"You're supposed to write about what?" Bree stopped mincing the ginger and flicked her eyes to me.
"TweetyGram," I repeated, my voice as lifeless as a zombie's.
"As in that photo-sharing social media app TweetyGram?"
"Yep."
"And if the article you write is good enough—"
"And unique enough."
"Then you'll get hired as a full-time staff writer?"
Everyone who had met my sister agreed on one thing: she had a terrific poker face. Bree's expression was often so unreadable she should've been a professional poker player instead of working at a fast-food restaurant.
But right now, two vertical lines creased her smooth forehead, her delicate eyebrows shot up high, and although her mouth was pulled in a tight line, her eyes screamed, 'You're screwed.'
"I know! There's a reason I choose to write about crime. I'm not hip enough to be a lifestyle journalist, for crying out loud." I blew out a breath, the puff lifting the loose strands of copper-red hair that had slipped from my ponytail across my face.
When I first received the news that I'd been hired as a paid graduate intern at the L.A. Gazette—one of the most prestigious newspaper companies in Los Angeles—I was ecstatic. Well, ecstatic was an understatement. I squealed so loud that my neighbors called the cops because they thought someone had just been murdered. In my defense, I thought it was the golden ticket to my dream job.
Little did I know, my future depended on an article about a social media app for narcissists.
"I'm screwed." I shook my head and sighed. "I'm totally screwed."
"Calm down, Linds," Bree replied, her voice soothing. "I'm sure you'll find something interesting to write about."
"Like what? How to get one million followers in one night? Ten influencers you should follow before you die? Murder on TweetyGram?" The last idea sent a rush of excitement through my veins. "Ooh. I should probably go research about—"
A knock on the balcony's door interrupted me.
"Holy mother of—" I jumped in my seat at the sight of a half-naked man standing on my balcony.
Yes, there was a half-naked man—no, no—a three-quarters-naked man on my balcony, grinning and waving at my sister and me.
I blinked in disbelief. "Am I hallucinating or—"
"Oh, he's there alright," Bree answered.
Jake Cafferty, my childhood friend, stood on my balcony with only a towel preventing him from being a full-on pervert. Rivulets of water trickled down his superhero-grade abs—which looked even more defined thanks to the soft evening light and the subtle shadows carving across his body; the left side of his chiseled jaw was clean-shaven while the other was lathered with shaving foam; and his short, golden-blond hair was coated with a light froth of shampoo.
It had been two weeks since Jake first showed up on my balcony. And no, he wasn't naked then. He was wearing all black, treading along the narrow ledge that connected his balcony to mine in the middle of the night, just like a burglar. He was lucky I recognized his annoyingly handsome face or else I would've called the cops and had him arrested.
A mischievous idea sneaked its way into my mind, and I reached for my phone. "I'm calling the cops."
Bree choked back a laugh. "He's your friend, Linds."
"Correction," I said, holding up a finger. "He was my friend."
My friendship with Jake had begun when our respective parents brought us to the lousiest gala I'd ever attended. I was five, and he was seven. There was a time when I couldn't wait to email him about how I made the school's mean girl cry. A time when he was bedridden and didn't have any friends but me and his grandma's cats. A time when the Internet was running at a snail's pace.
Bree chuckled. "Be nice, Linds. He's probably just going to stay here for an hour or so."
As she stepped toward the balcony, I jumped off my seat and blocked her path. "It's already the third time this week, Bree. And this is only Wednesday. And may I remind you that not only that he's here to hide from his grandmother—which is absurd considering he's turning twenty-four in a few months—but he's also here to steal our food?"
"Stealing is too strong of a word, don't you think?" A soft yet reprimanding smile curled the edge of Bree's mouth.
"Okay, fine. Politely tricking you into giving him free food, whatever. But you're missing the point here. We've worked hard to buy that food. Why are we giving it to someone who's a million times richer than us?"
"Quid pro quo, Linds," Bree argued. "Remember when he fixed our pipe for free last week?"
"I'm pretty sure he just did that to get us to join TweetyGram and follow his influencer cat."
"No, I'm pretty sure he did that because he tried to impress—"
The frantic knocking from outside the apartment drowned Bree's voice. The evil side of me took satisfaction in seeing the fear contorting Jake's face as he switched his gaze between us and his apartment next door.
I was about to open my camera app when Bree said, "Besides, he saved your life once."
"Oh, don't be dramatic, sis." I brushed Bree's comment with a wave of my hand. "I wasn't gonna die because I choked on a shrimp."
For the next five seconds, Bree remained silent. "Alright." She stepped back and resumed cooking. "We'll just let him and Princess Tortie stand out there all night long then."
My gaze darted to the short-haired, tortoiseshell cat standing next to Jake outside my apartment. How did I not see her before?
The balcony railing cast streaks of shadows over the orange spots on Princess Tortie's black fur, making her almost invisible in the dark. She tipped her head to the side and blinked at me, her round yellow eyes pleading for me to open the door and let her in.
As a mixture of sympathy and pity washed over me, Bree continued, "It's not like this is LA in July, right? It's still June. It's probably just one hundred degrees out there. They couldn't possibly get heatstroke, or—"
"Alright, alright!" I raised my hands in defeat. "Stop guilt-tripping me."
A tiny accomplished smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. "You'll thank me for this."
"Not in a million years." I stomped toward the balcony and opened the door.
Jake scooped up the ten-year-old cat into his arms and gave me the most irritating grin. "Thanks, Shrimp."
I frowned at the nickname and gestured at the towel wrapping around Jake's waist. "Do I have to ask?"
The fresh, minty scent of soap and shampoo wafted into the room as he sauntered past me into the living room. "I was in the shower when my grandma showed up."
As if it's not obvious. "And you didn't have time to, I don't know, grab your underwear?"
"It was a fight-or-flight kind of situation." He shrugged his broad shoulders and lowered Princess Tortie onto the sofa.
"Yet you managed to bring your cat with you."
The tall man gasped in horror as if I'd just accused him of murder. "You don't suggest I leave her in my apartment with my grandma, do you?"
I furrowed my brow. "Why not? I thought you said your grandma loves cats."
"Oh, you don't get it." He shook his head, his mouth straightened into a hard line. "That crazy old woman would do anything to drag me back to Boston with her, and that includes taking my baby hostage."
"Drama queen," I muttered, striding back to the kitchen. "Why did you give your grandma a key anyway?"
"I didn't." He sniffed as the funky, tangy aroma of miso soup began to fill the room. "Grandma always has her way of getting what she wants—is that miso soup?" He stopped across the kitchen island from Bree, glanced at the pack of fresh ramen noodles on the countertop, and craned his neck to see the inside of the pot.
"Mm-hmm," Bree answered. "Trying out a new menu for Lovejoy's."
Over the past few years, Bree had been working at the cheap fast-food restaurant as the CEO's personal assistant. But after helping the young entrepreneur save his company from bankruptcy last year, she'd been promoted to chief operating officer.
Bree's huge pay raise allowed us to move from a tiny studio apartment in Palms to this spacious, two-bedroom apartment in Hollywood. But if she kept feeding this leech, we might soon be forced to move back to our old apartment.
"And is this the famous Darling family poppers?" Jake eyed the plate full of pancake balls.
Bree nodded. "Go ahead."
"Thanks." Jake sat on one of the stools, opened his mouth wide, and tossed a popper in. Releasing an audible moan of satisfaction, he held a thumbs-up. "You should put this on Lovejoy's menu."
The corners of Bree's mouth tipped up into an almost smile. "You think so?"
"Definitely," he answered.
"Kiss-ass." I plopped on the seat next to him and snatched the pancake ball he was reaching for. The rich, earthy flavor of the fluffy pancake, the sweet confectioner's sugar sprinkled on top of it, and the vibrant taste of raspberry coulis oozing out of it created a delicious harmony that simmered me down.
"You know," I began, "if you're that desperate to get away from granny dearest, why don't you just find another apartment?"
"It's close to work," Jake answered, his mouth stuffed with two pancake balls.
"You're an underwear-model-slash-movie-extra. You work all over the city."
"I have other jobs besides being an underwear-model-slash-soon-to-be-A-list-actor, okay?"
"Such as?"
"Dog walker, cat sitter, plumber, CPT . . ."
I could imagine a ladies' man like him working as a dog walker to pick up women. I could also imagine an ailurophile like him working as a cat sitter for fun. But I found it hard to believe that a spoiled rich kid like him would work as a plumber—unless he was trying to hit on the homeowner, of course.
As for CPT? What did that even mean? Cat's personal trainer?
"Hey, may I use your bathroom real quick?" Holding up a disposable razor, Jake assured, "Don't worry. I've brought my own razor."
I sighed. "Sure."
He thanked me and disappeared into the bathroom. Soon, the sound of running water bounced off the ceramic tiles.
Great. First, he stole our food. Now, he's using our water. What's next? Sleep in my bed?
Jake's awful rendition of Guns N' Roses' Welcome to the Jungle echoed from the bathroom. His voice was way out of tune, as scratchy as the sound of a cat's claws scratching against a tree.
Freaking Goldilocks.
Struggling to stop myself from sticking a fork into my ear, I shoved three poppers into my mouth and decided to focus on work. I unlocked my phone and stared at the icon on the bottom right of my screen—the acronym TG written in neon pink against a plain white background.
On a normal occasion, I wouldn't hesitate to open the app and quickly hunt down a fresh, newsworthy story. Yet as my thumb hovered over the button, a sense of foreboding slithered into my consciousness.
Come on, Lindsey. What's the worst that could happen?
As it turned out, a lot.
But at that time, I had no idea that joining a social media app would lead me into a self-destructive spree. I had no idea it would lead to the death of my career before it even started. And I certainly had no idea it would awaken a hideous creature of mass destruction that was hell-bent on destroying my life.
All I could think of was that I didn't want to go back to working five part-time jobs anymore. I didn't want to go back to dumpster diving for coupons anymore. And most importantly, I didn't want to be a burden to my sister any longer.
I needed the job. And the only way I could get it was to storm into the jungle.
So I drew a deep breath and said hello to TweetyGram.
Author's Note:
So, what are your first impressions of Lindsey, Jake, and Bree?
In the next chapter, we'll dive right into the world of TweetyGram.
Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and if you do, don't forget to vote and leave a comment. Thanks for reading!