my jeans, then my thong, and tries to climb on the bed.

  I put my foot on his shoulder, stopping him. “Boxers off,” I demand.

  They hit the floor.

  Michael kisses up my thighs, to my clit, to my stomach, then my neck. I grab his dick and put it in. He makes love to me, giving me slow and deep pumps until we both cum.

  ***

  “So what happened with your job?” Michael asks.

  I tell him the entire situation. Starting with my crazy-ass client. I don’t stop there and continue on my rant, telling him about everything that has happened today as well.

  “Wait,” Michael says about the client. “What did she say she did?”

  “She said she was some crazy hacker who looks for terrorists or some shit. Who really knows? I have no idea who I was talking to.”

  “Roxie, I think this is my fault,” he says sitting up in the bed.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I ask, jumping out of the bed.

  “Sit down, please.”

  “FUCK NO! MICHAEL, WHY WOULD THIS BE YOUR FAULT?” I scream. In my head, I’m trying to figure out how I went from zero to 10 so quick.

  “Sit down, and I’ll tell you.”

  I sit down on the bed in the corner farthest from him. The distance is really for his protection, because I’m trying not to punch him in the face.

  “Okay. This has happened to women I’ve dated before. Never this extreme, but they start dating me, and bad things start happening.”

  “What the fuck do you mean bad things start happening?” I ask, now feeling that my anger is fair.

  “The last woman I dated had her bank accounts mysteriously drained. And the woman before started having car troubles whenever we had plans. It was as if her battery died, but when technicians came out to look at the car it was fine. The technology had been hacked.”

  “Michael, you’re not making any sense.”

  “Please let me finish,” he says. “Two years ago, I broke it off with a woman named Angela. She’s a computer hacker who works for the government. She has the ability to manipulate any type of technology that she wants to.”

  “WHAT?” I scream, all the blood rushing to my head.

  “Please let me finish,” he pauses. “Angela and I dated for six years; we were engaged to get married. Then I walked away.”

  “You were engaged.”

  “Roxie.”

  “Okay, keep going.”

  “During the last year of our relationship, Angela started changing. She started becoming very aggressive and controlling. She wanted to know where I was all the time and who I was talking to. Every time my phone went off, she was asking me who was texting me. Every time my phone rang, she was looking at it trying to see who was calling. She had nothing to worry about—I’d never do anything like cheat on someone—but it all became too much.”

  “Okay, so what happened?”

  “I caught her hacking my phone calls, text messages, and emails. She was recording all of my calls and playing them back and reading through my texts and email accounts.”

  “What the fuck?”

  “I told her that enough was enough and that I wanted to end things with her. Then she started to spiral. First she’d show up at my door at all hours of the night. She’d blow my phone up, even if I changed my number or blocked her. She’d send me emails and texts from unknown numbers and unknown accounts. She even called my mother and told her if I didn’t get back with her, she’d ruin my life.”

  “That’s fucking crazy, Michael.”

  “We lived in Michigan at the time. I moved here to escape her.”

  “Wait, Michigan,” I snap. “You never told me you lived in Michigan.”

  “Yeah, I grew up there. Crazy story is I think we knew each other when we were kids when—”

  I cut him off. I don’t give a fuck about a stupid story from when we were kids. “Escape her? That makes her sound like a crazy person,” I say through clenched teeth.

  Michael ignores that and blows past his story. “I didn’t date for over a year after that. I randomly got on Tinder a few months ago because a friend suggested it. The first two women I met on the site weren’t my type. I mean, we talked for a few days, went on a few dates, then things were over.”

  “Then why do you think it was Angela that was messing with them?”

  “I didn’t suspect it was her until now. It’s insane that a client called you, telling that crazy story, then your car won’t start, and your bank accounts are drained. This is more than a coincidence.”

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” I start repeating.

  “Don’t worry. I’m going to fix this,” he says.

  “How the hell are you going to fix this, Michael? Your crazy ex-fiancé is trying to ruin my life. Look at these texts.”

  Unknown sender: Bitch, you’re gonna wish you were dead.

  Unknown sender: I really thought you were different. I see you’re just like the rest of them.

  Unknown sender: You won’t be collecting $200 cause you’re not passing go, bitch.

  Michael throws the phone to the other side of the room, “Roxie, I promise nothing will happen to you. I’ll keep you safe. I’m going to take care of this!”

  I want to ask Michael to leave, but I also don’t want to be alone, knowing a crazy person is out there plotting to ruin my life. Thinking back, life would have been so much easier traveling back and forth to Michigan to see Earl instead of jumping on Tinder to find love.

  Five

  Michael shakes me awake. “Are you in a relationship?” he asks.

  I don’t respond, still trying to open my eyes. “Roxie, are you in a relationship with a man named Earl?” he asks again.

  “First of all, it’s four in the morning. Second of all, I’m not in a relationship. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have slept with you last night,” I respond.

  Michaels puts his phone in my face. Once my eyes can finally focus, I grab the phone. There are half-naked pictures of me on Earl’s Instagram account.

  “What the fuck is this?” I shout, reading the caption: “My Number 1.”

  “I should be asking the same thing,” Michaels mutters under his breath.

  I grab my phone off the nightstand and call Earl, but his phone is disconnected. I have six missed calls from my brother Ricky, 21 text messages in a group chat with my best friends, and one message from an unknown sender.

  Unknown sender: “Nice tits, bitch.”

  I turn the phone around and show Michael. “This shit is getting ridiculous,” I say. “Naked pictures on Instagram is taking it a little far. I don’t see why she’s targeting me and not you. I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “By targeting you, she is affecting me, Roxie,” he responds.

  I jump up, rolling my eyes. “I’m going to the fucking cops. I’m not dealing with this shit anymore,” I tell him.

  “I’m going with you,” he says.

  “Don’t you have work?” I fire back.

  “Can’t you wait for me?” he asks.

  “No!” I fire back in the meanest voice possible.

  ***

  After waiting 90 minutes, an investigator will finally see me.

  “How can I help you?”

  “I’m being harassed by my boyfriend’s ex-fiancé.”

  “Harassed how?”

  “First she targeted me at work, getting me fired. She’s ruined my car and drained my bank accounts.”

  “How did she get you fired?” he asks.

  I explain the entire story about how Angela called under a false pretense, sent in fake documents, then lied and said I told her to do it.

  “Okay, and what proof do you have?”

  “Proof? What kind of proof do you want?” I ask.

  “Do you have a recorded call so that we can tell that it’s her?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, what do you have?”

  “I don’t have anything.”

  “Okay, well, tell me what else happened.”

  “Don’t you need to be writing this down?” I ask.

  “Just continue,” he says.

  “Well she hacked into the technology in my car and broke it. Then she drained all my bank accounts.”

 

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