When he got to his apartment at noon, he hopped straight into the shower for a more thorough cleansing, stomach growling but satisfied with a job well done—at least that was the conclusion he had drawn from the events that had transpired.
Getting out, he made himself a hefty lunch: scrambled eggs, two sausages, and a bowl of mushroom soup, all accompanied by a glass of orange juice.
In his room, setting the plate on the desk under his monitor, he muffled his ears with headphones and, playing music, hopped onto a single-player game. An hour later, he exited the game, going into the web to scour for any new novels with a main character with a boisterous demeanor, the exact opposite of what he was.
Earl, his good friend in middle school, was the one who introduced him to these novels. Ever since then, it had stuck. Earl's last post on his feed a year ago told Marke he was in university. Marke had no doubt the man would excel, not because he was Asian—from China—but because Earl was a man with a dream. And that was a quality to be admired in anyone.
At three, Marke's phone in his thigh pocket buzzed.
Pulling out the iPhone X, the device read his face and opened. In the designated app for his bank, he saw the numerical value had jumped from the four thousand he saved up to twenty-four thousand. A direct transfer from Ms. Terri with a remark: Good skills. Can improve.
He shut his eyes, noting no shift in the profession point panel. It appeared acknowledgment of his skill when not in close proximity didn't work.
Marke scoffed. Communication through bank transfers. He thought. And why is this woman so stingy with praises while she transfers twenty thousand like it's nothing?
Despite his thoughts, Marke stared dazedly at the figure, his heart pounding. This was the most he'd earned from ethical work with no lying or cheating or falsities involved.
His lips pulled to a smile.
There were no strings involved, no promises he had to make good on, and no subtle trepidation weighing his mind down. Just money, an apartment he didn't have to share with anyone, and being alone.
This was what he wanted, wasn't it? Time to himself while he made good money. And this was just the beginning.
Marke chuckled to himself, going to the kitchen, grabbing a beer—his phone always in his pocket—and sitting on the couch, turning the TV on.
Most people his age didn't watch TV, he knew, but every time he was remotely jovial, this was the destination he came to; what played on the TV mattered less than the ambiance of the light streaming into the apartment to his left from the balcony and through the windows, and this feeling of relief tinted with nostalgia took him back to the days when his mother sat him beside her as a child drinking her beer.
The childlike wonder of never having to worry about anything—now that he looked back at it, maybe it stemmed from the ignorance of childhood—and the assurance of protection from his parents.
Marke had felt this particular feeling many times prior. It wasn't the protection he missed; nay, it was the peace.
-------
"Sh*t," Marke thought in a panic.
How had the need to thank Mrs. Olivarez completely skipped his mind? It should've been done as soon as he got home. The last thing Marke wanted to be seen as was ungrateful.
He didn't have her number; he had never asked for it. He messaged her on social media a formal thank you, expressing his appreciation for giving him the opportunity, never specifying what it was, and sent her the rent along with it.
Just as he was about to slip it into his pocket, his phone rang.
He lifted it up. The caller ID was an unknown number.
Was it Mrs. Olivarez? He swiped, picking up the call and putting it against his ears.
"Hello?" A voice spoke from the other end with a stern tone. "Marke? This is Ann."
Marke leaned forward, no longer relaxed. "Ah, yes, Mrs. Ann. How have you been?"
"Let's cut the bullsh*t, kid. You know the reason I called you," she said.
Marke did. His first windfall from insider trading had been facilitated by this very woman, but with it came obligations he had agreed on at that time. It hadn't been need; it had been greed.
"I might be busy this week, Mrs. Ann," he said. "I have work."
A scoff. "What? Found another woman to scam?"
His face darkened. "I didn't scam you, Mrs. Ann, and that's a fact. Let's not throw accusations around here."
"Is that so? Sure. Pay me back what you owe me, and I won't ever call you. That sounds like a fair deal, doesn't it?"
It would if you didn't want all my earnings as well, you vampire. He thought, snarling. Moving his jaw away from the phone for a moment to inhale and soothe his nerves, he spoke into the phone, "You know it isn't."
"But I laid out these conditions to you when we cut the deal, did I not?"
That she had. "...Yes."
"Then, do you not want to honor the deal?" She asked somberly. "You know the consequences, Marke."
That too he knew. "I will," he replied, inhaling sharply. "I will."
"Good!" She chirped jovially. "Day after tomorrow. Eight o'clock. I'll massage you the location. Ciao!" Then, she hung up.
"Son of a bit*h," he cursed, the rage frothing within, jerking his arm and getting up, belly breathing. "You wh*re!" He screamed at the phone. "You dumb b—" Just then, his phone buzzed again, causing him to pause.
Unknown number.
He picked up. "I already agreed to it! What else do you want?" He barked.
"..."
"Hey, Marke, it's me," a soft and polite voice introduced. "What's got you so worked up at seven in the evening?"
This time, it was Mrs. Olivarez.